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.

Bikes

Bikes

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…