The Ghost Bike of Magilligan

The shortcut to the beach is hidden along the main road, just before the big bend leading into Benone. Sun-drenched and shelterless, this stretch of road is like a child's drawing of a sunny day: blue skies, white clouds, yellow fields; the colours oversaturated; the edges unnaturally crisp. Veering away from all this, the shortcut plunges into leafy shade as it winds through parcels of forest all the way to the strand. The tiny lane is easy to miss if you don't know where to look. But if you do know, it is unmissable: Just watch for the handpainted stark white bicycle, chained to the caravan park fence.

No matter how often I pass it, the sight of the Ghost Bike rattles me. Perhaps it is the location. I am accustomed to seeing these monuments to fallen cyclists in cities. But this one is jarringly out of place on a rural coastal road. In this unexpected environment, the ghost bike is more noticeable, more striking. Isolated and uncamouflaged by urban clutter, it refuses to blend with its surroundings; it is unignorable.

As the eye wanders from the bike to the sharp bend in the road, the imagination engages, activating a sequence of horrible stills. How did it happen? Who did it happen to? The plaque attached to the top tube names Gareth, aged 16. I know that I can ask around and learn the whole story in great, terrible detail. But I don't. Once I pedal past the bike and turn into the shaded backroad, I try to put it out of my mind. Because when I ride to the beach on a beautiful summer day, I do not want to think about ghost bikes.

I do not want to wonder, for instance, whether the bike in front of me was the boy's actual bike. The very bike that got hit and… I close my mind's eye before the sequence is finished.

Smelling heavily of pines and, more faintly, of seaweed, the road to the beach disorients with its un-Irish feel. It is more like Maine, or Croatia. The sun filters through dense pine needles and the shapes dance on the rough pavement. The beach is not visible, but its presence is felt beyond the pines, and at any moment you expect to glimpse it around the next bend. It is the kind of road where, even before you've gone where it wants to take you, you are gripped by a pre-emptive nostalgia for the experience you're about to have.

And when I feel this, I do not want to think about ghost bikes. I do not want to think about death, or injury, when the sun is on my face and the waves of the ocean beckon. The ghost bike intrudes, but I shake it off as I would a fallen leaf tangled in my hair.

Through the pine needle shadows, past the caravan park and the holiday homes, a steady stream of kids makes its way to the Strand. They throw their bikes down in haste and run to the water.

Past the too-vibrant bunting that delineates the entrance and exit points, more kids pedal.

By the water, a father teaches his son to ride a tiny two-wheeler. The boys falters and tumbles into the soft sand, unhurt and undeterred. They laugh and try again. The sun shines.

I try to relax, to enjoy myself, to swim. But the children on bikes are all around me. As I watch, I catch myself wondering about the parents of the boy for whom the ghost bike was put up. Are they resentful when they watch such scenes? Are they merely sad? Or, are they happy for these other children, feeling the sun and the water on their healthy, intact bodies?

I try to shake these thoughts off, so at odds they are with this beautiful summer day. But as I pass the ghost bike on my return, I stop and something compels me to sit on the grass beside it. I look again at the bend in the road, and I read the plaque, and I take it all in without trying to push the imagery away, as I run my fingers through the buttercups and the Queen Anne's lace that flourish around the scuffed white tires. The bike will be here every time I ride to the beach. Perhaps I'll grow immune to it over time. Or perhaps not, and every time I see it my mood will darken and these thoughts will haunt me. And maybe that is as it should be. I just hope the motorists driving past feel a least a trace of the same reaction.