Hearing the message of doom loud and clear from a cycling global warrior, writes Killian Doyle
ONE OF my best friends is a chronic eco-worrier. Riven with fear, so he is. He lives in London. Nearly 40, he's never owned a car. Doesn't even have a licence.
He did have a few driving lessons many years ago. But both he and his instructor quickly came to an understanding that he wasn't exactly driver material, and called it quits. The people of Hackney breathed a communal sigh of relief.
He is now an avowed cyclist. He likes the waves of self-righteousness that course down his spine as he pedals through clogged streets on his bike, a noughties version of a High Nelly that cost the guts of a grand. 'Tis the campest looking yoke since Liberace's mirrored Rolls.
He was in Dublin recently. We had a long chat in my car about global warming. He reckons we're facing a post-apocalyptic future populated by desperate feral gangs waging bloody war against the private militias guarding the fuel dumps of the select, wealthy few.
"Ooh, the sky is falling!!" I jibed when he outlined his daymare to me (I - like most folk - prefer to stick my head in the sand and fuel in my car than contemplate the reality of the future facing my children. It is too much to bear. It doesn't help that I've just read The Road by Cormac McCarthy).
"As a matter of fact, the sky is falling," said he. "Look at the flippin' weather - constant deluges, flooding everywhere. And since when does Ireland have a monsoon season?"
"Err"?
"Speechless, eh? There's always a first time. But seriously, in a way, I think global warming is great. People don't change unless they've no alternative. It's only when they are faced with incontrovertible evidence that they're screwed if they carry on as normal that they'll alter their behaviour.?
"True, but what can we realistically do? I could walk everywhere, feed my family with roots and heat my house by burning tree bark, but why should I bother? There'll always be a Chinese factory spouting out more gunk than I'd emit in a thousand lifetimes."
"I hate that Chinese factory argument. It's such a cop-out. It's all about collective responsibility. Which starts with individual responsibility."
"But surely it's too late. Are we not way past tipping point already?"
"No, but scientists predict that unless we take drastic action, global temperatures will be up by four degrees within decades. It'll get so hot that equatorial regions will be uninhabitable. I reckon half of southern Europe will end up manning barricades to stop starving, parched African refugees getting through in their millions. It'll be the same in Canada, with Mounties trying to repel the US-Mexican wave, armed only with funny hats and comedy accents. Same deal in Siberia, New Zealand, Tierra del Fuego, anywhere that's far north or south. And sea levels will rise too. So we'll have to move on up to higher ground."
"Jayney, where'll everyone go?"
"Well, I've got my eye on Dún Aengus on Inis Mór."
"Don't be a mentalist. You'll just be surrounded by Yanks in geansais who've had the same idea. You'd be better off in the Faeroes. They're plenty elevated too. And you'll be able to surf the waves generated when the icebergs break off and plummet into the sea. Going with the floe, so you'll be."
"You're not taking this seriously, are you?"
"Tell you what, if you're being so precious about it, why am I going 10 miles out of my way to give you a lift home? Out in the rain to walk with ye."
He stayed put. Sadly, I got no satisfaction from calling his bluff. It was a pyrrhic victory. Because I'm now officially petrified too.
Anyway, if you'll excuse me, my head has an appointment with that bucket of sand.