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The problem with the fax is resolved when I arrive at the Tourist Board; the nice lady misread my "4" for a
"7". I'm not sure how she did that, but I am pleased that my fax will greet Marcia for her morning at Vicksburg HS. However, I figure my day is in trouble when I get my bike out to load up and find the front tire flat. I put my spare tube in and am on my way, but
there are many ill-omens for this 45 mile day back to Sligo. It is very overcast and the mountains definitely are misty. But worst of all the wind is howling right in my teeth as I head west for Sligo. It is the kind of wind that nearly stands me dead in my tracks; the
kind of wind that requires me to pedal hard downhill. It is the kind of wind that when at a slight angle it threatens to dump me either into the ditch on my left or traffic on my right. In fact, if I don't grip the handlebars down low and tight, I won't have very much control of the bike. It is a very nervous day for me. And at noon the front tire goes flat again about 100 yards before a gas station, which is owned by the wildly jovial Mr. Carrigan. Which I immediately begin to sing from some odd musical that I was in in junior high in Algonquin, Illinois. "C, A, double R, I, G, A, N, spells Carrigan." He picks it up immediately too and is with me with the first "A." After that, he provides me with patches and emulsion and lots of very thick Irish that I have serious trouble understanding. A young man is helping Carrigan "tidy up," and he keeps shaking his head at the boisterous Mr. Carrigan who is going off on a tangent about teachers who spend their wages at the Betting Offices and who "don't teach the way they did when I was a wee lad and the old teachers worked hard." The young man's parents are teachers and much of Carrigan's rant is good-naturedly directed at them. I repair both inner tubes, replace one in the front tire, try to pay Carrigan who won't take a cent "from a Yank college teacher," and head onto the busy, narrow highway with fingers crossed. Soon
after, I hit a driving but light rain. It lashes at my face in the 20-25 mph gale. The only good news is the tire seems to be doing well. Lorry (or truck) after lorry goes by, few waiting behind until clear. They whizz past at 60+ mph with a
foot of clearance usually between them and me - and in most cases no shoulder. In fact, this newly-paved and smooth road is about 10 inches higher than the shoulder when there is one - usually the road just drops into a ditch at its edge or abuts the hedge row or just drops off. All of which is beginning to get on my
nerves. The miles are ticking off as slowly as the movement of a clock in a dentist's office. Full out on a flat stretch I can barely muster 10 mph. Up hills into the wind, I barely seem to move. In fact, I am pedaling in my
smallest crank most of the day, even when down hill. At mile 28, I notice the front tire is "mushy." It has taken 16 miles to get to this condition, so I pull into a driveway to pump it up and hopefully get me to Sligo. To my amazement a fellow wanders up
from a farmhouse about 100 yards down the lane. He is friendly and just wants to talk, but it is obvious he is prepared to help me with "my puncture," which he thought I had. I pump up the tire, have water, tell him about the weather in Michigan and my delight in Ireland in response to his queries. I have the sense that if this had happened in the States, the guy would have been moving me off of his "private property." The rain comes and goes, but the wind is persistent, never giving up. I am beginning to curse as the road begins to rise with the hills that are running along the base of the mountain range on my left. I am within
ten miles of Sligo. I can see Benbulben Mountain in the misty northwest ahead of me. In spite of my dark mood and very weary body, I pull over for a few shots of the legendary and magical Benbulben now shrouded in mist. I pump up the tire, and speed off for my final leg of the route. I am cold and a bit hungry - never taking time to stop for lunch because of so many false starts during the day. Forty-five miles after leaving Enniskillen, I finally arrive in downtown Sligo at 3:30 p.m., about a half hour before my estimated time of
arrival. My relief is moderated a bit because my first choice of a B+B, Villa Nova, does not respond to the bell, nor does Maureen answer her bell at St. Heliers B+B, my B+B from last week's visit in Sligo. A Pepsi and an apple down the street buys me some time, and
I find Maureen at home when I return. I unload, make some tea, take a shower, and feel such relief as I lay back in bed and sip my tea. I have made it! I know I'll have a flat tire in the morning, but I'll pump it up and load up and take it down to Gary's bike shop and get a new tube. Then I'll go over to the train station and wait for my 13.25 p.m. train to Dublin. I am looking forward to a cross country train trip. I've booked a B+B on the suggestion of the Walsh book and will stay in Dun Laoghaire (pronounced Leary) for at least three nights. I scout out the train station and eat a fine dinner of lamb chops at the restaurant across from the station and take a leisurely stroll home on a cool and still-windy night. (557 miles) |
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