“Murphy’s Law”: a rule whereby if something can go wrong, it will. And usually at the worst possible moment.
Right now, I can’t help but wonder if it’s too late for a name change.
It all began with such promise!
Were it not for the one hour delay, and for the fact that I made the tragic mistake of trying the airplane chicken, I would’ve said our flight to the Emerald Isle was uneventful. Successful even. I would’ve said that, were it not for one tiny detail.
Is there anything more ominous when traveling than being the last soldier standing, empty handed next to a bare and rotating baggage carousel? You remain hopeful, for longer than you should, that you’ll see your belongings rise up through the hobbit hole of airport middle earth, and ride calmly toward you on the conveyor belt of dreams. But alas, at a certain point you must accept the truth, you’re going to be underwear-less for days.
Or in my case, bike-less. The one piece of equipment that is essential in making a documentary film about cycling around Ireland, failed to make an appearance at carousel number 9.
After much discussion, explanation, tears and pleading, the fine folks at the oversized baggage counter gave me every piece of contact information they could muster and were bidding me adieu as they instructed me to stay at a hotel nearby the airport. It was then that my man David yelled out “MURPH, hold up! I ‘tink they’ve found your bike at another terminal”! And like a vision, in slow motion, through the rain, they wheeled her, “the Red Divil”, from the wrong terminal back to my outstretched and waiting arms. We were reunited and all was right with the world again!
Crisis averted…but now it means I surely have to ride the damn thing! Faith and Begorrah!
We traveled across the country to Ennistymon, where I, along with my new friend and guest house owner, Tom Gallery, McGyvered my bike back together. What’s a few extra bike parts among friends?? It bears mentioning that I haven’t ridden a bike since I was 10, and Tom, not since the Irish Revolution.
At this point I shall pause and allow the guys from Wildrock Outfitters in Peterborough, to catch their breath. After they had to give me a lesson in tire replacement, I think I felt them encouraging me to consider a seniors organized bus tour instead. Nonetheless, Tom and I pieced that puppy back together and celebrated with greasy applause followed by intense, fall on your face fatigue. I slept the sleep of a thousand jetlagged martyrs.
After a day full of cycling and filming at the mist covered Cliffs of Moher, I picked up my Aunt Anne and Uncle Ken at the Shannon Airport. Apparently I’ve batted my eyes and beaten them down for enough years that they’ve signed on as my production crew and will be driving the support vehicle for the duration of the trip. Fine folk are they.
In the wee hours of the morn, before we were scheduled to depart on the ferry for the Aran Islands, I woke up in severe, searing pain. It was either a pulled back muscle or a heart attack. Who’s kidding who, it’s called Murphy’s Law…it’s obviously a heart attack. More to follow, but all I know right now is that my fingers on my right hand are numb and I can’t catch my breath. Not fooling around here kids. I’m actually frightened that I won’t be capable of riding. I feel like I’m letting ye all, and me Da, down. And for that I’m sorry. Alas, tomorrow is another day. And there are many miles to go before I sleep….and many muscle relaxants to consume along the way. Fingers crossed and prayers sent to St. Jude…he is the patron saint of lost causes afterall, right!?!
More to come…..xo