| I slept last night with my knees drawn close to my chest, my legs
twitching, trying to pedal. I dreamt of rolling hills and a phantom
triathlete on a giant Giant orange bike. I catch him on every climb,
he drops me on every descent. Each time he passes he reaches awkwardly
yet eerily to shift and then powers away. Never a word between us
as through a night of misty rain we exchange this pointless lead.
I awoke to the realisation that, having willed it, it was no dream.
No dream but my life for 40 kilometres the day before. Kilbride.
Oldcourt. Ballyknockan. Hollywood. Just the two of us and the occasional
quickly passed straggler. On and on. Once I shouted. "Yes,
you're faster than me! But not on the hills! Not on the hills!"
But I shouted when he was in the distance and kept my peace when
we met on the next incline. Out of respect.
The brief descent to Donard meant my triathlete was not in sight
when I turned into the town. I stopped at the checkpoint. He did
not. And now, despite the dreaming and the waking, I'm not entirely
sure that my skinsuited adversary was real.
Ian Tighe |
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