Feeding Time at the TwitterZoo

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Piece Written for the Marketing Institute of Ireland blog

The say build it and they will come. I say, if you feed it, it will grow.

I have been using Twitter for a period of time now for a client, and the evidence is clear. If you make an effort to constantly post on a series of topics, provide information of value and genuinely make an attempt to build contacts and interact with people your contacts will grow exponentially. This in turn can add value to your business. Quickly, you can build a channel of contacts and routes to market that you can take advantage of. It takes time, patience and a little ingenuity but it is worth persevering #IMO!

The value of communication using new media always appealed to me. The interesting thing is you didn’t always know how it would work but it was interesting when it did. Plus you didn’t have the problems of hundreds and thousands of brochures sitting with no place to go.

In my previous life, we developed an e-zine that pulled together news sources from across different platforms and pumped this information out on a frequent basis. It was basically a digest of what was going on. At the time, because it was an information source that people had opted in to, rather than being something they just received, it was the one source of news that we knew was of value. People liked it; quickly it became a valued vehicle for those who likes that sort of thing. And there were a lot of them.

My boss hated it. He didn’t get the fact that people signed up for it. Or that it drew together information published in different places. Or that it was essentially an online and therefore ephemeral communications tool. He would ask his secretary to print it off so he could read it and then would give us grief for wasting time re publishing information from its original source. He would focus on typos caused by the originator, or scowl at a name of an author he disliked. Basically he just didn’t get it. I haven’t spoken to him in years but I would safely predict that ten years on, social media would not be his forte! #oldschool

Other forms of information dissemination: the clippings service, assembled and distributed vie the web at great cost; the internal staff newsletter; the swathe of moronic and mundane information notices (‘The Toilet Block in Corridor 4 will be closed until Tuesday 13th’). All of these were instances of what I christened institutional spam. At one stage we discovered that the media clipping services posted online was being viewed by one member of the senior management team. To compound matters he had moved on to a new position in a different institution. All that time and effort, discussed at a senior level, an essential service. Unused. Unviewed. Ignored.

What I like about Twitter is the ability to multiply information virally round a series of contacts. Via ReTweets, Repostings, links to article, and the upsurge in the Dailies – online newspaper digests – your information is being pumped out to an entirely new audience. The single most important currency is the currency of your information. I ReTweeted recently a piece of interesting news that elicited about thirty new followers in a one-hour period.

On another occasion I attracted one high value follower by virtue of the fact she knew I was able to give her a contact for a television programme she was doing but in order to exchange the details confidentially she needed to Follow Me. This is a foible of Twitter, but it also safeguards people from unsolicited private messages. Contact duly delivered we are now in contact and my new media follower knows that I am a reliable source of information.

If you multiply that on to business, how easy is it for you to generate thirty new leads in a one-hour period without having to get up from your seat? If you had new offers, a new product, new premises – Twitter is there to pump out the information to your audience. In real time, easily and effectively. Bolt on further detail via your website, blog or current news reports and you quickly add value.

Key to this is to understand using of #hashtags. The hashtag or # is put in front of the important words in your tweet so that these will appear more easily in Clicking on a hashtagged word in any message shows you all other Tweets in that category. Hashtags can occur anywhere in the Tweet and hashtagged words that become very popular are often Trending Topics.

You can have a bit of fun too with your hashtags, they may never appear in a search but may be able to make a subtle or not to subtle point in your message. #longwinded

One other aspect of Twitter and indeed Facebook to bear in mind is ‘When to feed the animals?’

There is no point pushing out information of value at times during the day when people quite simply aren’t paying attention. By observing the behaviour of your followers you will know the best time to fire out a piece of information.

If you are targeting US followers remember they will be active when you’re not. Also the Tweet can be quite an ephemeral communication so you may try the same piece of information in a different way. Hopefully your followers will think enough of your content to send it on to their own contacts. The links within your tweet will hopefully attract in people keen to learn more.

Also, remember, when it’s out there, it’s out there. If you disseminate information it can be hard to put the Twitter genie back in its bottle. That’s a lesson for another day. #oncebitten

Not About The Bike 5

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After last week’s outing, was pretty disillusioned with the whole bike thing.

Didn’t get out during the week and hadn’t really the heart for it to be honest. Besides, had other things to worry about that are more important than pedalling around like a moron.

I intended to go to one of the bike shops today and see about a new seat. Consequently I didn’t get out with the 8:30 peloton, I had dropped Leo to his bus for a tournament in the arse end of Fermanagh – Kinawley to exact. When I was a student there was a fellow from Kinawley kicked ball at Queen’s. Tommy McManus you called him. Dunno where Tommy is now, he was a good lad and he spoke with an accent you could cut with a turf spade. I digress.

Anyhow, I returned to my bed and slept in, and looking out at the pissing rain I had no regrets. As the weather cleared I decided to force myself out on the road for a two hour spin. Save the seat shopping for again. I slipped into my skin tight cycling shorts, fitted the banana and other fruit into position, assisted with as much lube as I could muster and set off down the road, my helmet a-gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Numerous women couldn’t keep their eyes of me as I swooshed past in a blur of vaseline and banana-and-other-fresh-fruit-a-wobbling. As one fainted I heard her sigh ‘It’s not about the bike’ and another leaning on a post groaned: ‘I wish I could ride like that’.

Really in the groove now I changed my gear strategy, no longer viewing them as adversaries that needed to be worn down at every wheel turn, today my gears were my friends, helping me up valley and down hill.

As I headed up roads that caused me pain last Sunday I struck out for the home of the world’s most famous whiskey and also the home of more inbreds per square mile than anywhere else on the planet. Bushmills.

Bushmills makes you feel glad to be British, if you are British. If you are a Fenian cyclist, it makes you want to cycle through the place as quickly as you can. Some might view the open and aggressive displays of loyalist, unionist, royalist and paramilitary insignia and flags as quaint in an Ulster Scots ‘this is the only culture we have’ sort of way. It doesn’t bother me – I just think these folks need to grow up and move on.

Anyhow, after an uneventful trip, other than the fainting women, I made it home in one hour and three quarters. Dunno the mileage, probably about 18 miles or so.

But what a trail of destruction I left in my wake.

The Fountain of Knowledge

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The Irish Times & Powers Whiskey recently ran a short story competition. This is one of my two entries. Neither won but I like them anyway. The subject was to write 450 words on ‘What Really Matters.’

McCool, man-big-boy, arrives by the Pool. Surrounded by nine hazel bushes, leanto under overhangy rock, little fire wisps smoke thonder.

From the undergrowth emerges a dishevelled figure. Old, craggy, birdsnest of a beard home to flora and fauna galore, and more. Torn britches, baggy woollen jerkin. Behind trails a shaggy dog.

McCool, by the pool, observes the scene unfold. The oul boy calls the dog, sounds like Endamine, sits down by the pool and flicks a spinner off the end of a rod into the blue water.

Eyes gleaming, he fixes his gaze on McCool.  “I saw you arrive with yer iPhone, yer sneakers and yer shades. If ye wanna stay, ye can help.’

“That’s cool.” replies McCool. “Help what?”

“Catch fish. Salmon. I catch, you cook, we eat.”

McCool the fool, says “As a rule, don’t eat fish, only dolphin-friendly tuna.”

Whatever. Beady eyed, the oul fella glares, ignores, continues:

“Been after it this years. Gold with a red triangle. What a fish, some dish.’

Suddenly the line yanks, yaws and pullies – huge, the golden Salmon arcs out of the water. Golden, beautiful, knowledgeable. Gleams in the evening sun.

“Holy Mackerel’ says McCool, falling off his stool, “Can we catch it.”

“Yes we can” replies the oul fella, knee deep in the drink. “we will fight and we’ll be alright.”

Struggle continues, line-pulls and calms. “Hasn’t gone away you know” says the  oul boy. Authoritatively.

McCool, no longer cool, reaches for the net, salmon-leaps again.

“It’s got magic Powers.”

“Something like that” mutters the oul boy, salmon-steering to the net.

Ashore. Despatched. Fishgutted. Washed.

Spit speared searing sitting above smoking fire. McCool receives his barked instructions:

“Cook, don’t taste. Understand, the fish is mine. Whomsoever tastes firsts sees the light.”

McCool intrigued: “You what?”

“I’m first, you’re second. That’s the way it is. Now, I’m for the yard”

Spit-turning, McCool, still a fool, drops shades in the flames. Reaching firewards, dripping Salmon sauce scalds his hand.

McCool, definitely not cool leaps himself. Salmon-like, handsucks, yowling in pain.

Old fella bolts from the bogs alarmed, distraught, crestfallen, severely peeved.

“You taste the fish?”

McCool, mouth-a-drool: “Just a soupcon…” Eyes a-bright, no more the fool.

“You may have the rest, now you’ve a taste for it.” And, with that he roaded McCool.

Sad perhaps, seat-settled by the fire, beside the pool. A single salmon soars from the water.

Dogwards says he: “Well Endamine, canine friendamine…”

Cap-snaps the golden bottletop, laughs aloud.

“Plenty more fish in the uisce eh….? It’s not what you know that really matters. But how you use it.”

Jug dips a little poolwater diluting slightly his Powers Gold Label. The real Fountain of Knowledge.

The Founding Fathers

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The Irish Times & Powers Whiskey recently ran a short story competition. This is one of my two entries. Neither won but I like them. The subject was to write 450 words on ‘What Really Matters.’

Waiting for the others, Davin and O’Ryan leisurely potted a few billiard balls across the plush baize. It was unexpectedly cold for the first day of November. But clear blue skies gave an unexpected brightness and air of hope to the day.

Next arriving was John Wyse Power, a pessimist by nature, his opening gambit reflected his propensity for the half-empty glass. “Is this all that’s here?” he declared under furrowed brow, and made as if to leave.

Davin laid down his cue, diverting the new arrival’s attention to a platter of Mrs Hayes best ham sandwiches and a generous glass of Power’s finest namesake.

Bracken and the Ulsterman McKay entered in jovial mood, discussing an on-pitch disagreement the previous evening. The scrap concerned more the honour of a desirable young lady from Templemore than the vagaries of the rulebook. Inspector McCarthy expressed relief the constabulary had not been required on this occasion.

The room quietened when Cusack appeared. Hawthorn stick in hand, leather booted, suited in fustian, voluminous beard obscured his collar and tie.

The Clareman was a persuasive character, a bon vivant, and infectiously enthusiastic about the plans they were about to discuss. Seriously dogmatic, he had made several specific requests to Mrs Hayes the hotel proprietor.

Firstly, that the room be discreet but comfortable. Secondly that she provide a generous repast for attendees, some of whom like Power and Davin had travelled some distance. He asked for a generous supply of pipe tobacco. Finally, he insisted on a particular brand of whiskey to ‘lubricate’ their discussions.

“We want our fellow gaels to tell us what is really important,” he advised Davin. “In my experience” he said, toking on his pipe, “that is best achieved in the presence of the golden liquid of which we are both so fond.”

As the participants began deliberations, chaired by Davin, Mrs Hayes busied herself about the room, dispensing platters heaped with bread and ham. She  generously refilled each exquisite cut crystal glass from a gold-labelled bottle. Through the warmth and the unmistakable fugue of pipe and peat smoke, discussion continued apace with much agreement.

Several hours later, Cusack settled back in his seat. The others had retired for a nap before dinner. All had gone to plan. The creation of an association Gaelic and Athletic that would sweep the land like none other before.

He snapped the cap, glancing at the familiar bottle, and allowed himself a further glass. Relaxed, he sipped and smiled. Powers’ Gold Label.

As he expected, twas easier to find out what really mattered, when his friend John Power was in attendance.

Truly, one of the founding fathers and Powers of the Association.

Not About the Bike 4

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Yesterday we covered 43 miles. It was horrendous. To be fair my cycling companions adopted a very encouraging attitude as we trundled along the highways and byways of Loyalist East Antrim. I felt a little abandoned and isolated if I didn’t see a Union flag every mile or two but in fairness the locals invariably obliged.

In small settlements every lamppost is well and truly marked and there isn’t much doubt whose ‘territory’ you are cycling through. What some of the brethren would think of the merry band of GAA enthusiasts cycling through their district makes me LOL.

My sister in law Schira must have been a mountain goat in a previous life. She led us up a succession of climbs, some gradual, some insidious, some just pure bastards. The road from Moss Side to the main Bushmills to Ballycastle line was a route of pain for me. All my considerable weight was pressing down on the base of my spine and for whatever reason this caused more discomfort than ever.

When we finally made it across to White Park Bay, Schira led us up to the Viewing Point. ‘It’s only half a mile up the road’ she cheerily explained. ‘Up’ was the operative word in that explanation. I cursed her every pedal of the way and when we got to the ‘Viewing Point’ I was quite the sight lolling about panting on a raised ditch. Sweat flying, backside in bits. At one stage I almost rolled of the bank down the slope onto White Park Bay. Had I done so I would have gladly dragged my sorry ass across the sand to dip it in the tempting blue seawater.

Having crossed the twenty three mile point at this stage, we pointed our tyres for the Port. The way of fewest hills our request to our leader. I don’t think I’ve ever tucked into Bushmills – either the drink or the village- the way I did on the downhill descent. One and a half miles of freewheelin. I actually felt like jumping off, just for the craic. Schira remarked that I could fair get the speed up on the down hills, but the opposite applies in that I can fair slow the speed down on the ascents. It’s a like a metaphor for life, what goes down must go up and vice versa. So for the exhilaration of tearing into Bushmills, I soon realised that all roads out lead up the hill. Long slow and painful.

At this stage less than ten from home my fellow travellers gradually disappeared over the hill. Even Martin who had covered the distance on his wife’s shopping bike complete with the shopping carrier on the back. He looked like something out of an Adam Sandler film perched on the curious women’s bike with a pair of cycling bib shorted. However, no matter what he looked like, he still bate me home. I limped in, totally and utterly fucked. No other word for it.

When I arrived back to the house, I keeled over on to the sofa an immediately fell asleep for half an hour. When I got up a bath followed by a shower restored a semblence of life, as did some beans on toast and four Jaffa cakes. The only redemption in the day was offered by Lar Corbett and his henchmen followed by a decent run out for the girls on Sunday night.

Arse in flames, spirits in the doldrums. 43 miles I think it was. Well out of my comfort zone. Big time. Soon be time to get back on the bike… and I’m dreading it.

Not About The Bike 2

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Wednesday 29 June

OK. This cycling lark. We’re gonna knock a fair bit of oul craic out of it.  I decided to go out for a spin on Wednesday evening to loosen the oul legs up. There, I sound like an oul pro already. Paddy McC had set up a wee distribution list that you just let know if you’re going out and the theory is the boys join in but due to a misunderstanding it was me féin off on a solo.

The weather was shite but thankfully for the duration of my ride it stayed dry. It was a fairly unremarkable outing other than I managed nearly fourteen miles in about an hour and twenty minutes. I also scaled Ballywillan Hill at Portrush which for those who don’t know it, can only be described as a pure bastard.

The advantage of these training runs is it gets the backside acclimated (love that American bastard of a word) to the seat. Certainly it wasn’t too bad. There’s something immensely satisfying about the tiredness after physical exercise.

Saturday 2 July

Last night I went to Halfords to get myself tooled out for on road disasters. I bought a small bike tool, two spare tubes, a water bottle holder and wee container jobbie that hitches on to the underneath of the saddle to hold all this shite.  I see that in due course I may require a bigger wee container. All set for tomorrow. I resisted the temptation to take myself out for a spin and Schira’s offer to go for a short run. Aye right. I know her idea of a short run….

Sunday 3 July

What a day. I missed the group cycle at 9:00. I arrived down at 9:30 and the place was eerily quiet. Bollix I quickly realised the group had obviously met earlier. I had a choice but it wasn’t really a choice. I could go home, but wasn’t doing that, or I could set off with a 30 mile target.

I decided to go for it. I worked out a rough route in my head incorporating part of the route I traversed on Wednesday and decide to head for Bushmills and Ballycastle direction based on what John G had told me last night of the route they took.

Without boring anyone with the details and it was boring, I was out for ages, covered 36.5 miles (the group I intended to join did 28 I think).  Coming home I was totally drained, and in real pain. Never so glad to get home, I literally fell of the bike and staggered into the house. I figured out the distance by driving the course, was at least 4.5 miles longer than I thought/hoped it might be. When I drove the course, there were parts of the route that I literally had no memory of ever being on. In one place I passed perhaps the biggest Ulster flag I’ve ever seen but did I see it when I was on the bike. Not a bit of it. So much for seeing the countryside.

Another thing you notice on the bike is the smell of the countryside, decaying animals, cow dung, fragrant flowers, sewage in drains, car exhaust fumes and more. You also get a close up and personal insight into the fatal injuries inflicted on roadkill by motorists. Happily I was wearing a helmet so hopefully I’ll not end up like a dead badger, fox, rabbit, rat, bird, cat – all of which I saw today. None, I should add, were wearing helmets.

Only one passing motorist shouted abuse, some gobshite in a twincam coming out of Bushmills. No doubt one of their famous inbreds I shouted “fuck off” as he disappeared down the road. Then, with fatigue, hunger and dehydration setting in, the whole scenario of me getting a good kicking along some secluded country road began to settle in my brain.

On another occasion I encountered what I could only call a peloton of cyclists from one of the local clubs. They swept past me in a whirl of wheels and click of gears as if my trundling form didn’t exist. To them I didn’t but for me, as the trek went on I felt every bump in the road, every stone, every drain ever piece of repaired tar. Why am I doing this I asked again and again. Today I decided I was doing it for my children, if it keeps me alive a few days longer then it will have been worth it. And they’d better bloody well appreciate it!

Happy days, sore ass.

Footnote: I see the Omagh St Endas boys finished their cycle trip from Galway. Well done Mickey and the lads. Onwards.

Summer Starts Here

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So today is officially the first day of the summer holidays.

Cáit has gone off to her music residential, I hope she gets on OK. She was tearful when she left me earlier when Angela was leaving her down. She has no mobile phone so when she is homesick, I dunno how she’ll ring home. Maybe better if she doesn’t.

The boys as usual bollockin about the garden, playing golf, hurling and football and a combination of all three. Spoke to my-friend-John and I reckon I’ll get them a lesson a week to ensure they learn golf the way my da learned me!

The other two, having forcibly befriended the neighbours’ children over the last wee while, have been running back and forth for the last few weeks. Sorcha got a medal for coming third in her schools sports in her class. When I asked her what events she had won she confidently replied ‘Bow and Arrow.’

I was at the sports day. There was no bow and arrow competition. Still, she really did come third.

So here comes the summer and the pursuit of happyness.

Sometimes You’ve Gotta Slaughter a Few Sacred Cows

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Today I got two bits of sad news in quick succession. I’ll leave the second for again but the first made me sad.

Bob Allard, former Reprographics Manager at the University and a guy with whom I worked closely died last week. He had cancer. I only heard the previous week he was unwell, but as is often the case I didn’t realise how unwell he was.

Bob and I had as much in common as a Muslim and a pork processor. He was as English as could be. He referred repeatedly to going to Londonderry. As a former RAF man he was loyally British. He proudly talked of the visit by Her Majesty for the campus back when it was still the plain old NUU.

His background in the armed forces made him quite certain that black was black and white was white. Never the twain did meet. I know of staff in the University that would rather not do something than incur the wrath of Bob. He was unreconstructed old school. Big time.

Although he was the Reprographics Manager, he had another name for himself and a badge made up to match. Logo Cop. He was charged with maintaining the integrity of the University of Ulster’s logo following its introduction and subsequent roll out. He had a device that he would whip out at the slightest provocation to view the dot spread of the logo and would robustly point out any errors in sizing or printing. He could give chapter and verse on the logo, frequently did and it didn’t matter whether it was the Vice-Chancellor or a secretary, Bob made exceptions for no-one.

Once we commisssioned a VAT consultant to come in and advise us how to claim back VAT, what was exempt etc. With this guy, Bill was his name,the first ten minutes were free and then he charged by the fifteen minute block. And boy did he know how to charge. As a former VAT inspector now gamekeeper turned poacher his advice was excellent. Expensive but excellent. He was also prone to bullshit about two other topics. Manchester United and Golf. He met his match though.

When he came to see us in my office, Bob was ready for him. After the pleasantries were completed (very quickly I might add) Bob whipped out his list of pre-prepared questions followed by a dictaphone which he placed on the meeting table. As the meeting began he proceeded to interrogate Mr VATman – in detail! Not only did he get VFM for his paid for slot, he also covered a fair bit of our ground in the free ten minute slot. The meeting didn’t last long at all. And it was all there on tape too so there could be no confusion and we could listen again to the specific points at our leisure. I think we recovered about twenty grand.

He was a canny wee bollocks. Old school, difficult, cussed and contrary. He also however had a good sense of humour, although he was quite sexist in a Sid James sort of way (to whom he also bore a slight resemblance). He wore driving gloves when driving and it was easy for us to imagine him in his flying gear, up there taking pictures.

He had previously served in the RAF as a photographer and on his wall hung a picture of an RAF Spitfire. He had been given the picture as a gift by a Polish airman who’s life he had saved. He was vague on the details but the picture had special significance to him.

Once when his office was relocated to the Cavehill building – in effect the graveyard of the University – he suffered a break in and was visibly distraught when he learned the burglars had stolen his Spitfire photograph amongst other things. It was of immense sentimental value and he was deeply upset at its loss. The people that stole it of course had no idea of its value and no doubt dumped it somewhere unaware of the stress they caused. It was never recovered.

Bob finished his time at the University and enjoyed a number of years retirement, doing some work for the RAF on its history in the North West.

Although we had little in common we worked on a good many projects together and he was a loyal and dedicated colleague whose work and opinion I and others valued. Those who knew what he did knew it could only work if done Bob’s way. Otherwise, it was the highway. His name still brings a smile among those of us that worked with him.

Not About the Bike

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OK. I’ve done it. The first cycle. My legs, in particular my thighs have settled down but they were like jelly. My arse, possibly my perineum is quite painful but not as bad as I thought. 22.5 miles on the first day out. Not a bad start and I’m pleased that I was able to do it.

McLarnon first raised this as a possibility with me on one of the overnights with the camogie squad. In the back of my mind I probably always knew that reluctantly I would try it. 100 or 50 miles to raise funds for Eoghan Rua. But more than that a challenge to myself to get fit, to lose weight. To do something else that would give me a personal and physical challenge. I ask the players to do the extraordinary. My hope is that this time it will be my turn.

And, at the end of it what? A sense of achievement. I know from winning things the moment of victory is fleeting but the overwhelming satisfaction afterwards lasts an eternity. That moment when the whistle goes, experienced a few times this last year. A drug yes, but after that something else sets in.

Anyway, before I get to that stage I have to get to that stage.

I have wrestled with the matter of buying a bike, To buy or not to buy. Funds are tight with me, I have a tax bill to pay and it is the summer. Children have to be entertained, the usual expenses. I decided to go for it and try and get a bike that would get me thru the summer and beyond. I didn’t want the hassle of someone else’s machine or a reconditioned machine. Something that I can stand or fall with.

I went to Claudy Cycles, on the recommendation of Paddy McColgan. I like Paddy’s world view. Country chic hick, he is grounded, pragmatic and most of all knows that an arsehole in lycra is an arsehole in lycra whatever way you look at him.

So, Brian @ Claudy Cycles successfully sold me a silver bike. I know nothing about the make, model or even the number of gears. It is silver, the Silver Tassie I will call it. The seat he tells me isn’t too bad. “You will not be the judge of that my friend” I thought inloud ‘My arse will.’ I also purchased a puncture repair kit;  helmet; a pair of cycle shorts.

On the latter Brian informed me ‘They are brave and tight round the balls.” Sounded like just the job. He also threw in a bottle of free screenwash and, availing of the 10% discount negotiated by Paddy McColgan the total bill was £270.  With Brian too, we discussed the possibility of further work. Might be worth pursuing there based on my experiences with a  few other small businesses and leveraging the contacts that I have. We’ll see.

Having read a leaflet circulated within the club by Sean McGoldrick and provided by uber nutrition enthusiast Declan Mullan which recommended the right things to eat in advance of a match, I decided to prepare for the following morning’s inaugural outing with a Spanish Sizzler medium pizza from Dominos washed down by a bottle of Wolf Blass Merlot.

Excited at the prospect of the next morning’s outing I fell fast asleep on the sofa after this generous repast and woke on the sofa at quarter past three in the morning, lights on. After climbing into bed I conked out waking again early to prepare for the 8:30 rendezvous at the Orange Hall where the day’s 20 Mile trek was to begin.

The first dilemma of the day was whether to wear underpants under my newly purchased cycling shorts. Chafing was my worry. Having puzzled this for a while I decided not to cycle commando ‘What if they split’ which is a fair enough question considering the size of my arse.  Angela went off to Tesco to buy food for the children while I climbed into the rest of my garb. Trainers, ankle socks, icebreaker top and yellow luminous waterproof, my shades and helmet. When she returned Tesco were out of Vaseline (a canny echo of the article I wrote for Talking Balls last week. Unlike the protagonist in that story I went for Angela’s emulsifying ointment rather than other forms of lubricant.)

Duly lubed up to the max to avoid aforementioned chafing, I stuck a Nature’s Crunch bar in my pocket, sank a half litre of Lucozade Sport Lite and a banana. I also brought my phone in case of a crash, emotional or physical and a puncture repair kit. Having no rack for a water bottle I tucked a carton of juice in a pocket and off I sailed. Angela of course found the whole ensemble hysterical and took pictures of me meandering  off.

Having had a bit of banter, off we went down the Mill Road. The brakes were an early concern and I genuinely felt I would fall off going down the first hill which ended on a corner round a roundabout. I was pleasantly surprised when BMcL informed me we had completed 5 miles or so. The only real problems occurred when we encountered the first hill. My heart, shocked into action was pounding out of my chest and my left leg started to misfire. No pain, just no power. Over a few more hills including Drumslade on the way home I found a severe lack of power in my leg. Its fine when pedalling down hill, even when driving her on uphill when the body screams stop, the heads busting and pounding but you just keep on going. On that occasion there is no place for diplomacy with fellow travellers. They need to move on to let me tackle my own personal demons.  Could I keep in the seat and keep the bike moving no matter how low the gear. The granny gear BMcL called it. I’m some granny in that case. The etiquette appears to be if you are struggling the person doing the blethering moves on. Cunning apparently is bad for this, I will have to tell him not to talk to me in that case.

Aside from Dermot having a few minor technical problems the time passed fairly uneventfully. I struggled up Drumslade Paddy last, but I stayed in the fuckin saddle and I stayed on the fuckin bike which was more than I expected. The padded cycle shorts appeared to have eased the big ass burden but I was till dripping sweat half an hour after a shower and my heartrate took a while to settle. Next time I need to work the bike more, more pedalling less freewheeling and find a few good gears.  At least there is a next time. Bring it on.