Is there really no word in the Dutch language to convey the concept of gradient?

‘WHAT do you want, Medders – a medal?’ asked Rufus. He rolled his eyes and shook his head with mock sadness before returning his attention to the smoking of a cigarette. The money must be good in his line of business, I thought, if he can afford to smoke at the rate that he does. Though I have known him for many years, I have never been quite sure what exactly his line of business is. Something to do with information technology is my best guess…

The pair of us were standing in a socially distanced sort of way, both waiting to enter the building where he works. He has an office somewhere on the second floor while I was in town hoping to catch up with a colleague at ground level.

Management of the block was putting on a great show of anti- Covid precautions, with no one making it past the man at the front door before donning a face covering.I had just arrived face un-covered to find Rufus loitering outside with his ciggy.

So it was that we struck up casual conversation while I fished in my rucksack for a mask and he puffed his way down towards the filter.

‘Jaysus, Medders, are you on holidays? What’s with the shorts?’ ‘I’m on the bike today,’ I explained, trying my best to have to have the words come out smoothly rather than panting. Hill Street, as I had just discovered, is well named and the journey had finished with a heave up Hill Street in first gear.

The plan, I told Rufus breathlessly, was to change out of the shorts and into something more formal in the gents, once past the watchful security man at the front door who was directing callers to the sanitiser dispenser.

Groping in the rucksack for the mask, I instead pulled out a stick of deodorant – essential equipment for those of us who cycle to work.

‘Everyone does it in Holland, you know,’ I said, using my sleeve to wipe the sweat from my forehead.

‘I believe there’s no equivalent in Dutch for the word gradient,’ he chuckled as he stubbed out his smoke. ‘Ireland certainly is not Holland.’

He pointed towards the car park which was full of, yes, cars. And there in the corner were the bike stands, I indicated, with room for eight bikes. Capacity eight, occupancy one – my bike.

‘I really don’t understand why I am the only one who has cycled here,’ said I, with every show of puzzlement. ‘It’s a lovely day. No rain and next to no wind. Ten kilometres from The Manor – it only took 45 minutes.’

I rummaged a little further in the rucksack and hauled out a pair of slacks which were rolled up in a ball. The mask was in the middle of the ball. As I took off my helmet and hooked the mask’s elastic around my ears, I gave him the full spiel promoting life on two wheels. The sentimental – how my late father and I used to pedal to matches back the day. The physiological – how cycling is good for the lungs, especially the lungs of middle-aged men. The environmental – how the bike is better for the planet, with dramatic savings of fossil fuel.

‘Medders, I’m sure we all want a greener world but the old Beamer got me here in quarter of an hour.’ He gestured proudly towards his car which was undoubtedly a BMW, of uncertain vintage and a sickly brown colour.

‘My suit is as unruffled as when I left the house. It is probably too late to save my lungs, or the planet for that matter. And my father, by the way, never brought me to matches because his idea of sport was a visit to the bookies next door. He is still alive, by the way, and still passing me on his racing tips at the age of 97. He’s a new man since he cut the fags down to 20 a day.’

Not to be deterred, as I tried to smooth the creases from the slacks, I resumed my sermon on the benefits and virtues of cycling. The joy of the open air. The sheer feeling of wellbeing. ‘What do you want, Medders – a medal?’ asked Rufus. ‘Ooh, yes please, that would be nice. I could pin it to my back carrier or maybe have it set with rhinestones in my helmet.’