There were no Playstations, Xbox consoles or internet as I grew up. To get a message to our friends, we normally knocked on their door and spoke to them. Those friends, they were people that we actually knew. We had arguments, occasionally there were a few fist fights, but it was never anything serious.
Everybody had to have an English football team to follow; it was another rite of passage. Liverpool and Manchester United were the most popular. I picked Tottenham Hotspur, because Glenn Hoddle played for them and he was good. To this day, I still glance at the results on telly every Saturday evening to see how they got on, even though my interest has well and truly waned.
As boys, we learned life skills that we still possess to this day. At 12 years of age for instance, I could use a chainsaw, I felled my first tree by the age of 14. A year or two later, I was making fledgling attempts to drive my dad’s Vauxhall Viva in the yard.
Building a tree house was a very important skill to master, as well as building a raft on the local river. We played war games; where one group were Germans and the other group were somebody else (Political correctness hadn’t been invented either). As far as I can recall, the sun shone every summer and we spent most of our time out fishing, playing football or up to some devilment somewhere.
In winter, we somehow managed to acquire the bonnet of an old Volkswagen Beetle. What could children possibly need that for? Well, when the winter snows arrived, we headed up to one of the steepest hills in the area. You sat on the bonnet, somebody gave you a push and you hammered down the hill / field, normally crashing into a ditch of briars. You untangled yourself, wiped off any blood, got up and gave the bonnet to somebody else to do the same. In the meantime, others were pelting down the same hill on a plastic bag, filled with straw. The bonnet was the best though and everybody got a chance to have a go. We walked home as darkness fell, bruised, cut, hurt but incredibly happy. Any torn trousers or jumpers were hidden from our parents and we got ready to go again the next day.
The attic at home was a treasure trove for any child. The problem was however, it was over 9ft high, had no lighting and only a small trapdoor for access. We overcame this problem by building our own system of tables and chairs to reach it. A local neighbour used to give us a loan of his torch, not realising what we were actually using it for. Every year, a “parcel” arrived from England just before Christmas. It was hidden in the attic, but young inquisitive boys have a tendency to investigate. We spent plenty of time checking out the contents of these parcels and the secret was to look surprised on Christmas morning, when it was officially opened. (We only told my mam about this a few years ago, she was livid)
Young boys and girls crave their independence, breaking free from the shackles of their parents. Our first taste of freedom was our bike. If you had a bike, you could go places and explore new environments, on your own. You learned basic maintenance, such as fixing punctures, linking a chain and adjusting your brakes. On a Sunday, it was regular to cycle / walk to the top of Glendaloughlin in the Nire Valley. It’s one of the highest hills in Ireland, over 400m above sea-level. Once you reached the top, you turned and descended as fast as you could. We had old mechanical speedometers and all our bikes were “clocked” at 40mph (60kph in modern money). If you reached the magic 40mph, you boasted about it for the week. Once you reached the steel bridge at the bottom, you slammed on your back brakes, locking up the wheel. The purpose was to try to skid the length of the bridge, once again claiming bragging rights. We didn’t bother with helmets (Kelly didn’t wear one, so why would we), Lycra hadn’t been heard of and clipless pedals were a long way over the horizon. Our bikes were almost as heavy as an old gate; carbon fibre hadn’t been invented either.
To this day, as I head down those same roads, it takes me back to those carefree teenage years. One thing that never changes is that sense of freedom, that thrill of the wind blowing against your face. Gravity still does its job, hurtling you down the side of the mountain. A modern bike will easily pass the magic 40mph of 30 years ago and it’s not uncommon to check on your ultra-modern computer when you get home and see that you have achieved well in excess of that. The winds will still do their best to knock you off, the road surface is still patchy, due to the extreme winter conditions that it endures and there is the constant worry of a sheep doing something stupid and walking out in front of you.
We were a small happy little group. Some of us were good at sports, some, like me, were stone hopeless. Some were very academic, some were mechanical, some were opinionated and some were not. It was a carefree time, when life was a lot simpler than it seems to be today. It is still a regular occurrence to roll up to the start line of a cycling event and see some of those same people there as well.
As middle aged men and women, we have never lost that fascination with our bikes and the freedom they have given us. The hills and the mountains are still there, still waiting to challenge us and just as in life, we still regularly take up that challenge.
Every morning, I watch our child head into school, carefree, happy and content. I envy his young age, his lust for information and his innocence. He lives in different times though and faces challenges that we could never have foreseen. I take him out on his bike once a week and we have an afternoon of the fun and adventure that I enjoyed. The Greenway in Dungarvan gives a taste of that freedom, even if it has to come with the bribe of a visit to Gamestop and a happy meal before we head home. He would much rather be playing Minecraft or Uncharted with his friends, but to me, those few hours are invaluable and something to cherish.
Through his eyes, I’m transported back to those happy times, when I was his age. We are an entire generation apart, but that sense of freedom that a bike provides never leaves you, whatever the age.
The Unknown Bike Rider 