Vanity, thy name is a second bicycle

Who gave us pride followed by a fall, come on identify yourself. Come up here now; tell us again why you make fools of us and why particularly, you delight in poking fun at fat middle-aged fuckers who should know better then to buy a second bike. Vanity gets me every time, especially in Summer, and when the nice bottoms who play Tennis at Wimbledon go home, le Tour arrives with a swagger, kingfisher brilliant colours, flashing white teeth and lean muscled thighs. It’s the sprinting, the gut busting, teeth clenching, crowd encroaching, bike falling, climaxing sprint, and then the healthy calvita cheesy girls with flowers and garlands for the victor. Oh the sexiness of the thing makes me forget about my second-row legs and bad back, and I want to be there, doing it, giving it my all for the girls with the flowers and the garlands, holding the bouquet aloft with special bike racer sexy sun-glasses sitting on sweat drenched hair. So what if I’m seventeen stone, stiff in the wrong places and grumpy? I can do this shit, I can cycle a hundred miles in four hours, no fucking problem.  

And now, I can’t get away from her, she’s there every time, leaning seductively against the shed wall, flashing me her gears, her lithe and winsome frame goading me while I’m getting the lawnmower or the 3-in-one oil. Always there, waiting , staring, burning dark holes deep into my arthritic back, reminding me of my fucking vanity, reminding me that I‘d dreamed of possessing her, of riding her hard all along the dock road to the Glin watchtower, and back again on a lusty craven Saturday morning. You see, I’d developed a two bike habit, I craved a faster leaner machine and she lured me when I was still innocent in the pursuit of happiness, but on another more mature mare of a mountain bike. But I wanted speed, needed speed, I wanted excitement and the first time I saw her sumptuous curved handle bars, I caved.


So, the bike winks at me every time I pass and whispers throatily how she’s still available, still ready, stills wants me on her, wrapping my thighs around her tight little saddle, thrusting and pumping and taking her to heights never reached before. And like the harlot she most definitively is, she smiles indulgently and stretches her full length across the shed wall when I shift her to get the watering can. She pouts up at me, goading me knowingly, knowing that I can never ride here again cause she’s just too damm fast for me, the bitch,

7 responses to “Vanity, thy name is a second bicycle

  1. I loved this! I love your descriptions, though I could have done without all the swearing, it seems as though the language fit perfectly for your description of the bike, being a harlot torturing you. Great writing!

  2. JP, thanks much, comment much appreciated. Really appreciated.

    Ger, altogether like when we’re all in a room together. OR hen we’re in running along the beach in the altogether ?

  3. Hiya Sham,

    Just popped over from Bock’s to say hello.I’m always interested in Limerick related blogs and people and it’s great to see genuine talent given a platform.(I’m actually from Limerick and did my share of bush drinking in my time) Loved,loved,loved this post.Great stuff.

    I’m a bit of a Clydesdale myself on the bike but I’d never give it up.

    Keep it up.

  4. Howsitgoin HQ,
    Thanks very much for your kind comment and it’s much appreciated. This blogging thing is a revelation, to be honest I hardly read the papers anymore because the bloggers are so good. Sounds like we are both Clydesdales ( great description ) and those hills, and that oxygen debt, and those three cigarettes ……….
    Good luck

  5. and the single digit VO2 Max..heh…although I suppose I’m more Athena that Clydesdale these days.

    (Those are actual tri groups for *ahem* competitors over a certain age/size)

  6. Thanks HQ,
    I had to Google the single figure VO2 Max thing, and I’m more three digits VO2 minimum. And the competition thing, well for me extends to first to the bar!

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