AGAINST THE ODDS:Less than a mile from home his little legs were gone. Head down, Vinny cried 'fini' and clambered off – his new fitness regime ended with curried chips
AS HE pushed the pedals of his trusted rusty Raleigh racer in the direction of Sutton Cross on Sunday morning, Vinny Fitzpatrick felt curiously light-headed.
That he, a 225-pound fatty, could be light about anything was, in itself, a contradiction but there was reason for his Micawber-like disposition, which had nothing to do with the stiff south-westerly propelling him towards the Marine Hotel.
On this New Year’s Day, the first day of his 55th year, it struck Vinny that 2012 was going to be a mother and father of a 12 months, with a gansey load of opportunities for a gargle and a gamble.
On top of the Packers’ push for the Superbowl, Cheltenham, the Grand National, Masters, British Open, the Dubs, Wee Rory and Le Tour, it was a Leap Year, which meant the Brucie bonus of the Olympic Games and the European Football Championships.
One was on Dublin’s doorstep in London while the other would be graced by the Republic of Ireland for the first time since Joxer went to Stuttgart in ’88. “What a sporting double,” he thought to himself.
Growing up on Causeway Avenue, Vinny recalled staying up late with his old man, Finbarr, to watch grainy black and white footage from the Mexico Games in 1968.
He’d been 10 years of age and the event left such an impression he’d made up a little circuit of cereal boxes in the tiny back garden and pretended he was David Hemery.
Vinny didn’t know who the top 400 metre hurdlers were these days but he’d be glued to his telly for the Games, rooting for Katie Taylor and the Irish team – he fancied Katie for the gold. If he was honest, he fancied Katie full stop.
Four years ago, when he threw shadow punches with Kenny Egan and the boys in Beijing, Vinny’s life had been meandering along. Since then, he’d got married, become a father and a grandfather; discovered a daughter he didn’t know existed; suffered a heart attack and a stroke.
He’d also lost more than he’d won in Vernon Racing, drunk far more than he should in Foley’s and remained seriously overweight. But that was all about to change with his new year fitness revolution.
Nudging into fifth gear as he overtook an elderly lady clad in a shocking pink tracksuit, Vinny made a note to have a quiet word with Socket Twomey in the garage about taking holidays in the second week of June – the lads were planning a covert operation to the Eastern Front and he had started saving.
At the car park in the Marine Hotel, Vinny wheeled to a stop and checked his watch. It had taken him 10 minutes to cover the distance from Mount Prospect Avenue – “not bad for an aul fella,” he chuckled aloud.
He paused for a moment to consider just how old he was. At 54, he was now officially in his mid 50s.
Still, age was just a number and he liked the number 54 for a few reasons; perhaps because it was the old bus route to Donnycarney North, or par for the pitch and putt course in St Anne’s, which he once carded in the summer of ’85.
As he prepared for the return journey, he spied a cluster of bikers, some wearing racing jerseys he recognised from the Tour de France, heading out along Strand Road for the ascent of Howth Head.
It was a route he knew from childhood and one he intended tackling again, but not just yet, not after the festive excesses which had been topped off by birthday celebrations that began in Foley’s at lunch-time with the lads and ended some time after midnight.
He had a vague memory of dragging Angie to a New Year’s Eve party next door where he’d attempted to kiss the cheek of Jenny Jones, a fragrant neighbour, only to topple head first in to the Christmas Tree.
The incident explained Angie’s icy insistence he should start the year with the best of intentions, which he had done. “It’s half-time and I’m still standing,” he thought to himself as he pointed his bike towards the city.
He had allowed himself 15 minutes for the return journey but had woefully under-estimated the strength of the wind. It didn’t help that the cycle lane was on a slight rise above the main road and was completely exposed.
Gritting his teeth, squinting into setting sun, Vinny thought of Nicolas Roche, son of Stephen, who had just written an excellent book about the blood, sweat and gears world of professional bike racing.
“What would Nico do?” he thought. Quickly, Vinny dropped down to first gear and found a slow, if steady, tempo. For the next mile or so, he tipped along, at the pace of an overfed snail.
He needed to find shelter from the wind and peered ahead to see was there any other wheel he could latch on to.
As the tempest grew, Vinny found himself rocking from side to side as he slowed to a crawl. More than once, he nearly toppled over. His heart was thumping, far too loudly for a man of his age and infirmity.
At Black Banks, he became aware of a presence and for a moment imagined the Tour’s broom wagon was on his tail, about to sweep him up.
He looked around to see the drone in pink he’d blithely sauntered past earlier. Her nut-brown face was all scrunched up, her blue eyes focused, as she danced up and down lightly on the pedals.
“You struggling, son?” she shouted above the wind. “Get in my slipstream and I’ll bring you along for a bit.”
Vinny nodded thanks and inched his 16-stone frame behind his bird-like liberator. The improvement was noticeable. The influence of the wind dipped and he was able to generate a modicum of power from his flabby thighs.
For a while, Vinny clung to the crimson crusader but at the turn off for Dollymount Strand, the string broke and Vinny was cut adrift.
He was less than a mile from home but it was no use. His little legs were gone, the needle was on empty. Head down, he cried “fini”, pulled in and clambered off. His race was run.
He leaned on his bike, gulping big breaths of air while a sense of shame washed over his roundy shoulders, and great blobs of snot fell from his fleshy nose. “Six lousy miles and I couldn’t even manage it,” he panted.
The sense of physical hurt and psychological humiliation continued for several minutes as he rested on his handlebars.
As the wind whistled around him, Vinny became aware of a familiar scent of grease mingled with vinegar. He had abandoned beside The Capri chipper which, joy of joys, was open.
One large curried chips and onion rings later, Vinny was back on his bike. “Happy birthday to me,” he said with a grin.
Bets of the Week
2pt San Francisco 49ers to win Super Bowl (12/1, Boylesports)
1pt each-way Bubba Watson in Tournament of Champions (16/1, Paddy Power)
Vinny's Bismarck
1pt Lay Newcastle Utd to beat Manchester Utd in Premier League (4/1, Ladbrokes, liability 4pts).
