We had a lovely weekend of gorgeous sun down in West Cork just past, one of those wonderful April appetisers for summer days to come.
I brought the bike down because, sometime in midwinter, I made the unwise decision to attempt to tackle the Ride Dingle annual cycle in late April, which is a 120km long spin with a lot of gruelling climbs.
What with being out of the house, and with our extension now taking longer than the Sagrada Familia and the National Children’s Hospital combined, my training routine has been fair-to-middling, to say the least.
So what better way to supercharge the preparation for Dingle, than a few hours climbing the brutal hills around Ardfield and Rathbarry, eh?
There’s nothing like it in the good weather, folks, although being used to cycling on protected greenways in Dublin, you certainly feel a bit exposed on country lanes where lads and lassies sure ‘eat up road’ these days.
Glorious cycles aside, the weekend wasn’t without its minor first world problems.
I have a key to lock my bike to the roof rack of the car which, in a moment of Trumpian genius, I managed to leave on the roof after putting my bike in the parents’ garage. And then off I went into town in the car for supplies, oblivious to the keys sliding around in the roof above.
The keys, small and unremarkable, had one crucial quality; they were the only ones that could lock the clamp holding my bike to the roof of the car. By the time we were due to leave West Cork on Monday morning, I realised the keys were gone. How the hell am I going to bring the bike back to Dublin, I thought?
And then, in stepped Clonakilty. More specifically, the Clonakilty Notice Board: the digital Lourdes of West Cork, where people go to find lost goats, spare tyres, half-decent childcare, and now, one writer’s sanity.
My Dad had noticed, in passing, a set of keys being posted to the group earlier in the weekend with ‘Bike Rack’ written on them. He had bookmarked it, in the remote possibility they were mine but hadn’t mentioned it at the time.
When I came into the kitchen in a cold sweat on Monday morning he immediately brought up the post with a photo of the keys – my keys – a small miracle, and Easter still weeks away.
However, we still had to locate the mysterious Facebook poster, and fast, as we had GAA training to hit in Dublin that evening. A post had been created by a fella called Janek, who appeared to be a keen cyclist, perhaps a member of Clonakilty Cycling Club, and we immediately sent a direct message as well as an email to the club.
Only a fellow cyclist would get the importance of a tiny set of keys like this, I thought.
Within an hour, I had them back. No ransom. No drama. No scolding tone about ‘being more careful next time’.
Just pure West Cork magic. Janek had found them on the causeway between Clon and Ardfield and instead of cycling on, or throwing them in the sea, he went and posted them to the online noticeboard, and saved me a hell of a lot of grief.
For the rest of the day I carried those keys like they were ancient relics, whispering thanks to Janek, my Dad, the Clonakilty Notice Board, and whatever cosmic energy patrols the backroads of Ardfield looking out for eejits like me.
A whole new world, Ted
Meanwhile, in the land of the not-so-miraculous, Donald Trump was launching his latest plan to turn the global economy into a bonfire, one tariff at a time.
His newest wheeze, the sort of thing that would have been dreamed up on the back of a fag packet in days gone by, featured a blanket 10% tax on all imports, with a spicy 20% special rate for European goods, just to keep things interesting.
He has literally tariffed a load of developing nations out of existence if he sticks with it.
Most economists, when faced with this sort of proposal, reach for terms like ‘inflationary death spiral’ and ‘catastrophic own goal’.
But Trump doesn’t do economics, for he’s a businessman. He does vibes and deals. And the vibe this week was: let’s see what happens if you put the kitten in the microwave.
Of course, this is vintage Trump really, a man who couldn’t run a corner shop without going bankrupt, now trying to run the world’s biggest economy using the same instincts he once applied to casinos and skyscrapers.
But while Trump huffs and puffs, something else is stirring.
The rest of the world is starting to imagine operating without a soft American leadership.
We are all thinking about ways to realign our trade policies and diversify our investments.
Because the sad truth is, America can now longer be trusted, and we are living in a whole new world.
How hurling comes home
Back on home soil, there was another altogether more joyful shift: Cork won the National Hurling League.
For the first time since 1998, the Rebels lifted the league trophy and across the county, a strange and powerful transformation occurred. I got a text from my old pal Fachtna, dreaming aloud of long summer days and nights in the corners of pubs canonising Patrick Horgan.
We were in Fisher’s Cross Bar on Sunday evening as the attendees started to come back from Páirc Uí Chaoimh, a small swagger in their step as they sipped pints and marvelled at our first-half display. It’s the hope that kills you.
