Just Like That Wan Offof Big Brother

The Talk of the Bike Shop stopped by this morning for a coffee. With his bike. There aren't many coffee shops cater for that kind of thing. Asked to move his bicycle so that they might paint the gate, he assumed offence on behalf of cyclists everywhere in much the same way as I do for Gaeilgeoirí when prats refer patronisingly to them as "your people". "Sorry, we're going somewhere else" I muttered to the waitress, my hand outstretched to retrieve my twenty and my cheeks reddening with morto.

And so to Moda. As I waited for the double espresso (for his jitters) and the hot chocolate (for my nerves) I watched a young mother wrestle her newly bipedal son into his unwieldy buggy. She knocked a table. Dropped her coat. The waiter picked it up for her, and I scooped her straw hat from the floor. She made for the door like Moses parting the waters while the other patrons scraped their chairs in bellycreasingly close to the tables, knees tucked into their teeth. The waiter followed in her wake, reached around her to open the door. What a hassle. I remembered Billy Whizz waiting outside, minding his own bepedalled babby and seething at the injustice of it all, and I smiled a little wider in the hope that the barista would hurry the fuck up.

We took our takeaways to the low wall outside my office and sat amongst the builders, me in my freckles, him in his clickety clackety bikety shoes and them in their visi-vests, eating sambos from their hard hats. "Did you shave your legs?" I asked him, imagining him with painted toenails and a lather of Immac. "I'd have shaved my eyebrows if it'd make me faster."

Crash Bang Wallop

GingerBeard arrived at my desk this morning dressed head to toe in his fetching lycra cycling gear, asking if I'd seen the Health & Safety budgies about. "No" I muttered dismissively "not yet. By the way, you've got some black stuff all over your nose." Then he pointed out the blood on his chin (he's bearded and ginger, it wasn't immediately apparent) and his battered knuckles; he'd fallen off his bike.

It was early. I was unsympathetic. I may have laughed.

At 5pm I picked up his text. I'm in the hopsickle. It's not like Scrubs. Oh fuck. Cue apologetic phonecall to see if he was still in one piece. Broken finger, possibly broken wrist. Humble pie for tea, anyone?

Answers On A Postcard, Please

The folk who want to send me on holidays to Australia to pick up "hunks" have asked me to submit some digital photos of myself and to fill out this retarded application form before they whisk me away to make all of my dreams come true.

A little like LC did, now that I think of it.

Anyway, I'm having a little bother. The questionnaire is very deliberately "zany" (with capital air-quotes) and I'm not sure if its silly nature is designed to encourage dullards to get a little krayzee in the name of good television or if it is in fact designed to weed out people like me who are maybe a little too genuinely krayzee to take with you across the outback on a bus. I think my best bet would be to err on the safe and "quirky" side of mental, so with that in mind, your help with the following would be very much appreciated. If you don't think you know me well enough to hazard a guess at the answers, make shit up. They're not going to know, are they?

1. What's your idea of fun? (keep it clean.)
   
2. What's the craziest thing you've ever done? (keep it clean...)
   
3. Describe yourself in three words. (articulate? cynical? romantic?)
   
4. If you were an animal, what would you be, and why? (keep it clean!)
   
5. What's the most romantic thing you've ever done? (keep it... *sigh*)
   

In case you think I'm being a lazy bitch and getting you to fill out my application for me, I assure you that I have managed to answer some of the questions myself. Do you have a full driver's licence? Indeed and I do. What is your date of birth? 27 years ago from next Thursday. Describe your ideal man? Adrien Brody.

Things got curious towards the end, with question no #18: Tell us all you know about BMXs. My answer:

Not a massive amount, if I'm honest. My sister's ex was into them but he was also into vegetarianism, so that doesn't help.

I had one as a kid though, as did my brother. I'm not sure where we got them, but we weren't cool enough to realise that they were cool. My parents brought us to the BMX track in Marlay Park once in an effort to train us into some tricks, but I started crying after I saw the height of the bumps and hillocks and refused to play. My brother gave it a go and promptly busted his face. Game over.

Other than that, try Wikipedia.

PS. Why do you want to know?

Tomorrow: we choose a photo.

The Bloggers are Revolting

Today's post was meant to be a philosophical musing on the nature of love, but I'm not in the mood. Or rather I am, but Cupid's being a bit of a shite at the moment so if I dwell on things I'll only end up in cat humour, and that's no good to anyone. There are more than enough blogs out there already with a glass-half-empty slant on things, and I pride myself on confining my vitriol to my tales of inconsiderate pedestrians.

(As an aside, I was cycling down the canal yesterday when I got to that bit where the cycle lane's been barricaded off and you have to play with the traffic. A challenge for an uncoordinated novice like myself, made all the more difficult by two very stupid ladies strolling along the road, apparently oblivious to vehicular traffic and terrified bicyclists. As I bore down on the first of them, a look of terror in my eyes and a Fiat Cunto at my heels, I shook my head in that I'm-more-disappointed-than-anything-else manner that is usually reserved for mothers whose children have just crayoned the walls. Immediately stupid lady no. 1 squawked "There's nowhere else for us to walk!". My retort was muffled by the traffic, the 50 yards it took me to think of it and the complete failure of my lungs to cope with the exercise. "How about the footpath?" Poor, I grant you, but I like to think she got the message.)

But yeah, back to being one of the few tentative optimists in the Irish blogosphere (I hate that word, blogosphere. So wanky...). Well, perhaps I'm not an optimist exactly, but I'm at least happier with my lot (and the general status quo) than a lot of the other head-the-balls out there who favour us with their insights into life and all the rest of it on a regular basis. I hate to think of them angrily crouched over their desks, hammering the shite out of the keyboard with spittle flying from their lips as they rail furiously against the world and all its injustices. Makes me want to give them a hug, and maybe buy them a pint.

Circus Act

Only an idiot would think it a good idea to try to cycle to work in clogs. Obviously no good was going to come of it.

So, Belarus, eh?

I believe I may have mentioned (eleventy billion times) how unprepared I was for last week's humanitarian adventure, having been roped in just 2 weeks beforehand. Man, did I underestimate the impact it would have on me. Okay, I knew (as did everyone else who knows me) that the cycle would likely kill me. As it happened, the mosquitoes got there first, so I was spared the indignity of falling off my bike and instead suffered the indignity of 3 days on a bus with my legs in the air (which is not nearly as kinky as it sounds) and dropping my pants in the back of an ambulance (which, again, is not as fun as I'd like to imagine). Those days on the bus were hard. 35 degrees outside, travelling along at 4mph behind the cyclists, smiling at the jibes from my fellow travellers about how this was a handy excuse not to cycle and trying not to hate them as much as I hated the mosquitoes. I had some low moments, and were it not for the company of a fellow banjaxed budgie and our two medics I think I would have been on the next flight home.

But the cycling (or not) was only for 3 days, and for me was never the real point of the trip. Having spent two rowdy nights in Minsk at the start of the trip, we left the small village of Babruysk and headed for our first destination, a sanatorium in Svetlagorsk. The institution on whose grounds we pitched for the night acts as a sort of summer camp for local children, something that is apparently very much a Belarussian tradition. Sort of like my brother and I being packed off kicking and screaming to Stewart's Hospital for 3 weeks every summer, I suppose. Tightly controlled fun is the name of the game! Still, this was a gentle introduction to the mindset and culture behind the places we would see during the rest of our trip.

I hadn't appreciated how different the Belarussian culture would be to Irish culture. Belarus is effectively a dictatorship, and that much is apparent the moment you step off the plane in Minsk. We'd been forwarned that the militia are not to be fucked with, and one look at them was enough to reinforce that. I met a group of musicians on the last night of the trip (a Beatles tribute band from Amsterdam... you'd wonder) who told me of a scene they'd witnessed at the festival they'd played at the day before. A group of young lads were set upon and batoned by the militia and when the band asked why, it was explained to them that the kids had been waving the old Belarussian flag, rather than the new one approved by President Alexander Lukashenko. Jeez. I know the Gardaí come in for some flak here, but you'd generally have to be properly acting the cunt to get a kicking for it. Anyway, we learned quickly and coped with the politics the same way the locals do; keep a low profile, and don't piss people off.

From Svetlagorsk we travelled on to Rechitsa, where we had a charming welcome from the resident kids. The director of the institution in Rechitsa is the local hero, Ivan Ivanovitch, a military man who runs a tight ship but must have a huge heart. We didn't get to spend long with the kids there as we'd be interrupting their routine but the ones we met were gorgeous, and made everyone feel that their suffering (be it bike or bus related) had been worthwhile. The kids put on a concert for us that night, shouting tunelessly to the rancid strains of a piano accordion, and I don't think there was anyone there who had ever clapped harder at a gig. To see kids so happy to engage and so eager to befriend us, despite their sad circumstances and limited prospects, was truly a lesson in humble optimism.

At this stage of the trip, everyone was feeling the emotional strain as well as the physical, and it showed. We dealt with it each night in the way that large groups of relative strangers with limited options tend to do (vodka was readily available at about €3 a bottle). Not exemplary behaviour, I grant you, but as a social lubricant and a short-term coping mechanism we owe a lot to the boozing we did on the trip.

Fuck it, sure I didn't have an 80k cycle ahead of me the following morning. What did I care?

Our final port of call before heading back to Minsk was a place called Vasilevka, near Gomel in the south of Belarus. The institution we visited there played host to us for 3 days, and will play on my mind for the rest of my life. But more anon. It was a long week, and I need a stiff drink.

A Fuzzy Head and a Sore Arse (My Triumphant Return)

Tá ceann cipíní orm ar maidin. My Belarussian tales of joy and wonder will be recounted in time, but this morning (afternoon?) I'm too shaky to make sense. The trip was amazing though, and at the risk of sounding like a soppy socks-an-sandals-wearing do-gooder, I have to say that I feel very privileged to have been a part of it.

I didn't do any cycling though. (The sore arse was as a result of some nice lady doctor and a syringe full of antihistimine)

And I managed to learn only two words of Russian over the course of the week, a poor result indeed for someone who considers herself to be a cunning linguist. Tellingly, they were "thanks" (spasiba!) and "cheers" (sounds like "nostarovia" but I've no clue how to spell it).

I learned that I can drink straight vodka if I put my mind to it, and that I have quite a goo on me for champagne.

I discovered that I am a more patient and more compassionate person than I thought, and that if I take anything with me from my trip, it should be that.

I'm off to the doctor now for antibiotics, tetanus boosters and a hug.

A plague of pedestrians

What's the protocol when some dozy bitch walks out in front of you as you're pedalling in a leisurely fashion along the canal, trying not to look like you're about to keel over? My bike (ew, that still sounds wrong) hasn't got a bell. Do I shout "ding ding!"? "Beep beep" would just seem inappropriate. I can't shake my fist, I'm still new enough to this cycling lark to go arse over tit. Shouting some abuse might be an option if I learned to pedal a little faster, but at the moment I think I'd end up trying to make my getaway on foot, after throwing the bike at them.

Mornings never used to be this stressful. It was all ducks and eyeing up boys on my amiable stroll into work. Not sweat and bruises on my shins.

In other news, George Michael has cancelled our date tonight. So much for the clean knickers I put on this morning.

Bright eyed and bushy tailed

I love the day after a hangover. It feels like the world's been put to rights again, anything's possible and fun's inevitable. I was in the horrors yesterday. Had a meeting with my soon-to-be-fellow cyclists on Wednesday afternoon, then bonded over a pint. And then another. And then some wine, and so on and so forth til it was time to go home because the tattooed lady behind the bar told me so. As I tripped the light fantastic all the way back to the flat I thought, "hey, these people, they're nice. This cycling lark could be fun!" When I woke at 5am with a hangover so scaldy I thought I was having a stroke, I wasn't so convinced.

I had a disastrous day in work, bumbling retardedly through the day. Things worsened at 5pm though when I decided to meet my mam, as arranged, for a spot of shopping. We're off to a wedding in Italy soon and need to look presentable for it. And not only for the ceremony, but for the entire 4 days. Horror. There's only so long I can feign respectability for, and 4 days far exceeds any of my previous attempts. Anyway, never go shopping with a hangover. Or with your mam. I got home at 9pm, with a horrible dress and a lump in my throat so glad was I to see the couch.

For Shame

I'm fucked for this cycling trip. Finally got around to picking my bike up from my grandparents place yesterday evening. Cycled home- fainted. Ridiculous. Low blood pressure or no, fainting after a half hour cycle is just embarrassing. So I giddied up for another crack at it this morning, and cycled into work. Made it as far as the bathrooms before things went swimmy and I keeled over again. I'm not horribly unfit. I walk at least 4 miles a day and enjoy it. But as soon as my arse hits the saddle it's a different story. And if I can't manage the 2 mile cycle into work without making a show of myself, how am I going to last in Belarus?

Panic, panic, panic, panic...

In other news: oh no, wait, there is no other news. Fear of death by bicycle has taken over my every waking moment.

On the disadvantages of having rubber arms

I did something potentially very stupid on Tuesday. Somebody invited me on a week-long trip to Belarus, and I accepted, without really getting all the details first. It now seems that I've to raise 2 grand (difficult, but do-able) spend a few days painting and plastering in a children's home (drudgery, but do-able) and spend 4 days cycling an average of 60k a day.

The last time I was on a bike was at 5am, careening down the middle of Mount St, before my ill-advised baggy trousers caught in the chain and my co-pilot and I landed on our arses. I had to take the trousers off in order to extricate myself from the bike.

The last time I was on a bike before that was when I was 12, I'd say.

I had a pint with the trip's organiser yesterday evening, and he laid all my fears to rest. I'll get to know people easily and make friends quickly. It'll be an emotionally uplifting trip rather than a soul-destroying spot of grief tourism. There's a bus that follows the cyclists, and you can hop on at any time and take a break for a bit. People tend not to, he said, as it becomes a point of pride to actually do the cycle. Fuck that, I thought gleefully, I have no pride when it comes to gruelling excercise. I'll happily ride the special bus.

To further reassure me, he gave me a copy of the documentary made of last year's trip (shortly to air on TG4) so's I could see all the fun I'm going to have. And oh, the horror. I watched it last night. It's full of well-meaning do gooders (already I want to punch them, and hope to fuck they won't be travelling with us this year) and ordinary folk who describe cycling along, sobbing to themselves with the pain. There was one particularly low moment where they describe accidentally riding over some open powerlines and getting electrocuted, as they struggled on tearfully in unflattering padded shorts and torrential rain.

I've been desperately trying to come up with ways to back out with some dignity. I do not want to go. I'll happily fundraise, but the cycling really is too much. So far my ideas have been less than genius:

1. Break an arm or a leg (a sprain might not be a good enough excuse)
2. Acquire a horrific dose of food poisoning (been there, and it's very convincing)
3. Lose a grandparent (I have a failing Granda, but I'm horrified at myself for considering him as an excuse...)
4. Fuck up my visa application (I suspect they'd try to get me in anyway)
5. Feign a nervous breakdown (though there's a fair chance of being involuntarily committed)

I'm in a bit of a fucking pickle, to be honest.