There's something quite pretty about the sight of an unmanned bicycle gliding down a residential road. Of course, it invariably smashes into a car or person, but in the few seconds before it begins to veer left and right, you think it'll go straight forever and ever. This is the ghostie; the art of cycling a bike downhill and then jumping off to see how long it can go before crashing. It was a big part of my childhood. If we weren't playing World Cup, or red arse, we'd be purposely crashing the big bits of metal that our parents often struggled to afford, because children, looking back, are inconsiderate ****.
Sometimes, it wasn't even our own bike. Nope. I remember we took one of our friend's bike off him and ghostied it, without his permission. Minutes later, he was in a flood of tears and that's because he thought we had broken it, which I felt terrible about even though I didn't do it. He sprinted after it, thinking he'd be able to catch up with his precious, but it smacked into a wall. "It's f*cking buckled," he shouted at us from about 30 feet away, in fit of tears. It wasn't buckled - it was grand, but you know kids - and yet we didn't know it at the time.
We were all petrified of his dad Tony. He was a scary fella, who never acknowledged any of his son's friends when they were over. He was also the only one in our pretty posh, suburban estate who had a strong Dublin accent. He must've been a drug dealer or won the lotto or something. But it was conveniently dinner time for all of us when we thought the bike was broken, because f*ck being acosted by Tony. I was scared of him, but I was - and still am - way more scared of my own dad. That evening was just horrible. I was so terrified that an irate Tony would call into my house and explain what happened.
My dad never beat me up or anything, but he had been violent toward my mam on a number of occasions, and when you see this, as a kid, it's very scary and there's always the fear that it'll be your turn one day. He's my favourite person on earth when he's in a good mood, but he wasn't on this particular evening and that only added to the thousands of butterflies fluttering around in my belly. Of course, I hadn't done much wrong, but rationality is an alien concept to a man when the red mist descends. He would famously act first and think second - a motto which did long-term damage to my sisters and I.
It's about half-six and my anxiety is gradually decreasing because it had been about an hour since it happened, and the longer it goes without a complaint, the better. But the door bell goes. You know the stomach-churning feeling you get when something terrible is about to happen? Well I had that feeling, in abundance. My dad gets up and walks to the door, which is obscured from my vision. I'm expecting to hear Tony accuse me of breaking his son's bike - you always expect the worst, right? But I don't hear anything, except my name when it's called by dad.
I'm already on the brink of flooding the gaf with tears as I walk out into the hall, with my best, 'It wasn't me' speech prepared. I don't see Tony, but I do see his son, on his f*cking bike, which is in tip-top condition. The lying sh*t bag knocked in to ask if I was coming out! Words wouldn't do the relief justice. If there is a silver lining to anxiety, it's the relief that makes the mental anguish worth it, in my view. It's such a huge payoff.
That's what I miss about childhood. When ever there were arguments or fights or anything else, bygones would always be bygones within hours of the incident. And that's nice. We must develop things like pride and ego later in life, because there was seldom a hint of either in my group of friends growing up. It's not like that now
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