From Malin Head to Mizen Head: Michael McAleer bikes from Roscrea to Limerick Junction.

There's something inherently adventurous about motorcycling. Maybe it's the modern equivalent of throwing your leg over a noble steed and galloping across the plains. Maybe it's a rebellious youth never quite fulfilled.

Then there's the clothing - a modern day cowboy outfit complete with distinctive headgear that adds about 10 per cent more testosterone to the body. In Dublin anyone in bike gear is thought to be a courier, but away from the cities, the biker is still seen as something of an adventurer.

And yet as I cruise down the M7 by car in the rain, I'm not filled with summer spirits at the prospect of facing the elements on a glorified bicycle. I'm from the "four-wheels-good-two-wheels-dangerous" school of thought. Waving a leather-clad bottom at passing traffic doesn't do it for me.

It had been decided that I'd see more - and avoid an early death - if I travelled as pillion passenger. My chauffeur on the BMW K1150 is Jonathan Coburn, a full-time bike instructor with the Motorcycle Safety Association (MSA).

I'm used to slouching in a car seat, so this is a very unusual position in which to travel. My every muscle tightens in full expectation of the inevitable tumble. Jonathan can sense it. It's like carrying a lump of concrete on the back wheel.

"Relax," he says, "you're too tense. You'll enjoy it more if you hang loose." But I can't really help it. Imminent death makes me tense. I know too well the general disregard we four-wheelers have for those on two. I need a poster on my back to get the message across: "Don't kill me. I'm one of you."

Staring at the back of the helmet housing the brain to which my life is entrusted, I take comfort in the knowledge that at least I'm dressed for danger. With a car, you grab the keys and go. On a bike, you pull on boots, toughened overalls and jacket with solid padding on all the important bits - after all, the only crumple zones are your knees and elbows and the nearest thing to an airbag is any excess fat you're carrying.

Before we leave Roscrea, Co Tipperary, there's time for a quick coffee (any excuse to delay my date with destiny). We head into Grant's Hotel, where the receptionist Anna Mendrela from Poland tells me she arrived three months ago "for the language, the people and yes, of course, the money". Apparently there's a bustling Polish community in these parts.

If only they could hurl. This is GAA country and outside the town every second house flies the Tipp colours. So we have no choice really - we have to visit Toomevara, home of the Greyhounds.

The village is nothing more than a line of businesses on either side of the main road, the sort of place you'd miss in the blink of an eye if you weren't paying attention. Yet many a competing team has learned to its cost the danger of not paying attention to Toomevara.

As we pass the GAA ground, the sight of a sliotar flying high above the stands brings us to a halt. At the side of the pitch, we meet club official John-Joe Ryan. The pitch is teeming with tiny Tipp hurlers taking part in the week-long summer camp. They've come from neighbouring parishes and there's even a couple over on holidays from Dubai.

"We're bringing hurling to the far reaches of the world," says John-Joe.

Toomevara is also home to county star Tommy Dunne. His arrival is heralded by a rush to the sidelines by starry-eyed kids. Despite the healthy headcount of youth, the talk among the club elders is of the old days. "Kids used to play here on the pitch and then go home and practise again," says John-Joe. "Guys like Tommy here used to play as much at home as they did at the ground."

Tommy modestly sidesteps "when-I-was-a-lad" tales. "We need to get the young people passionate about the game again," he says. "We need to do a bit of brainstorming about it, all right." The kids crowd around us, trying to catch Tommy's attention. He obliges, heading off on his lap of honour, signing autographs and answering questions.

There's a real warmth and community spirit here in Toomevara - and no doubt in towns and villages like it around the country. You just don't find it so much nowadays in the sprawling suburbs of our cities and bigger towns.

As Dunne heads off to meet more of the next generation of county stars, we retire to a shed at the side of the pitch. Behind a sliding garage door, the women of the parish are preparing for the coming invasion of hungry young hurlers. Tea is brewed and sandwiches are laid out alongside cheesecake, tarts and sausage- rolls. The parish priest arrives. "No Mary, I won't have anything to eat, just a cup of tea."

Soon it's time to take our leave of Toomevara's warmth. Back in the saddle and off across the Silvermines Mountains, we pass three towering wind generators. Locals tell of complaints and objections over aesthetics and noise. Whatever about the aesthetics, there's more noise from the wind whistling through the trees.

The winding roads around Milestone offer picture-postcard imagery. A kestrel hovers over the fields where farmers criss-cross on big tractors, cutting and baling the hay.

On the back of the bike, there's time to let your mind wander. I'm more relaxed now and Jonathan clearly notices. He leans the bike further into the corners, ever watchful for changes in the surface which are hardly noticed by car drivers. All it takes to have bikers eating gravel is an unseen cowpat.

Into Thurles and again the GAA connection with Tipperary: it was here in Hayes's Hotel in the town's main square that the association was founded in 1884. Yet for my generation, Thurles and Semple Stadium meant much more than the clash of the ash. It was our Woodstock - well, at least our Glastonbury or Oxegen. The annual Trip to Tipp was filled with youthful exuberance, alcohol and encounters with the opposite sex. And, for those who were interested, there was a bit of music as well, a sort of sideshow to the main events on the surrounding streets.

Tents were pitched, with little or no chance - or care - of ever finding them again. Every doorway and windowsill was used in the trade and commerce, with people hawking sandwiches, and even the odd can of beer if overworked gardaí weren't looking. You paid silly money for it, but it was better than queuing for hours in the pubs. Even then there were signs of rip-off Ireland.

These days the Trip to Tipp is a fading memory. As we pass through the town, several teenagers are gathered, coiled sleeping bags under arms, waiting for lifts to Oxegen and their own bit of hedonism in Co Kildare's fields.

On to Cashel . . . as you round a 20th-century bend on the main Dublin-Cork road you are transported back 1,500 years as the majestic Rock comes into view. Rising dramatically out of the Tipperary plain, it speaks of more than a millennium of royal and priestly power.

We're wary about signing up for the regular tourist fare, but Cashel manages its heritage well and is definitely worth a visit. And, if you stay the night, you can see eerily floodlit views of the Rock.

At the foot of the limestone hill, we lunch in Cafe Hans, if only because Irish Times restaurant critic Tom Doorley recently recommended it as the place to eat in Tipperary. Food and service are excellent, but without the smart casual attire of our fellow diners, we look like outlaws. Heads turn towards the sweaty big-booted bikers as we clatter across the floorboards.

The waiter tells us they don't take credit cards, so we must fumble beneath the trousers of our bike-gear to find a wallet. A look of restrained horror comes on the face of a woman at the next table - she's clearly hoping there's a pair of jeans under the overalls. Pot-bellied strippers were not on her menu.

Up on the Rock, Martin, a fortysomething American tourist is loading his bicycle at the entrance to the castle. He has spent the day in Cashel, done the tour and is glad he came. He's enthralled by the stories of Brian Boru and the tales of St Patrick's visit, when he supposedly converted Aonghus, high king of the time, to Chistianity.

Martin rattles off the highlights of his trip, but we're distracted by the fact that this small-framed tourist is using up his holidays, a rare enough commodity in the US, cycling around Ireland. Under the low clouds, the humid heat has already brought out beads of sweat which are rolling down his face - and he's not yet back in the saddle. It's the sort of holiday that must make work so much more appealing.

We're soon back in the saddle too, heading off to Tipperary town, a typical provincial trading post teeming with traffic. In the rain there's little reason to stop, so we carry on, keen to pass on the baton at Limerick Junction.

On the way, the sporting character of the land changes. On the northern leg of our journey, every second field featured a set of goalposts. Here the high well-cut hedges cloak manicured driveways and stables. This is horse country, home to the legendary Coolmore Stud and equine heroes such as Istabraq.

We pass through picturesque Golden, home to the only fast food outlet that can honestly call itself the Golden Grill. It's just a short run to Limerick Junction and a car park filled with holidaymakers from the Dublin train.

At this stage it's impossible to get off the bike. Leg muscles have seized up and the heavy clothes are stuck to my back. That's the downside to biking. You either freeze, drown or sweat.

Believe me, while the biker image works well in the movies, the only biker who looks fresh after a cross-country trek is the one who has arrived by car.

But for all the aches, pains and pungent odours, there really is something romantic about cruising along with the wind in your face, exploring the back roads. I may just have been bitten by the bike bug. My family will be pleased.