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.