I arrived in Astoria, having traversed a 4.1 mile bridge . The early part was easy enough, followed by a long flat section. The last piece (to accommodate passing tankers et all underneath) was a beast: sharp gradient, unforgiving.
I followed my instructions to a friend's house with some trepidation. He had told me he lived on the second steepest street in Astoria - and that steep meant he had never seen a cyclist outside his house.
I duly found the offending street (in truth, offensive is a much better, more visceral description - a gradient of over 15%!). I was damned if it was going to get the better of me so I just kept dropping gears until I was in Super-Granny mode and then pushed and pushed and pushed. Half way up the damn hill, I dared look up to check my progress (always a questionable tactic lest the remaining section of the hill totally crushes your resolve). And lo! there was a Tricolor in the near distance (as promised by my host). It gave me heart to push on, notwithstanding the heart rate climbing well above 170.
The next day I was asked about 'flying the flag' at home. I had to confess it was not something that we do in Ireland. It made me wonder then, why not? We are quick enough to claim our Irishness in all sorts of situations (international rugby matches, holidays abroad, and such like). Why do we not fly the flag? We surely recognize the symbolism (especially in Northern Ireland in terms of the Union Jack).
Perhaps I need more time to think about what being Irish really means and whether we need to rethink our willingness or reluctance to nail our colours to our national mast?
By the by, my old friends in Astoria were the perfect hosts and really showed just how hospitable the US of A can be. Thanks D/S.
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