Band of Bike Positive Mamils edge close to Sportive as sun returns Among my printed souvenirs, marooned forlornly in a sea of literature
FINALLY the yellow orb in the sky has arrived and I can’t get enough of it. Like a neanderthal emerging from a cave after a seemingly eternal winter, I’ve thrown myself into sport like there’s no (sunny) tomorrow.
The Bike Positive group I joined in February has clicked back into gear and there is, dear readers, a distinct possibility that I’ll be able for the 100 km Sportive around south Wexford, which is on the horizon in midJune.
As a part-time Middle Aged Man in Lycra (Mamil), I’m getting to grips with the contraption I got for the 40th – mistake by mistake. As someone who enjoyed cycling in my childhood, it is great to be back in the saddle. Travelling along the byways of the county recently the penny dropped of how uninformed I am about the vehicle under my posterior. I mean, it is all that is separating me from certain injury and yet I know diddly squat about its mechanics.
I witnessed a few punctures being repaired during last weekend’s cycle which was an education in itself, but considering the fact you’re travelling at 50 km/h at times, it should probably figure somewhere on my to do list, above signing up for Spotify, the musical streaming service and getting that Pineapple polo shirt online.
So the cycling is going great, even if some of the Band of Brothers who signed up for it have been noticably absent as of late. I’m sure they are off climbing mountains on their own in preparation for the big Sportive! As I work with some of the public figures, who shall remain nameless for now, I won’t cast any more judgement until judgement day itself.
Cycling wasn’t the only sport I threw myself into the past month. A knee injury put paid to my soccer for the winter, so, having gotten some physio, I’m back fit and able to play again. In preparation I went for a run on my lunch hour the other day and have been feeling pains in muscles I haven’t used since Hallowe’en ever since, but am I put off, never!
The idea of Bike Positive is fantastic, as it moves you on from casting admiring glances at your bicycle to actually getting up off your arse and cycling it. I, for one, always feel the better for a good cycle. It is as if your mind unwinds and processes things you didn’t even know was bothering you as you pedal your way through the countryside, enjoying the smells and the sights.
Having a target is a great motivator and cycling in a group with experienced cyclists who are more than happy to impart tips and advice is something I very much appreciate. Being out on the mountains, testing your body, is a great reminder of how fortunate you are to be healthy and able bodied, as not everyone is. You also feel that by cycling you are a force of positivity, in a way, because you are out exercising, not in an exhibitionist way, but as a health conscious person who made the choice not to watch that Ok Tv show.
Talking about reviving old habits, I got a mix tape via WhatsAPP – the social messaging app – the other day, with a playlist of hits from down through the decades, some of which I haven’t heard in a decade. It brought me back to the hours spent making mix tapes, which would be worn to snapping point through repeat listening. These mix tapes were among the most treasured possessions of my youth and would only be shared with the most trusted friends, friends who would be willing to exhange their most prized mix tapes in return.
Everything in cycles!
HOW many books has John le Carré written and published? Go on, have a guess. No googling, please. No phoning a friend. Just have a stab at it. Pick a number. You surely must know le Carré, famous for his espionage stories. For his insights into the shadows that shield the British establishment. For creating the immortal George Smiley, brought to life on screen by Alec Guinness and Gary Oldman. The author continues writing to this day, as far as I know, though well into his eighties.
So, how many books are there in the le Carré canon? How many works has he issued since ‘Call for the Dead’ appeared in 1961? No, I do not know the answer off the top of my head either. All I do know is that I am sitting here on the bedroom floor here at Medders Manor with twenty of le Carré’s finest scattered around me. The twenty range from that debut novel of 57 years ago to the excellent recent memoir ‘The Pigeon Tunnel’. By now Le Carré is an old friend, providing the perfect antidote to James Bond, his contemporary in the world of espionage fiction.
Ian Fleming’s 007 mission, re-hashed again and again, was to save the world against a backdrop of spectacular explosions and impossibly beautiful women. Smiley was more likely to be found in the office as he struggled vainly to save his marriage. Bond is for boys. I read most of Fleming’s thrillers while still a teenager and they have not stayed with me. But the le Carré horde/hoard has been retained, accumulated over the years and appealing to the more mature me.
And so I find myself slumped among these cherished souvenirs. The problem is that the twenty le Carré volumes are no more than the tip of a literary ice-berg. A mere twenty books would not be a problem. Hundreds upon hundreds of books are daunting. The dilemma started when Hermione tidied her half of the bedroom, clearing away decades of dried out cosmetics and out-dated perfumes. Accumulated brochures were consigned to re-cycling and moth eaten sweaters dispatched to clothes stalls in far off Africa.
The clean-out was a truly radical exercise bringing an extended long fingering exercise to a commendable conclusion and exposing surfaces that had not seen the light of day for decades. Well done, Hermione. Sincerest of sincere congratulations, honestly.
The down side was that this spring clean served to underline just how scruffy was the other half of the bedroom. Having captured the moral high ground, the loved one then felt free to begin analysing the cause of the mess which persisted on the far side of the line which divides female from male in our sleeping quarters.
The conclusion was obvious. Books, books and more books. Picking up discarded pairs of trousers is the work of a moment. Kicking shoes and correspondence from seed merchants under the bed takes a few minutes. But that still leaves the books. Books in piles. Books in crates. Books in disordered heaps.
‘Dust gatherers!’ sniffed the holder of the high moral ground. ‘How many of these are you ever going to read again?’
But that’s not the point! The books have nothing to do with future reading. Rather they represent my past journey. From the ‘Just So Stories’ of Kipling read out loud by my late father more than half a century ago through to the latest Scandinavian whodunit. That’s what I wanted to say but somehow the words never emerged.
An agreement was reluctantly reached whereby I acquired a set of shelves to accommodate some cherished works, while others must be brought to the charity shop. Honouring the terms is proving, frankly, traumatic. There is only so much room on any one set of shelves. If the twenty le Carré are retained then that leaves precious little space to display the dozen Ian Rankin.
It would be appalling to discard my late mother’s Maeve Binchy set. But if ‘The Lilac Bus’ remains, then ‘The Van’ and the rest of Roddy Doyle’s output may be consigned to the bargain bin. I find myself paralysed with indecision.
In among the jumble of paperbacks, I find a novel by Anthony Powell. It is called ‘Books Do Furnish a Room’. Try telling that to my life’s companion.