Saturday biking adventures were part of growing up in the early fifties. With mates I’d head off on the promise of being home before street lights came on. Once with handle-bars down (in the manner of a professional cyclist), I found myself tearing down Fyansford hill; bike shuddering joltingly as momentum gathered. With hands gripping bars adjacent to the stem; brake-handles inches away, I’d have to let go with at least one hand to apply pressure to either brake. I had no control over my trusty, rusty semi-racer. To move to the side would invite all-embracing gravel rash. Flying past a mate, who with foot brakes remained in control, it was with a mix of fear and adrenalin that I held tight and looked into the distance; having learned that control could be better maintained this way. Only as I approaching the bridge was normal breathing restored. Thus, my admiration for Ned Devine was a given. See: https://www.fyansford.com/cabbage-tree-ned-devine
