The guy looking back at Vinny Fitzpatrick in the mirror was no longer middle-aged; he was officially old. Not as aged as Methuselah perhaps but definitely trundling towards membership of the blue-rinse brigade.
It was New Year’s Day, the morning after he turned 58, and Vinny was in contemplative mood as he stood in the bathroom, a large white towel around his capacious midriff.
First, he studied his head. It was large, lumpy and as shiny as a baby’s bottom after his cherished comb-over had come to rest in ‘Mane-Line’, the barber’s shop on Vernon Avenue. Apart from him, no one cared much for his ‘Bobby Charlton’ and its disappearance had been greeted with approval, and no little mirth, at the New Year’s Eve party the night before.
As a show of support for Angie in her health battle, Vinny had asked borderline baldies, like him, to shave their heads, and for the more hirsute to don swimming caps for the New Year’s Eve bash in Mount Prospect Avenue.
He'd also got badges inscribed with 'Don't Mess With The Baldies', which had gone down a bomb – Angie had worn hers with pride before slipping off to bed shortly after Auld Lang Syne.
Vinny had carried on until the wee hours, squeezing every last drop out of the Bombay Gin bottle presented to him by Fran, his oldest pal.
Nursing a wee hangover as Friday dawned, Vinny was adamant that 2016 would be a great year, not just a good one.
Bright lights
Not only would Angie get better, but bright lights would bathe sport in a glowing light – on Willie Mullins at Cheltenham, Everton in the FA Cup, Ireland at the Euro finals and the Dubs in their quest to retain Sam.
And he would be there, riding shotgun all the way.
He thought of his age, 58, like the old bus route in Sallynoggin. It was a curious number divisible by itself, 2, and 29. It was the sum of the first seven prime numbers but wasn’t a number which jumped at you.
He recalled Patrick, the starfish in SpongeBob SquarePants saying once that "58 is like the luckiest number ever". He hoped Patrick was right.
It was also the final birthday celebrated by Charles Dickens and James Joyce, who weren't overweight that Vinny could recall, and Barry White, who certainly was.
Vinny was closer to stout than scrawny, a fact confirmed by the scales he’d just balanced himself on earlier. He was 17 stones, one pound – a mere choccie biscuit shy of 240 pounds. He was the Great White Whale of Clontarf, and almost as rare too, as there were very few Fatty Arbuckle folk these days.
Vinny had tried to apply the brakes through the festivities but it was no use. Once he saw a trough, his snout was on plunge alert. From pork to pies, pudding to porter, he hoovered up quicker than a Dyson, to visible effect too, for he was big and round, and he hated every pound.
He patted his monstrous belly, and noted with disapproval the oversized love handles, which hadn’t come cheap. He didn’t need wing mirrors to know his backside was as wide as a 130, while a glance at his horned, hairy, feet caused him to wince.
He saw the pair of yellowy critters every morning, as he strained to put on his socks, and regarded them as his worst physical feature. If he was going to make 59 in one piece, Vinny knew he needed to embark on a road to redemption. And today was where it started.
Crash-bang-wallop
He wasn’t a crash-bang-wallop sort of guy when it came to lifestyle changes, more a slow-burner, which was why he had challenged himself to a cycle to Howth and back.
He had thought about pushing for the summit but knew that was asking for trouble so had revised his target for a return spin to the harbour, which he reckoned was about 20km, or 13 miles in old money.
He fished out his bike gear from the bottom of the wardrobe and, after a struggle with zips, shorts and socks, waddled downstairs.
Vinny’s trusty steed was out the back in the shed, a Raleigh relic of the ’80s which, like him, was built for comfort not speed.
After a quick squirt of 20/20 oil and a check on the brakes, he heaved a leg over the crossbar and plonked himself into the riding position. “Chocks away,” he said.
The morning was cold and blustery, more so than Vinny had expected as he turned left on to the exposed coastal road. Here, the easterly wind was piercing and powerful. He felt the bike shudder under him and was grateful for his bulk. “Two chances of me being blown over,” he thought.
Along the exposed stretch of Black Banks, Vinny struggled for pedal power as the gales hit him sideways on. His TI Raleigh was in low gear as his fat fetlocks churned away and he gasped for breath.
Rolled to a halt
It was as hard a cycle as he could recall, and he was shattered as he rolled to a halt by the docks in Howth after 30 minutes of hell. “I’m not putting myself through that again,” he thought.
After a breather, over a sugary tea and a sticky bun, Vinny wheeled his bike to the Dart station where he flashed his Dublin Bus ID card and hitched a ride to Harmonstown. From there, it was five minutes, all downhill, to home.
On the rattler, he uploaded a cheesy picture of himself at Howth harbour that morning in a group text to the lads. “Made it to Howth and back, first steps to a new-look me.”
At Harmonstown, Vinny and bike had just alighted when a breathless figure arrived at the platform. It was Brennie. “Happy New Year, Vinny. Might see you for a pint later,” he said, dashing on board as the doors closed.
Inwardly, Vinny winced. “Oh, oh. I’ve been rumbled,” he said to himself.
It was nearly an hour later, after Vinny had showered, changed and was tucking into the remains of a coddle when a message from Brennie pinged on his phone.
“Just seen Vinny’s text. Fair play to him. One thing: Was that a single trip to Howth, or a return?”
