EMISSIONS:THERE'S BEEN quite the buzz about the Dublin Bikes scheme of late. Never one to miss a bandwagon, I ventured forth last week to see what the fuss is about, writes KILIAN DOYLE
I strolled down to the nearest credit card-enabled machine and tried to rent a bike. To be honest, I was surprised there were any left. Not because the scheme is so popular, but because Pearse Street’s indigenous urchins are notorious bike murderers, the type of kids who can break in to a Sherman tank in eight seconds and have it stripped in half an hour. For them, nicking bikes that’ve been left on their manor isn’t a challenge. It’s a matter of pride.
Ten minutes of farting about with fiddly buttons and tiny screens later, and I still hadn’t managed to work the system out. I am well-known for being an idiot, but this was ridiculous.
Eventually, I twigged it and was directed to bike number three. The slashable-looking saddle appeared unused. I daresay there’s a good chance mine was the first backside to ever sit on it. The lucky thing.
Bike number three may well be dismembered by vandals in due course, its frame stuffed into a suitcase and chucked in the Liffey, its wheels looped over a Smithfield lamp post and its handlebars buried on Sandymount Strand, but at least it’ll have the joyful memory of having caressed my sweaty buttocks to ease the pain.
Now, it’s been well over a year since I last cycled through the city of my birth, having upped sticks from a pebble-dashed crate in Crumlin to my opulent gold-plated demesne in north Kildare. There was a time, documented in these very pages, when I thought nothing of tearing through gaps between trucks the width of Kate Moss at breakneck speed astride my trusty red steed. Those days are long gone. I’m a pampered, train-riding lump these days.
Thus, it was with trepidation that I wobbled, heart pounding, on to the south quays. Crossing on to Aston Quay, mindful of the fact an unfortunate cyclist had died under a truck on that very stretch a mere 24 hours previously, I was, I confess, terrified.
My fellow road users didn’t help. Dreadlocked couriers sneering down their pierced noses while whizzing past on fixies, I can accept. At least they gave me some space. Even the motorbikes took pity on me. But the motorists acted like I’d slipped on a cloak of invisibility and flatly refused to cede me an inch of road.
Taxi drivers were the worst offenders. Understandable, I suppose. For what are Dublin Bikes but competition for them in an ever-decreasing market? No wonder they hated me. Now, I obviously couldn’t possibly suggest they’d deliberately set out to scare a few part-time cyclists back into cars, but it wouldn’t hurt their business plan, would it?
Somehow, I made it safely down Parliament Street and onto a near-empty Dame Street. Finally, feeling relatively safe, I began to enjoy myself. Until I caught sight of my reflection in a window and realised I looked a complete prat. The combination of the stupid basket out front and the stiff- backed riding position made me look like Julie Andrews on her way to choir practice.
Most annoyingly, the gearing was all wrong. Even in the highest of the three gears, my legs were pumping like Usain Bolt being chased by a gang of angry cheetahs. And I was barely moving.
I have a theory. I reckon the bikes are designed to be slow so you can’t go fast enough to hurt yourself and sue Dublin City Council. Well, chaps, I have news for you. Bikes don’t kill cyclists. Other vehicles do. No matter how good a cyclist you are, you need to be able to accelerate out of trouble. For trouble will come, believe me.
The verdict? Dublin Bikes are a capital idea. If you’re an ambulance-chasing lawyer.
