It's now well into spring and our footpaths are filled with track-suited citizens in shiny new Nikes "power-walking" their evenings away with renewed vigour, determined to shed those pounds in time to squeeze into bikinis or tight Speedo togs this summer. Conor Pope and Michael McAleer put two feet and four wheels to the test.
So, with such grisly images in mind, we decided to see if Dublin's denizens who live within miles of the city centre should cast off their metal modes of transport and take to burning some calories. Could they shed pounds and still beat the traffic?
The venue was the triangle in Ranelagh, the target the offices of The Irish Times in D'Olier Street. Thanks to our wonderful city planners, the pedestrian can walk generally as the crow flies but the driver's trek has become a zig-zag route aimed at getting the car out of the centre. Understandable, but highly frustrating if you're behind the wheel.
So, will our race persuade the great and good of Donnybrook, Ranelagh and other stone's throws from the city centre to park and walk? Probably not, if the car park at Dublin Castle during tribunal season is anything to go by.
WINNER: The Pedestrian
It's 8.35 a.m. and the sun is shining. Both traffic and mood are light as I begin my morning stroll to work. It's springtime and the weather is - remarkably - springlike. The warm sunshine hasn't coaxed any more commuters than usual out of their cars onto their feet, mind.
If the car slaves are not prepared to abandon their precious motors in these glorious conditions it's hard to imagine anything freeing them from their self-enforced bondage.
All the way through Ranelagh, up to the canal I am overtaken by car after car - each one racing to join the gridlock that is the city centre at rush-hour.
Five minutes later and I'm on Charlemont Street, where I successfully manoeuvre myself round a very, very drunk man who stumbles into my path waving a rusty old D-lock, belonging to a bicycle that's unlikely to have ever been his. Whether it's late night revelry winding down or early morning boozing starting up, it's hard to tell. Distracted, I almost collide with a woman coming out of a gate with her work shoes in hand, walking shoes on feet.
Apologies all round, no fists are waved in anger, no obscenities shouted. There's no such thing as road rage when you're walking to work.
Another five minutes and I'm mildly disturbed by Luas works outside the soon to be resurrected Harcourt Street train station. A desire to keep the road open to cars has led to a snarl-up on the footpath. A group of schoolgirls block my way, slowly ambling in the direction of a convent school on the Green, talking of Eminem, without a care in the world. It's almost as if they're not racing a car to work. Sheesh.
I edge my way past them and five minutes later I'm on the Green. The traffic lights are going my way and the little green men keep waving me cheerfully on. Motorists are looking increasingly tetchy and agitated. Windows are rolled down and arms are draped casually into the morning air in desperate shows of nonchalance. It's not working.
Cyclists snarl at motorists. Motorists snarl at cyclists. A vile cacophony of car horns, revved engines and curses fill the air. The once casually-draped arms are used to raise various fingers angrily at anyone deemed guilty of even the tiniest infringement. Faces redden as blood pressure climbs.
I take off my jacket and whistle a little tune. It's 8.50 a.m. and Grafton Street is busy. Trucks delivering goods to the shops push pedestrians to one side. It's a useful reminder of how unpleasant it used to be, when the car was king on the city's shopping street. At the bottom of the street a bus races through an amber light, just in time to grind to a halt in a pedestrian walkway, belching filthy fumes into our faces.
We glare but the busman remains unperturbed, pleased he's made up maybe 15 centimetres on the bus belching filthy fumes into other pedestrians' faces just ahead of us.
And then to D'Olier Street without any sign of The Motorist. Seconds turn into minutes, still no sign. Probably struggling to find parking, the poor soul.
If only he knew the truth of the maxim, four wheels bad two legs good.
- Conor Pope
LOSER: The Motorist.
At 8.35 a.m. we pull off in the direction of town, our foot-slogging colleague setting off like one of those marathon walkers, determined to prove that shoe leather is better than tyre tread. From the off, we knew our chances were slim.
Thankfully, the weather is pleasant enough for our poor foot-slogger. The benefit for us is that it also persuades others to leave the car at home, so the traffic seems quite light. At least until we get closer to town.
No sooner have we started than our booted competitor is striding off into the distance like one of those Olympic speedwalkers. Driving through the city these days, particularly in a large Audi, you feel the searing glares from walkers and cyclists who glide to work on a cushion of moral superiority, looking down on motorists as a bunch of child-eating monsters who spend their working days planning how to pollute the seas and cut down the forests. No doubt the entire Middle East conflict can be attributed to Dublin's motorists.
So, with our head duly bowed to our moral superiors on the footpaths, we motor on down to the first set of lights, which approach after about 50 metres from where we started.
Green at last and we head off in hot pursuit, but just as we build up steam it's time to stop again for another set of lights. They may be cutting down Wicklow's forests to make way for motorways, but they're replacing them with a forest of traffic lights in Dublin. Traffic lights are the motorist's penance for the sin of driving, giving them time to contemplate their choice of transport and suffer the full glare from the passing pedestrians.
These days, thanks to our wonderful city planners, the quickest way from A to B is most definitely not in a straight line. The traffic management system (surely a misnomer) that operates in Dublin these days means that motorists must do a great loop to get into the heart of the city.
This trek from Ranelagh is typical of the traffic flow situation today. From Ranelagh to Fleet Street, the direct route would take us to South Great Georges Street, then right onto Dame Street and we're at our desk bright and breezy, and long before any foot soldier.
Unfortunately a ban on right turns onto Dame Street meant we had a choice of either traversing around the Stephen's Green and weaving down to Pearse Street, or going left and working our way around Christchurch, via Bride St and Bride Rd, at the back of St Patrick's Cathedral.
We opted for the latter, but in hindsight it was probably the more awkward route. That's our excuse anyway. Up to the junction at the top of Wicklow Street and we are unfortunate enough to be at the front of the queue and therefore quickly surrounded by a posse of motorbikes and their pedal-powered two-wheeler friends.
By the time the lights change we count 13 motorbikes and cyclists swarming around the car, half-asleep and certainly not paying any attention to our presence, bar the cursory glare of superiority. In fairness we have a grudging admiration for anyone brave (or stupid) enough to cycle in Dublin's rush hour traffic.
By 8.47a.m. we find ourselves on Kevin Street Lower and heading west. Then a quick right and up the back of St Patrick's Cathedral before turning back onto Patrick Street. It takes an age to get past Christchurch, where we finally get a chance to rest for a second in the traffic, and then it's slowly down Dame Street before veering off to park in a local multistorey car park.
As we hit the central locking it's 9.03 a.m. and we amble out towards the office, knowing full well we're going to have to face the self-righteous pedestrian. Not the best way to start the day. - Michael McAleer