Michael Journeyman. Reflex.

Going home after work by bicycle on a filthy cold wet rainey evening in November is dangerous and not to be recommended. Michael tries to face the dreadful swirling, sworling, stormy wind head on, struggling to balance between invisible unwarned walls of blasting thrusting gusting. Everyone is in their usual evening hurry home to just relax after just another day in their life grinder ant hill of dictated modern success full Irish life. Cycling in a cycle of inclement weather adds a spice to dice life as so many middle class motorised humans are being wound by conforming others, banking and stretching them to a point of near snapping. Their fiscal lives focussed and measured by numerics only… mere cyclists are almost treated as an illusion.

Its very slow progress along damp lamp lit darkness late in the early evening along a parallel exit slip road leading away from the M50 motorway, close to the Red cow round-about. The rain falls horizontally and grates with his eye on each and every foot push down stroke as his soaked aching body literally pendulums laterally side to side, left right, left right in tandem time to pedal strokes with achingly slow ground speed, achieving modest momentum. Hooting horns a repeating chorus he ignores while concentrating on staying on the saddle without a paddle in this cascading white water river of splashing traffic. Wind whirling and whorling, blowning him while being showered with swish spray over and over, car after car, over and over, lorry after lorry, while consciously aware he really should be better equipped with some better form of water-proofing and high-vis vest.

Heading south, the road widens slightly as he approaches two like minded survivers peddeling in front of him. With much effort and exertion and against the odds and against the blasting resistance he plans overtaking this couple of female cyclists. The first, a dark haired mid to late thirties well lit up pretty female face in propper cycling gear, senses, sees and yields slightly to her left, aiding his manouvre. A lorry passes and double sprays its’ triple axel of dirty splash over them both. A repeat move is required as he passes her comrade about twenty meters on ahead. A slightly older lady with a big wholly overcoat and tea-cosy like hat perched sideways over helmut, with a birka look-a-like style headscarf. Judging on her kit and clothing, a very occasional cyclist! The three share an individual struggle to just survive these thorific atlantical conditions. The sourrounding traffic thumps by relentlessly confirming that cyclists really are mere illusion. As the triptych communally fight the combined elements of everything, the car and lorry train continue to blast by endlessly. He gradually eases further ahead as the headwind continues to compromise their groundspeed.

Five or six meters on he hears, ‘Michael is that you’, the faint voice delivered echoing on the rumbling breeze being delivered from both the heavens above and a big white forty foot rattling by. Again, ‘Michael is that you?’ The elder of the two seemed to recognise Michael. He thought unlikely, and continues on, not wishing to delay what has now become a dangerous obstacle course, for all involved… through hell. Then once again he hears ‘Michael’... then yes he realises and registers… It’s Bernadette. Michael hasn’t seen her for five or six years and she seems to be in impecable condition despite her age…‘Yea you mad thing this is camakazzy; how the heck are you Bernadette?. She shouts back in response, ‘Cheeses, this is mad shit Michael whats the safest way home…I don’t care if it takes longer, do we go right at the ‘T’ junction…then left?- in a raised voice Michael responds -‘No, best go left at the T, follow me and watch the flippin cars, its everyone for themselves! No time for chit chat now, talk later, come on hurry up’.

Michael leads on as they approach the junction and red light ahead. He slows rapidly, by simply ceasing to peddle… no need to pull the brakes in this headwind. A silver BMW passes; unnoticing any one of the three cyclists. The seven three five clips the handlebars, forcing a shudder which almost knocks Michael over. He is very, very lucky to survive the side impact attack as his right foot slips off the peddle cracking the inside of his ankle on the metal teeth of the front cog. -‘Ouch, flip you idiot’, as Michael waves at the driver with a clenched fist. The fat idiot never even registered despite driving into the clearly marked cycle lane while approaching the stop light. Its a saving grace that he had such a good reflex. The beamer stopped at the lights and Michael attempted to tap on his window while trying to ignore the continuing pain on his funny bone, diverting his anger to his un-observant assailent. Alas the lights turn to green at the very moment he stretches out his wet right glove to rap on the glass…the car moves forward and the opportunity lost. Momentum and the inside line ensures Michael gets ahead as both road rivals bare left, Michael into the bicycle lane and the ‘seven three five’ into more traffic, (he harbours slight satisfaction knowing the bike is inching ahead!) Concentration must be maintained as the wind is now less head on and more side swirling. He contracts his head into his shoulders as if a frightened tortoise (and at a similar groundspeed) crouching, lowering his centre of gravity. Bernadette roars softly ‘be careful Michael’ urging him to be a bit more road savy, noting his un-controlled wayward swaying from left to right. A brief wave registers her advice without looking around. He bends his elbows to get lower then blows breath up his own nostrils to shift the drips of rain decending the bridge of his nose, knowing things will be fine very soon once they get off this last dangerous section. They can meet, greet and chit chat properly then. More dreadful gusts make him grit his teeth in determined annoyance at the struggle and fight nature has presented. Anxious to get off this dangerous section he keeps going, extending his lead on his twin peloton. Steeley determination ahead, without heeding any of their concerns. Another strong gust and he veres dangerously off course and unable to counter the relentless pushing side wind. No amount of sinking or crouching balances his position approaching Kilininny. Poorly lit and in poor control he must revise his situation fast. No time to think…this is not good, he cannot speed up, conditions too strong, he cannot stop… he is now in a wrong lane. Cannot go left or it’s head on into approaching traffic with their wipers on full. No choice and can’t even turn his head to view behind on this busy road with almost zero visibility. Then forcefully and instinctively he releases the handlebars with the wet finger grip of his right hand, keeping his body position low, very low. Indicating his intention to vere right, he hears a faint shout of something like ‘Go, go’, from Bernadette behind which he chooses to ignore. She yells at him in a very bossy voice, ‘Watch out, watch out,’ followed by, ‘No, no, just a bit louder.

Michael heard the words clearly, but ignores them. ‘No, No Michael, is repeated …and again he ignores them. Bernadette was always a bit of a drama queen and in the past he often chose a calm response to her, one of almost indifference and complacency. She posessed a genuine intellectual capacity to care but tended to tell you a question instead of asking you a question!

Stretching his right hand out indicating, then uncontrolably, and immediately veres to the right so as to position himself for the next exit. Approaching the turn off, extending his right arm further (in a similar fashion to previously, when hoping to tap on the car window and chastise chubby cheeks!). Then Bernadette again,‘Watch out, Michael, oh Michael’. He can’t listen now, he has wandered well out of lane and must brave the gusty wind with extended arm while transversing the lane avoiding a BMW sandwich. He feels his arm completely saturated as he holds it out to full stretch indicating his eventual intentions and direction. He is somewhat surprised at just how wet he actually is. All his right side is soaking and so sticky too, while his exposed arm feels the chill. Bernadette is off again giving orders!… ‘Michael, Michael’. The rain seems to have got heavier and the drops bigger. Again he hears but ingores her especially when she repeats herself louder, a real shout this time. (He thinks that shouting in anger must not be taken too seriously as it allows the giver a tool to control with!).

Then to a very loud screach,’ NO, NO! Listen to me Michael, do you hear me Michael’. He again dismisses her! Even though this time she is closer, the yells seem more distant and quieter! Some rain drips off the front of his helmet into his right eye. The wet blurs his vision. Eyeballs throb in pain as if they have just got a lash in them. Then he feels a soaking feeling in his right ear. The wet blurs his hearing. This squelching dulls the sounds of the endless drone of car tyres passing producing its contineous gentle tormenteous tortureous hum. A cushioning and muffling as if someones’ open hand is rubbing his ear in slow massaging circles! He shakes his head to clear the right ear, but doing so, un-balances him, as that flash silver seven series passes by slowly. So slowly in fact as if preparing to stop altogether, (hopefully the driver may feel the head shakes were for him as the bike is still ahead!). A momentary faint fuzzyness feeling follows the action, as he continues leg pedeling movements. The sooner he gets off this section the better. He’s absolutely soaked now but strangely not so cold anymore. Onward home alone, leaving the girls and their shouts fading away behind. He is pissed off with the weather, the behaviour of 735 fatty and no longer feels like any sort of catch up chit chat so focus’s solely on getting home. This is all on top of the fact his client didn’t pay him on completeing the job earlier in the day, thus necessitating a return trip into town to get paid. He can’t wait to get home and finish today, particularly under these attrocious conditions.

The traffic behind seems to almost grind to a halt but at last Michael is off that black spot section outside Tallaght. He focuses on the next turn right and forgets the two women behind. And indeed the worst of the weather too. The wind seems to die down slightly and there is an element of satisfaction leaving the busyness of the main road. Cycling on he raises his head and glances over his right shoulder noting the distant Prospect House. Oisin Kelly, the sculpter, artist and St. Columba’s teacher lived there next to the rambling mustard yellow house of that well known Vet. In the distance yonder there is a break in the clouds, a hint of a glint of blue! An almost tourist brochure front cover conveying hope and solice from the mundane now.There is an old mill style building on the left as Michael pedals past the simple symmetrical facade of sash windows over granite sills still in impecable condition despite their age. The next property is a ruin and provides a gap to the distant view. The dominion of darkness disapating now and Michael can see the black clouds have now turned more khaki grey and appear to be clearing. In the distance he spots the sea. It too boasts a depth and varience of colour ranging from a dark, dark grey to a dark, dark blue through smokey hues of both, coupled with several greens. All capped with choppy frothy spray and white horses. Rumbling lorries, trucks and endless cars fade even more, giving way to a calming sense of safety and self preservation mingling with a positive feeling from the warming breeze. A relief of stress lifts being away from the massing hoards commuting. That throbbing in his injured ankle has also stopped.

No sight or sound of Bernadette, so she must have gone the other way home after all. No big deal anyway. The road now gets steep and tiredness forces a dis-mount, and with it, help to avoid chaffing or potential saddle-sore. Considerable energy is needed to push the bicycle up the hill. It is not very steep but he is completely out of breath and perhaps not quite as fit as he had thought. Slowing down is necessary as his strides more match those of a frail concubine!

Continuing on, the weather now appears to be getting brighter and warmer so a few more rest breaks in order to catch his breath also provide a pleasant chance to admire the increasing vista with the increasing altitude. With what has become a dry mouth he blows up his nose to clear another drip on the end. Looking over Dublin bay from a height is a most plesant view. That distant city brimming in activity. The twin chimneys, great south wall and Bull Island frame Howth and Irelands eye. A commercial ferry and little fishing boat pass each other respectfully avoiding the others’ wave. As the ferry catches light from behind the clearing clouds it seems to momentarily puff up in size and colour, similar to that collier dove with pidgeon chest flying eratically by overhead. There is a fainting smell of the coast… seaweed and salty spray. He can see gulls, one blackhead eating the end of a sandwich and the other limping with a club foot eating a chicken leg. These too, appear to puff up bigger and shrink smaller as the cloud cover overhead dissapates some more.

It’s extra ordinary just how quickly conditions can change. The air is now warm, almost balmy by comparison to earlier on when fighting with life and limb into and against the wild wind. Now less whining and more reed whinnoeing hum drum. Michael removes his soaked coat and rolls it into a wet ball and octopus ties it to the rear carrier. The ascending road is quiet and car free… a wellcome resbite to the many passing masses from earlier. A triangle of light similar to the shape of a pyramid projects itself on the horizon. This light haze appears to distuinguish the morbid dull dreary atmosphere. Nearing the top of the hill overlooking Tallaght and Dublin bay, Michael slows to the pace of a snail. He is high up here and yet, totally pooped having hit that wall marathon runners and athletes tell us about. At the brow of the hill he leans the bike against another wall. His face still wet and sticky as he leans forward, bends over and places both hands then upper body weight on to his knees inhailing deep silent breaths yet almost whistling as he exhails. Again and again. He feels his rapid heart beats from the center of his chest and he hears his rapid heart beats in his ears, while noticeing that his right hand seems to be shaking slightly, with a comfortable tingling up that arm to his shoulder, coupled with a feeling of dizzyness and a throbbing in his neck. An unusual realisation of how unfit he actually is. One or two minutes later he stands upright and inhales another big long breath while admiring and absorbing the warmth of the view which includes the now almost totally blue sky way, way out in front of him. Looking to his hands again, he stretches out his fingers while turning them over thinking they are a grubby blue colour, perhaps a stain from the wet gloves. Leaving the bike and wet coat, he disguards his jumper, then unties the laces and removes his brown ancle length Gortech shoes. The warmth of the sun is truly beautiful now. Holding two arms straight out as if a cormorant drying off. The sea below flashes a wake of beconing blue waves. A few more paces past the end terrace house and through the stringy fawn coloured maram grass which protects against dune erosion. At the top of the hill now, and feeling more like the top of the world he enjoys the sensous massaging sand on his soles as it wedges his toes apart. It is very, very pretty here and the vista so attractive. The stress and strain of the recent up-hill seem to evaporate with the glorious view. The stress and strain of life seem to evaporate with the appreciation of that glorious view. The mosaic green and gold colour sandy dunes run down to the sea edge, beautiful, wow….and now, so does he!.

With his breath back he feels re inviguerated and runs with large strides down to the white horses at the waters edge. Increasing speed and gathering momentum almost floating or flying downhill feeling the fine sand blow up around his body and face. The gritty sand hits his eyes but he daren’t close them for fear of tumbling over… tempting injury while now at full speed downhill. Tearing down splitting the smell of salty waft with arms circling gangly out of control like an orchastral conductor having a fit. Strangely no sand actually gets into his eyes. Waving limbs within a wooley cloud of a whitey yellow misty blanket of pure care. Bombing down towards the waters edge like a sprinter stretching for the finish line ticker tape…then jumping high with a big leap of faith up, up into the air, both arms swinging above his head leading the way, he long-jump plunges into the blue lagoon. Yeeha, then the long silence of submergence as if a cherry in cream.

(He wonders if by chance the girls are watching him from the top of the hill as he now feels re energised and as confident as Tarzan in leather togs always looks!) Time seems to slow as he surges into the splash of frothy white topped ocean. The water engulfs him completely forcing eyes to instantly shut, while hearing the sounds of the sea cushion and numb the noise around. With ears submerged, everything becomes a super muffled murmer. Entering the salty sea both ears seem as if they are being rubbed in a circular motion by a big pair of soft hands in a massaging circle. Eyes remaining firmly closed he swims using arms to draw and drag him forward while rapidly kicking propelling him onwards. Several repeat strokes later he surfaces frantically searching for oxygen as his lungs burn for solice from submergence. Ahh breathing again tastes good. Gulping more mouthfuls of air. The water almost seems to have a layer of greasy wax floating on it. Most peculiar as it is not in any way slimey or sticky, a clear deposit of ‘not-sure -what’… but more than likely his eyes full of water are the cause of this fuzzy blurryness. Further from the shore than expected he returns to the comfort and safety of dry land by a dignified and graceful doggy paddle, his head waving laterally left right, left right, like a pendulum. More refreshed and pepped with life he feels his knees beech on the sand thus indicating time to stand again. He shakes his head left to right clearing all the watery feeling in his ears and in his head. ‘Wow that was just great’- he says loudly to himself feeling like 007 swaggering from the surf. His trousers are vacuum-pack glued to the shape of his fit legs like wrinkly licra, up to his waist. The sun is bursting bright now, indeed like some sort of Thai resort.

Walking up the grassy hill back to his transport he sways arms with purpose and gusto having shed the dull norm of mundane life, much more positive, a human being not a human doing. With each step he almost flick kicks the warm soft sand producing a mini cloud aura of candy floss. He hums a tune of not-sure-what.

It takes about five minutes to reach the top of the hill. Savouring each step of warmth makes it seem more like five days. By the time he reaches the bicycle, his clothing seems quite dry and no more velcro suction on his legs from the ‘ends turned up trousers!’ He pulls the jumper over his head, and then with brushing strokes from his skin wrinkled hands, wipes the sand from his feet, taking care around the right ankle which seems unusually bruised and black looking for something that doesn’t even hurt any more. In balmy seawater his hands have lost that previous bluey stained look and are now squeaky clean and wonderfully white… including under the nails.

Now freshed up pepped up and more presentable, he lifts the bike with both hands, one on the saddle and the other in the center of the handlebars, turns it one eighty and starts to head for the summit.

Getting a nif on the wind of something very attractive. The aroma of coffee. Hungry after his dip he seeks sustanance. Fifty meters on, he arrives at the summit with the small hotel and bar area brimming in activity. The car park is full and there is a hum drum drone of a doo. Lifting the bike over the two foot high capped wall before leaning it against the timber support post on the end of the covered in smoking area. A bored looking chatless couple are sereenly pulling together on their nicotene sticks. (If they quit they may develop a little more zest for daily life)! Walking around this awning he approaches the door entrance area and bee lines towards a pretty young girl in a black-and-white pinney carrying a tray. His thoughts now being an expresso and two peacon pies or if not, then two doughnuts. He gets her attention while she approaches, then Michael spots Bernadette. How did she get to the summit so quickly? She was in the same black overcoat (without the tea-cosy hat), but her pretty faced friend, still with her, had completely changed. Now she was in black boots, a long dark dress and short dark grey jacket with matching silk scarf. How the hell did she change so quickly? Waving his hand in a ‘not now thanks’ gesture to the waitress, he heads over to surprise Bernadette and her friend by humble approach from behind. It should be a surprise as they seem wrapped up in deep conversation, and have not yet spotted Michael across the small sombre crowd. Just then, he accidently brushes against another customer. Turning to her and — ‘I am terribly sorry madam, please excuse me’. The small elderly lady with unbelievably thick white hair held in and capped with a fine haired faux fox fur hat and large green wool overcoat responds-’Oh thats quite alright Michael’. Slighly stunned he replies... ‘What a co-incidence seeing you here Mrs Peecha, you look great… I heard that there was a wonderful party at your house a few months ago, perhaps it was your eighty-fifth birthday!’ She replies in her soft spoken clear accent. - ‘Oh yes and Michael, can you believe the police were called, well after midnight you know, due to all the noise and racket I think. Of coarse I had long gone by then.’

‘How wonderful Ella, and it’s marvelous to see you again, especially as I was told that you were not well, not too well at all. In fact, someone indeed told me that you had actually died! (as he chuckles momentarily). Ella then giggled slightly with a glint in her eye and that beautiful smile, ‘That I had died?… yes, can you imagine that Michael?…well thats strange coming from you!’.

With the suddeness of lightning coupled with the grace of a butterfly wing flap …he looks down at his two open embalmed palms with bleach clean fingers stretched out, he turns them around slowly. Then looking up in calm shock, with a distant lost look on his face, coupled with an unfocussed confused cold stare, slowly opens his now very dry mouth and reflects beyond his hearse towards the heavens above. He had just looked straight through his hands…as the penny dropped to another very loud screech of …‘NO, NO’.