Bottled

I tried to get in touch with my feminine side once but she hung up. So, at the tender age of twenty, I began drinking large bottles of Guinness in an attempt to grow hair on my chest and to be manly in general. I got good at it too. I could drink a few bottles and still drive my motorbike home from Graignamanagh. Sure if you met the Guards back then you could switch off your lights, turn around, and disappear down a lane. I could drink 8 bottles over a night and cycle home high as a kite. But drink more than 8 and, like drinking chocolate, you'd suffer from a drowsiness akin to a sedative. So you'd either run down the main street in Graig on the bonnets/roofs/boots of the parked cars... or fall off your bike at the top of High street and get collected off the ground by your friend Daryl and brought home safely.

Why on earth am I telling you this?!! You see, today, at the ungodly hour of 6am I got up to go training. I had switched off the alarm while questioning my sanity. The rain outside seemed to be laying it down hard. Harder than a Gypsy's driveway anyway. But I consoled myself with the truth; training isn't a choice. So its raining hard? I am mentally driven to go out and nail my training. Its not a choice. You can miss the gym, miss Pilates, or aerobics, or the treadmill. I won't miss training.

So I killed my coffee and granola, dragged on enough layers to just about hide my identity, took a deep breath as I locked the front door behind me, and headed for the hills.

My real problem started with Smithwicks at 19. Smithwicks makes you wee a lot. They may now call it Red Ale but it still is a bladder beater. For me, I had to go every half pint or so. Thats grand until you go to your girlfriend's Grad. Try drinking steadily, attempting to get frisky and legging it to the toilet every 15 minutes. The girlfriend thought I wasn't interested in her. The toilet attendant thought I had a thing for him. It wasn't long before the rumour mill had me pinned as a bi-sexual philanderer with a drink problem.

So I'm cycling out to Graignamanagh at 7am, there's nothing but puddles, leaves and wind for company. Down a back road (that I would have used 30 years ago to avoid the Guards) I round a curve to hear the Phhhhfffft of a puncture. The rain is now HEAVY. Heavier than the atmosphere after midnight at that Grad.... I pull out the back wheel and begin searching for the flint or stone or whatever the culprit happened to be. Normally a miniscule item is to blame. Smaller than Trump's conscience. Not today. A massive piece of brown glass, invisible on the soaked road, has rendered my tyre and tube useless and nearly sliced the frame too. I step back in frustration. Step back and hear a crunch. More glass. I lift my foot and begin to see bits of broken glass everywhere. And a big piece with the Guinness label still attached. St James's gate under my cleats.

Its not 'til I'm riding home on the flat rim, crawling, thump, thump, thump, squelch... that my rage dissipates. Probably some kid drinking bottles of stout and acting the donkey dumped the bottle heading home. Down the back roads. Avoiding the Guards. Trying to stay awake. Can I really be angry? The kid didn't think he'd spoil my day, ruin my new tyre, get me soaked, score my wheel, or give extra business to my Local Bike Shop.

I had plenty of time to think about it as I hadn't made the call of shame. It wasn't even 8am. So I'd absolved whoever it was before I'd slopped into the hallway of my house a good while later.

The deluge stopped. I've changed the tyre and tube. I was about to crack open a beer but... well, something held me back.