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?
