Rough Ride Read Online Free PDF

was also taboo. This involved swinging out of the back of the delivery lorries to Lipton's, hanging on till the truck slowed down at a set of traffic lights and then jumping off. Scuttin' was very popular and I found it hard to obey my father. It took at least two or three arse-reddenings to convince me that it wasn't worth it.
    It was in Ballymun that I rode my first two-wheeler. Da bought it and immediately removed the two stabilisers. He sat me on the saddle in the small car park in front of the flats and then pushed me off. I wobbled once or twice, but basically had no trouble and was delighted with myself. I loved cycling; from the time I was born it had always been part of my life. Whenever possible, Da would take us to the races to watch him. I loved the races. I loved it when Da gave me a crossbar from the finish to the car after the race was over. I felt so proud. I was fascinated by his legs, the way the bulging muscles shone from the oils he spread on them. But most of all I loved it when he won.
    We have a photo at home of him winning a race at Ballyboghil in the north of County Dublin. Raphael and I are both standing on the small school fence overlooking the finishing line. Raphael has his two hands raised and it is clear to see the joy on our faces. Needless to say he lost quite a few as well. I could never understand him losing and when I questioned him his reply was always, 'Sure I have to give the other fellows a chance sometimes.' This infuriated me. I honestly believed him.
    I often asked him if he was the best. Here he never lied. No, he was not the best. He was good but not the best. Peter Doyle was the best. He used to point out Peter Doyle to me, and on occasions when the great man came to our house he would ask, 'Paul, do you know who this is?' And, finger in my mouth, I would reply shyly, 'Peter Doyle'. To me, my Da was God, but Peter Doyle was also God.
    Being at the races wasn't always a pleasure. I remember an evening race in the Phoenix Park. I stood with my mother as she chatted with the other cycling widows waiting impatiently for the finishing sprint. There was a gasp from the crowd as a rider hit a parked car, flew over the top and landed on the grass verge. I remember leaving my mother's side and running to the crowd that surrounded the motionless groaning body. I was too small to see over them, but I bent down on my knees and, looking through the legs, spotted the rider's number. Number 22. I wasn't sure but expected that it was Da. Then I saw the crash hat. The blue leather crash hat that he always wore: 'It's him, that's my Da.' And then sprinting back to Ma, shouting, 'It's him, it's Da!' And for some crazy reason being glad that my Da was the centre of all the attention. The thought that he might be injured never crossed my mind. He was taken to hospital but got off lightly. His crash hat, split up the middle, had saved him from injury. When I rode my first race I had the same blue crash hat on my head. There were other, classier, hats, but I wanted this one. This was my Da's. Da was God.
    I rode my first official race at ten, but the unofficial ones started much earlier. When we moved to Coolock I used to race the neighbours' kids round the block. I always won or nearly always. Davy Casey my next-door neighbour sometimes beat me. This cracked me up. I was a desperately bad loser and would burst into tears of rage when I did. School gave me other opportunities to race. I entered Michael O'Braoinain's class when I was nine. Michael took a great shine to me and instilled in me a new confidence in my academic ability. He made me write poetry and regularly praised my offerings. He also instilled in us an appreciation of Gaelic culture, and he was a great man for playing a jig and a reel on the tin whistle. We laugh about that now. I've played squash with him regularly in the past six months – he claims he always knew I'd end up writing for a living.
    In an effort to improve our Irish,