A very wet morning. Who gets to the Irish Times from Dun Laoghaire first?Michael McAleer reports
We decided to put to the test the three modes of private pedal power to see who fares best on the streets of Dublin these days.
It does not take a rocket scientist to work out that the car would come last, but to make it more sporting we chose the week of half-term when the school-run kids are safely in their beds.
Then, to further stack the cards in favour of the car, we waited for a morning when the heavens decided to really water our fair green isle. That way the cyclist would be that much more wary of taking to cutting lights and would face his very own traffic hazards, in the form of large cesspools of oily rainwater.
Did the car beat the motorbike? Get real. How about the bicycle? Not at all. But it did run closer than expected. The difference was enough to make us consider quality of arrival standards. Would you rather sacrifice an extra 16 minutes in the morning for the chance to arrive safe and dry, not dripping of sweat or soaked to the skin.
It is ridiculous to think we consider it fast to travel seven miles in 58 minutes on a day when the cards are stacked firmly in favour of the car.
If we had of chosen a normal winter school's morning I would probably have arrived in work just in time for lunch.
WINNER:
Motorbike - 28 minutes
Pouring rain, wet leaves, blocked gulleys and partially flooded roads.
Not much chance to make progress heading towards Seapoint. Start making progress on Frascati Road. Rock road almost stationer.
By Blackrock College passed an Irish times photographer who had left 10 minutes before us.
Traffic moving better on Merrion Road. A new crater with a pile of loose stones, a trap for the unwary, just after the Trimlestone Avenue traffic lights. Traffic at a standstill after the Ailesbury Road junction, managed to sneak past. Glad I’m not stranded in a "mobile sitting room" or waiting for a bus. Make no mistake: this city, nay the entire region is being strangled to death.
Lines of cars at a standstill, most with must one occupant in lonesome isolation going nowhere fast. Think of all that lost "quality time" ticking away. Thanks to good gear I’m warm and dry.
Usual confusion, most vehicles in the wrong lane at the Serpentine Avenue lights. Traffic now moving better to Ballsbridge. It’s now 08:40 - wonder where our intrepid cyclist is?
Up Northumberland Road, Cumberland Place, Grand Canal Street, Macken Street to Pearse Street . . . traffic snarled up with an emergency vehicle by the fire station into College Street.
Reached the Westin Hotel and parked at 08:53.30.
Called the motorist. He's wrapped in Saab-like comfort. It will be a long time before he's here. Two wheels and an engine rule. - John Wheeler
RUNNER-UP:
Bicycle - 42 minutes
A brief check before the off: rain gear in place from head to toe - well ankles actually but spare shoes and socks in by back pack. So, 8.25am - I work my way through semi-submerged Dun Laoghaire down to Monkstown and the long, rising road to Temple Hill.
Water, water everywhere - deepest of court by the pavement. A No 7 bus wooshes past. Its full weight neatly shifting a two-gallon pond to the space in which my right foot is rotating. It would be drier if I stood in a cold bath for 30 seconds. Checkpoint Frascati passes at 8.40 and right foot is very wet, but now warm. Left foot also taking water, but it’s warm too. Otherwise snug all over, except for slight moisture at back of neck. Do they make wipers for specs?
At Booterstown, the car lot have squelched to a standstill. I have the usual cycling choices: (1) stick by the kerb, negotiating concealed pot-holes and car two inches from the path, (2) go between the two lanes,, dodging side-mirrors which get ever bigger, (3) get radical on the right of the outside lane or (4) least lawful but most attractive, take to the deserted path. I do all four, depending on conditions . . . but mostly the path. At the British Embassy, the usual patrolling garda has taken shelter, rendering the usual brief return to the road unnecessary.
At the Roly’s Bistro checkpoint, the cars are still inching forward, wipers flapping furiously.
It's 8.53am. Plain sailing from here. Just after 9am I swing around Lincoln Place to coast through Trinity, always a soothing enclave. Out the far side into Pearse Street and more clogged cars. A spot of creative weaving brings me to the Irish Times by 9.07am. - Hugh Lambert
LOSER:
Car - 58 minutes
I may have come last, but at least I arrived to work warm and dry, brimming with the words of wisdom bestowed upon us by our erudite radio commentators and equipped for a day’s work. The competition arrived in states of dress reminiscent of the cast of Creatures from the Black Lagoon.
Bad weather, you say, Yes, I noted that extra swish of the wipers. And I did have to use the heated seats. Can’t say I really noticed the raging torrents others will write of though.
John, like every motorcyclist, eagerly takes the lead. Thankfully he is far too law-abiding to weave in front of traffic until the road is clear. But, by the time we hit heavy traffic in Blackrock he is out of sight.
The, 13 minutes after we left, our brave cyclist paddles past between the cars outside the Blackrock Clinic. I can’t make out whether he’s doing the breast stroke or butterfly, but he looks like he just arrived in from Holyhead and swam all the way. From the comfort of my podium, there is something Sisphusian about Dublin’s cyclists. Oh well, turn up the radio for the sports news. That’s enough exertion for one morning.
Twenty minutes into the journey and I’ve made 400 metres. But I’ve learnt by heart the phone number of a "First call plumbing service". Advertising on the back of vans has a lot more potential than is recognised these days.
Ballsbridge by 9.02am and John has rang to say he's going to Bewley's for a coffee. At Pearse Street, it's every driver for himself/herself as cars dive between lanes to gain that extra seven feet. Finally, from the sixth lane of vie-lane Westmoreland Street, I make it to Fleet Street. 9.23am.
I may have come last, but whose the loser in the big picture? Getting to work soaked to the skin is not a prize for which I strive. - Michael McAleer