Pushbike Song - a mighty tour around a much-loved country

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Pushbike Song – A Mighty Thing is my original composition – a rollicking, light-hearted “tall tale” in the long tradition of folklore. Like the yarns told about Paul Bunyan, Pecos Bill, or John Henry, it follows a hero who undertakes feats so improbable that they can only be told with a straight face for comic effect. In this case, the hero is a 25-year-old cyclist on a 1950 Raleigh who rides the length and breadth of Ireland, meeting wonders and oddities at every turn.

Tall tales thrive on exaggeration and hyperbole, and Pushbike Song leans into both. The hero pedals past pubs that can duplicate themselves in foreign countries, witnesses a Swiss-funded B&B on the Kilmore Quay waterfront, survives the thunderous roar of Father Pat’s 83-year-old harmonium, and finds the road to Doolin magically shortened by a sympathetic cowman. He even has a euphemistically magical encounter with Widow Murphy and cycles through Ireland’s holy ground, finally declaring that Egypt’s Nile and Sphinx aren’t a patch on the Emerald Isle.

Each verse spins a self-contained vignette – a local legend told as if it happened only yesterday. From French Saint Patrick’s Day celebrations to miraculous real-estate deals, from musical marvels to roadside magic, the cyclist is part participant, part amused observer. The chorus ties it all together: celebrating the thrill of roaming Ireland’s towns and hills, the joy of the bell on a pushbike, and the “song” sung by its whirring spokes.

I’ve arranged Pushbike Song for male folk lead vocal with a strong chorus response, driven by the rhythmic interplay of acoustic guitar and bodhrán. A bright whistle carries the melody in interludes, joined by fiddle for ornamentation and warmth. Bass adds grounding, while occasional flute lines and light accordion fills lend colour and a pub-session feel. The tempo is brisk but relaxed – a musical freewheel down a country lane.

In its closing flourish, the lyric compares the wonders of Ireland to the grandeur of Egypt. But in true tall-tale style, the verdict is swift and unequivocal: the pyramids, the Nile, and the Sphinx are mere trifles – “forty-winks” – beside the magic, hospitality, and beauty found on Irish soil.

It’s part travelogue, part comedy, part folk celebration – and entirely an ode to the joy of spinning a yarn while spinning your wheels.

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