John Butleron his complicated relationship with his sister's bike
When I was young, I had a very complicated relationship with my sister's bicycle. At the time, I had my own bike, a 10-speed Raleigh Pulsar, painted silver and chrome, with high-tech flourishes in red paint around the chain and wheels. When I was presented with it (on my 14th birthday), I drank in the slender frame, the shiny contours, and I was ecstatic. This was around the time of Stephen Roche and the Giro d'Italia, and my Raleigh Pulsar was perfect.
However, I may have registered that something which looked as sleek as this bike would surely bring a set of demands that I was not mature enough to satisfy. I was about to embark on my first high-maintenance relationship.
The honeymoon wasn't bad, but it certainly wasn't relaxing. I lavished an expensive saddle cover and a silver water bottle upon it, and I allowed myself a pair of fingerless cycling gloves with which to grip its bars.
Over the following months, I washed the frame, locked it away from the other bikes and nursed minor quibbles. It was a sensitive bike, and I tried to protect it.
Still, as a young man, it was only natural that my eye would wander. Up until then I had never really noticed that my sister also had a bike - a Raleigh Wisp. It was a more solid affair, the Wisp, offering a mere five speeds and bearing an unfashionable back-carrier which surely hindered aerodynamics. The Wisp wasn't much to look at, and it wasn't painted silver. In fact, it was baby blue. But the most important fact dazzled me. The Wisp never broke down.
The Pulsar and I couldn't go the distance. Within months, the frame was chipped and scratched and I could see that the logo hadn't been painted on, merely stickered on the crossbar. I was immature and unwilling to repair tyres or replace the stupid chain which kept slipping. The Pulsar and I began to row, doors were slammed, and finally, we split up.
I took to stealing the Wisp from time to time, without anyone knowing.
If I needed to go to the shops, I took the Wisp. If I had to spin into town, I took the Wisp. At the same time, if I was meeting guys for football, I'd walk, because the Wisp had a girl's frame and fat tyres.
Looking back, the Wisp was like a lover that gives you the best, most insanely satisfying sex of your life, but you won't introduce them to your friends or family. I was ashamed of the Wisp, but I just couldn't quit her. Finally, my sister caught us and banned me from seeing her, but this only fanned the flames. At one point, she actually made me sign a note vowing to give her a fiver if I punctured a tyre or broke a chain, and I signed that piece of paper in a flash. I was addicted to the Wisp, and I needed her for St Patricks Day, 1987.
A friend and I had found ourselves in possession of two tickets to a political fundraising lunch and raffle in a hotel in Killiney. My friend's dad had bought these tickets but he couldn't go, and kindly left them for us to take his place. The only way of getting there, and home before the midnight curfew, was on a bike, and the wretched Pulsar was broken again. I put on a green blazer and cycled the Wisp over to the hotel. We took our seats at the table, ordered the consomme, and within minutes, it became clear to us that the wine was free.
We were only 15, and for the first hour, I believe the table found our company to be simply enchanting. We were young, politically active and pouring drinks for everyone. Within an hour, the people at our table were eating out of our hands, metaphorically. Later, the fundraising auction began, and my friend bid successfully for an expensive oil painting.
The wine kept coming and other bids flew in from around the table. Not wanting to be left out, I threw a hand up to bid. To this day, there is dissent about what it was that I bought. I think it was a sheepskin coat, and my friend thinks it was a sheepskin coat with no previous owners; that is to say, a sheep. In any case, no one matched my bid.
As the afternoon wore on, others started to cast envious glances at us. It was clear that our table was having the best time, so I can't remember why it suddenly became really important that we leave, but it did. We made our excuses, took our wine and left. As we walked through the lobby, a bottle or two fell from my arms and smashed quite loudly.
We pressed on, but in the car park, my friend and I had a minor disagreement. The evening was going downhill, so I got on the Wisp and began to cycle home.
I knew it was later than the curfew, so I really worked those pedals getting home. But she had tired of my immature ways, and as I passed Blake's restaurant in Stillorgan, the Wisp gave up on me. The chain got stuck in the back wheel, and though I wrestled with her for an hour, drunkenly, shirtlessly, she would not unstick.
Beaten, I dragged the Wisp home on my back and turned the key in the front door an hour later. Tiptoeing inside, I found my family gathered around the television, because of course it was only 7pm.
Exiled to the garage the next day and noting a peculiar dryness of mouth, I repaired the tyre on the Pulsar. My political career had ended on the day it began, so I went for a cycle under the guise of getting to evening Mass, and begged forgiveness - from my bicycle.
John Butler blogs at lozenge.wordpress.com