The cycle of life with Brian Canty
It’s a little before 9am on a cold, blustery morning in the capital. A gusty breeze borrowed from November whips right through the back of Heuston station and seems to hasten the step of the entire throng of people it just deposited on its overcrowded platform.
I hate being pushed away from the real capital at the best of times, but as a cyclist — which is what I’m being paid to be today — I gladly accept this tailwind (all the way from Cork) and surf my way to the front of the accumulated swell as if I’m in a race.
