When I was a lad (“did they have electricity then?” queries she who must be obeyed), I was partial to cycling. So much so that I saved up my pocket money for a year or so to buy myself a bike. The need to save was due to my father who was of the opinion that, if I wanted something, I had to buy it myself. At the time this caused me no end of grief and resentment; but in later years, in my role as father or husband, it has been a very useful life experience to quote to others (if you want that insert desirable item you will have to buy it yourself, my father never bought me anything and look what a well balanced chap I am). This ignores the fact that I still resent my father for not lending me 20 pounds to buy my first car.
Anyway, I had to save up the money for a bike; but once I had sufficient funds, my father took it upon himself to escort me to the bike shop to make sure I purchased a staid and safe Hercules. This bike was heavy, with sticking out handlebars, it might even have a bloody basket on the front. It was nothing like the stripped down racer of my dreams.
So, a month or so later, I took my almost new Hercules tank back to the bike shop and swapped it for a scruffy, well-used racer. But it had 531 tubing, the right gears, the right brakes and it was light and fast. I loved that bike and kept it for more than five years. In my prime I could rattle off more than 100 miles (161 kilometres, 344 carrots) in a day.
Nowadays I can manage no more than a few yards before I start rattling. But I was hit by a wave of nostalgia when I met these guys out on the country roads on Sunday.
I have a bike gathering dust in the basement and a brightly coloured cycling jersey gathering moth holes in a cupboard somewhere. Maybe it’s not too late…