I have taken to riding my bike to work at the recycling depot in Drumbarrel. The Mother was away for a few days and my attempts to organise lifts with my friends were delivering mixed results.

Even though Pa Quirke is retired, he isn’t always around and Cantillon is four miles away in Crookdeedy, whenever you ring for a lift there’s always a bullock to be dosed or a cow to be bulled. Superquinn is very obliging, but every time she drives me anywhere I get a lecture on why I should learn to drive myself.

I have tried hitching but it’s very unreliable, besides, people will often go miles out of their way to drop me to the depot, which makes me feel bad.

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I’ve also heard that the gossip mongers are working overtime saying that with two salaries I should be able to afford my own car.

I know of one particular two-faced shleeveen who, after insisting on going out of his way to take me to work, was heard describing me to all and sundry “as the tightest hoor in the county”.

In general, people are very obliging. Nell Regan was on her way to Honetyne the other day and saw me hitching at the opposite side of the road.

She turned around and insisted on driving me to work, even though it took her completely in the wrong direction.

I tried to give her a few bob for petrol, but she assured me that God would reward her. I hope he pays more than I offered, I only had a fiver on me at the time.

I was discussing my transport predicaments with Cantwell, who asked me if I had a bike.

“I have a high nelly in the shed,” says I, “but it’s as auld as myself.”

He suggested I take it out and have it rebuilt.

“But what about the regulation cyclin’ kit?” says I. “Every cyclist nowadays is squeezed into a lycra suit and looks like Spiderman with a big arse. I can’t be turnin’ up for work dressed like that, with bits of me bulgin’ out all over the place.”

“There’s no need for the gear,” says he, “just wear your ordinary clothes and take your time.”

“I’ll be sweatin’ like a pig when I get there,” says I.

“What harm,” says he, “’twill probably be the only sweat you’ll rise. From what I’m told there’s little fear of anyone breakin’ into a sweat at that depot.”

“Where will I get the bike refitted?” I asked.

“Tinky Ryan,” says he, “when he’s not burying the dead he’s resurrectin’ bikes.”

I went home and pulled the high nelly out of the shed, I’d say the last time it was taken for a ride was about 20 years ago.

As I wheeled it down the street, it clanked and cluttered attracting all manner of abuse and commentary. As I passed the post office, Lily Mac asked me if the bike was “for cyclin’ or recyclin’”.

Tinky Ryan wasn’t much better, he took one look at the yoke and said: “Maurice, take it to your place of work and give it a decent burial.”

“I was told if anyone could give this new life, you could.”

“I’m an undertaker, not a miracle worker,” says Tinky.

Anyway, I left him the bike and within a few days he phoned to say ’twas ready.

“’Tis a bit like yourself Maurice,” says he, “it mightn’t be great to look at, but ’tis in good workin’ order.”

When I saw it I had to agree with him, it moved well but in appearance it looked as if it could do with some serious cosmetic surgery. I cycled it home delighted with myself, whizzing along like I was a young fella.

The following morning, I got up at cockcrow ready to take on the Tour de France. After the breakfast, I put the lunch into a plastic box, strapped it to the carrier and took off with my yellow jacket flapping behind me.

I wasn’t gone a mile when the strain began to tell. The hills and hollows you never notice when you’re travelling by car turn into the feckin’ Himalayas when you try to pedal a bike up along them.

I had seven miles to cover and was winded after three. From the fourth mile relations between my arse and the saddle began to break down.

By the time I got to the depot, every muscle ached, my clothes were soaked with sweat and my aforementioned tail-end felt like it had engaged in a prolonged act of intimacy with a lump of sandpaper. I waddled into the depot like someone who had just got both hips done.

“Jaysus Maurice,” says Todd, my supervisor, “have you no saddle on that bike?”