Birmingham

Around this time I leave my village for the bright lights of the big city or at least the green suburb of Edgbaston in Birmingham where I am at university. First year I’m living close to the campus and walkable into town so my need for a bike was limited and I only cycled when returning home to Bath. In Bath, not back to Bath. Thinking about it I probably cycled to Westbury White Horse and had my bike stolen the summer I was back in Bath as that’s when I hitched to Morocco but the story fits better in that section of my memories. Back in Birmingham in the Autumn me and my friends rented a house in Kings Heath so a few miles from the university. Three of us cycled into the campus together as we did the same Economics course so Ramsay, Jon and myself made a regular peloton although probably not realising it at the time. Our other housemate Olly  (excluding the recluse cider drinker who seemed to come as a fixture of the house and mysteriously left after a few months) refused to cycle presumably as it messed up his highly crimped purple hair. I bought a new, well, brand new second hand as Peter Tosh would have it and there be other references there that are another story altogether, bike which had five gears, yes five, so my first derailleur bike which I didn’t really need as Birmingham is so flat but helped in the winds. Still on straight handlebars as I didn’t see the need for drops. And I mostly I used the bike for simply getting from one place to another and not all the time as in Bath as the buses were good and other distances were walkable. However, outside of the term times my housemates tended to go back home whereas I would stay in Birmingham and I then started venturing out more on my own just for the fun of it. I did a couple of excursions into the surrounding countryside and in retrospect I should have done a lot more but I was mostly exploring the inner city and little gems like Aston Manor which was pretty run down and vandalised back in the early 80s whereas I believe it’s now been done up. There weren’t that many keen cyclists, as in long distances, that I knew although I did know a guy who cycled back home to Bristol rather than take the bus or hitch (the usual methods of transport back then) which I was amazed at the distance. Looking back I guess it’s about 100 miles so whilst being a fair way not as impossible as I thought at the time. My Birmingham years cycling were fairly uneventful with no tumbles or mishaps. Nearest I came was when cycling fast down the Moseley Road from my house in Balsall Heath into town with my arms folded rather than on the handlebars and a couple of workmen in the road jumped up and shouted in my ear as I shot past “Show Off” and “Wanker”. I did have a slight wobble with the surprise but sailed on without anything worse. I can’t remember whether I used my free hands to gesticulate to the two blokes and if I did I’m sure they would have taken it as a bit of banter. So cycling in Britain’s second city was a halcyon time and little prepared me for the capital.

A photo of what we had to contend with in Birmingham...

Loss

So having tackled the flatter regions of Bath I needed a bike that was a proven hill climber due to Bath being a Roman city having hot baths but of more relevance seven hills, as previously described. And what better machine than my dad’s bike. Boasting an “all steel” frame this Raleigh black beauty had a dynamo light set which came in very useful for my nighttime excursions into town. My dad had had the bike for donkeys years and more recently used it for a while to commute into work. Given that work was the other side of town and up the very steep Bathwick Hill it showed that he was still pretty fit and that the bike could tackle the hills. Must have been good gearing. Since getting another car my dad rarely used the bike so I took it over. The temporary loss in motor vehicle was due to the Morris Oxford rusting away as they did back then. The only ones I’ve seen since the 1970s were around Nazca in the Peruvian desert, one of the most arid places on earth. So no risk of rusting. My new found bike coincided with my middle teenage years and gave me the freedom to roam the city limits and beyond. One trip out to the Westbury White Horse with Simon (perennial friend and cycling buddy) was one where we decided to hitch to Morocco but that is another story and not cycle related (for that tale see here – no cycling mind… https://sites.google.com/site/funkingpunker). The freedom that bike gave me was immense including the ability to cruise various pubs and parties without long treks (taxis of course not being an option, we being the pre Uber generation lacking money for minicabs). One such ride between parties around the Combe Down area I found myself stopped dead, well, luckily not literally, by a parked car. As any cyclist knows the order of assessment after a collision is: 1. Am I conscious. 2. Is the bike in one piece. 3. Do I have any broken limbs to prevent me cycling to destination. 4. What damage has occurred to the bike. 5. Do I have any bleeding or sprains. 6. Go moan at the twat who drove into you and get their insurance details and gather witnesses. Although in this case the car was stationary, being parked, and the only witness was Simon so I jump back on the bike and immediately fall off again. Forks jammed back into the brakes. How can that be it’s an “All Steel” frame as proudly stated on the bike. Only thing to do was to undo the front brake pads and cycle off to the party. I guess we stayed the night as I remember flying down the Wellsway the next morning only realising that I’d removed the front brake pads and was relying solely on the back brakes as I hurtled past Bear Flat and had them full on rushing past the Beechen Cliff Lower School past the shop where we used to get a half pasty and tuppenny cider at lunchtime. With a strong smell of burning rubber, brake blocks back then were hard rubber and either on or off, I just about stopped by the time we’d reached Churchill Bridge. So my first bit of frame “adjustment” was at Simon’s place with his dad bending the forks back into shape. My dad never found out about me pranging his lovely Raleigh (sorry dad if you are reading this) as about a fortnight later it was stolen from outside the Green Tree pub as I poked my head round the door to see if any mates were in. Literally left it for 30 seconds on a quiet side street. My dad was not impressed about that and I feel guilty that I ended his cycling career there and then. As a gratuitous link to the brilliant and invaluable Sheldon Brown web site page on vintage Raleighs is here: https://www.sheldonbrown.com/retroraleighs/sports.html

And another gratuitous fact is that Combe Down is where the UK’s longest unventilated railway tunnel is sited. Closed due to Beechings cuts or possibly as it was dangerous for steam trains as at least one driver was overcome by smoke (unventilated remember) and only stopped when crashing into a goods yard. You can apparently now cycle through the lighted tunnel although when I was a boy it was unlit so me and my mates used to run through it at school lunchtime hoping that the big steel door at the far end was open. If not we’d rush back through a mile of dark rat infested tunnel hoping that the door we had come through hadn’t been shut since we entered. I guess that was part of the excitement not knowing if you were going to get trapped and have to live with rats as The Stranglers had to.

As I have no bike pics for this blog I’ll include one of Simon and I at the Westbury White Horse where we did cycle.

Ronde van Vlaanderen 2026

A pause in my chronological account of my Life on the Chain to give a flavour of current (as in 2026) continental trip to see a Flanders Spring Classic...

https://jdwhols.blogspot.com/2026/04/ronde-van-vlaanderen-2026.html

Tumbling Down

The previous chapters may set the scene for the next few years of cycling exploits although I admit to not really tackling the hills for a while. It was tough enough walking up our local one up to Lansdown and across to Kelston Round Hill for views across Bath, the Mendips towards where my mum grew up and past Portishead where my dad grew up and over the Bristol Channel to Wales. My territory at first was fairly limited and I spent a lot more time simply walking to the local rec (recreation ground, municipal playing field) to play football (soccer, for American readers) than cycling. However, as I needed to spread my wings I pestered my parents to buy me a bike for Christmas. This was a brand new very smart Raleigh Balmoral in British Racing Green. It had all the bells and whistles. Well, not actually either of those but had gears (trusty Sturmey-Archer hub 3-speed), a pump (not solid rubber tyres), a saddle bag and even brakes of the rim variety. And I did eventually get a bell for it or rather a chrome space age looking electric horn that made an excellently modern buzzer sound putting the fear of god into any nearby cats and ducks. I was a very proud owner as you can see. My first ride I was hardly kitted out in cycling gear as I wore on my trike but it was the middle of winter being Yuletide. For the fashionistas of you the parka came from Eastville market (Bristol Rovers ground), the shoes were standard school issue (we only had one pair of shoes and one pair of football boots back then, and they were like boots), gloves (probably new for winter) and the red and white Arsenal scarf either bought by my uncle Jim when he took me to see The Arsenal on a visit to him in London (if I couldn’t persuade him to take me north of the river I’d have to make do with Crystal Palace) either that or knitted by my grandma who also knitted a sailor suit for my Action Man which in hindsight was quite apt and I think a sociological comment by her which was lost to me at the time. Probably a Christmas present from my grandma. Oh, and the jeans were a present likely from Eastville. The market not a relative. From this photo on Christmas Day I cycled up the muddy cow pat bespattered lane leading to Osborne’s Farm, past the spreading horse chestnut tree (source of conkers for fighting) and alongside The White House which was a lunatic asylum although probably not anymore and definitely not referred to as such nowadays. Getting the feel of my new bike I decide to pull a wheelie and came crashing down. I think the back wheel slipped on Osborne’s cow dung, and I tore a hole in my new flared jeans. Disaster and parents none too happy on my return. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve looked so smug in the photo. I subsequently cycled that bike all over Weston and into Bath through Victoria Park and became expert at wheelies and riding no hands though not at the same time. It didn’t look quite so smart when I eventually handed it down to my brother. That was the best thing about being the oldest… you always (well, nearly always) got new stuff rather than hand-me-downs. That and being able to boss your siblings around. Although that often backfired when they squealed to our mother. And if you were wondering about the haircut… nan and her pudding bowl although at that stage I was desperately trying to avoid another visit. Difficult as she lived just down the village. I still have the manual for that bike and very useful it was too. Unfortunately, the manual isn’t dated so not sure how old I was when I got the bike. With the manual I have a Highway Code costing 1s 3d and dated 1970 but I’m sure I was older than 7 in the photo. Maybe not?

le Grand Départ

I moved to Weston village on the outskirts of Bath. Just at the bottom of Lansdown Lane which leads up to Lansdown… the other side of Bath has Lansdown Road. Imaginative naming there. It goes up to the race course and to where the Civil War battle was fought the Roundheads being based in Bath and using the saints’ heads climbing the ladder up the Abbey as target practice hence why quite a few seem to have no shoulders. I digress as no bikes were involved in the Battle of Lansdown as far as I am aware probably as the hill up there is too steep. Lansdown Lane would give Porlock Hill a run for its money. The Romans apparently founded Bath although I’m sure some folk lived there before a written history was made. The Romans loved it due to natural hot springs, which I learnt to swim in in the Cross Baths but that’s a swimming story so I won’t describe snowy nights swimming in the open air whilst the dads froze their proverbiballs off at the side, and also that it has seven hills as does Rome. From that it would be a fine place for the Giro d’Italia to start with three climbs and descents before a final climb out of Bath. Although there seems to be some debate as to what is a hill and what is a steep road going up to a higher plateau such as Lansdown. If you care to look this up all the hills are named “downs” due to the local parlance. Aptly, the photo is of an Upside Down Man (note arms and legs) depicting the upheavals of the English Civil War and in particular the Roundheads banning Christmas, or at least festivities. Didn’t go down well as you can imagine. And if continued the next chapter wouldn’t have happened…

Prologue

My earliest memory of a bike, or more accurately a trike, is of my lovely pale blue frame (Reynolds 501 I believe) with red disk “track” wheels which were way ahead of their time. Directly driven by the pedals attached to the front wheel. No brakes so my first trendy fixie. I rode that bike all over. Up and down the garden. Forwards and backwards. Different terrains both tarmac and off road (garden path and lawn). Even mixing it up with the flower beds and along the cobbles as can be seen in the photo of me in a Spring Classic. It was chilly so I wore cycling tights and a woollen jersey as did all the professionals back in the 1960s. Smart hard soled cycling shoes too. My main handicap was that my younger sister insisted on me giving her backies around the garden which would’nt’ve cramped my style so much except that she also insisted that we stop to pick up dropped shoes. I doubt if Jacques Anquetil or Beryl Burton had to put up with that nonsense. Anyway, the extra weight certainly ensured my leg muscles were well developed for a 3 year old. At this time I lived in Bridgwater and although not too far from the infamous Porlock Hill (25%) decided against a trip out there partly due to my lack of gearing but mainly as my sister wasn’t allowed to venture more than 10 miles from home. This was the 60s when kids had more freedom to roam but there was a limit. Within a couple of years I moved out of Bridgwater which was a shame as the brilliantly stocked St John St Cycles is based there from which I’ve bought quite a few standard and very non-standard (i.e. not to be found anywhere else) parts through their on-line store.