Bikes

At thirteen, my pleasure in cycling aimlessly around Blackheath with friends baffled my neighbour Jo, three years my senior, whose only use for a bike was commuting to school.

The gift of a much-anticipated bike for Christmas triggered an early foray into dissembling. Having grown out of twenty-inch wheels, now it was time for a proper grown up model. As the cover was thrown aside, I beheld a tired looking second-hand bike with, of all horrors, a curved crossbar and a miserly four gears instead of the customary five. I was ignorantly unaware that funding my private education (a mistake in retrospect, but that’s another story) necessitated family economies in other departments.

My dissatisfaction increased when my best friend suffered a minor collision in Greenwich Park which triggered an insurance payout, enabling him to acquire a ten-speed Dawes with drop handlebars. Perhaps this was what secured his devotion to two wheeled transport. A few years later, living in a shared house in north London, he met the founder of what would become Madison, a major distributor of cycle parts and accessories, was offered a job and spent his entire career there, receiving on retirement – you guessed it, a new bike.

After I was permitted to ride the five miles to school, I understood Jo’s perspective and cycling was demoted to a necessary form of transport until I passed my driving test, which took another decade. 

Hazily I remember a bike in St Andrews, abandoned when I abandoned my course. 

Back in London another unmemorable bike carried me daily from a rented flat in Antrim Road to Kings College via Regents Park. Helmets had not been invented and I gaily negotiated the Aldwych, at that time a four-lane roundabout, jostling for position with buses, taxis and cars. In the evenings, I would cycle to the Cockpit or the Unity, theatres where I was honing my skills in stage lighting.

In the eighties, on a whim, I bought a hybrid bike at a cycling fair in Birmingham’s NEC. As I soon discovered, it was a size too small. But it enabled me to join several holidays with Bicycle Beano, a niche holiday company in the Welsh borders run by Rob and Jane both inveterate cyclists and campaigners for the simple life. We camped in the grounds of a large, dilapidated house whose previous incarnation was a boarding school, where vegetarian meals and wholesome evening pastimes were on offer. One week, in the relative safety of the old school gym, I mastered the art of the unicycle – at least for three metres.

In London again, I joined Greenwich Cyclists, expecting to reprise my teenage meandering around the park. The group had grander ideas. After meeting by the Greenwich Foot Tunnel, most rides would set off along one of the arterial roads leading east of Greenwich, explore south-east London’s charmless outer suburbs and return in failing light along windswept main roads. The only memorable ride, accessed via several changes of train, was a coastal route around Kent which included Dover Castle. 

The hybrid was sold as a prelude to the transfer of the house to my ex-wife. Inspired by a girlfriend who I had persuaded to buy a new bike before her old one collapsed completely, I bought the same model. It gathered dust in the locked bike shed at London Yard. When I finally decided to take it for a tour of the Thames path it had vanished. Its replacement fared even worse, stolen on its maiden outing, despite being locked and in sight of the restaurant where I was dining with my son. As I waved him off on the bus, I contemplated a five mile walk home with only the severed cable for company. It was little consolation to remind myself that London’s transport system is so comprehensive and generally reliable that unless you enjoyed jousting with traffic and inhaling exhaust fumes there was little incentive to cycle, especially once I qualified for a freedom pass. By the time bike lanes and low emission zones made city cycling more appealing, I had left the capital.

Even during periods when I had least active involvement in cycling, bike shops held a fascination. I would wander in, sniff the rubbery air and gaze at the ranks of gleaming machines. Bike shop assistants are usually cycling enthusiasts, keen to explain the features of different models and quite unfazed when after a long and detailed exposition on the latest innovations I would admit I was just browsing. 

The bicycle industry is adept at inventing new variants to stimulate additional purchases. Serious cyclists will have at least two steeds: a steel or aluminium framed winter bike with mudguards and sturdy tyres, and a lightweight summer one with a carbon frame. Each of these can be subcategorised into road bikes, gravel bikes or (a recent addition) endurance bikes, all with subtle differences in geometry and design. Similarly, mountain bikes and folding bikes come in a dizzying choice of frame materials, accessories and costs. And nowadays, almost every bike has an e-bike counterpart. 

Bike shops abounded in Exeter. Ambling around the Quay, my eye was caught by a pillar box red road bike which stood out haughtily from the ex-hire hybrids on sale. After a sleepless night, I bought it. Unsure where to go, a friend directed me to Exeter CTC. Regular rides take place on Thursdays and Sundays and range from thirty to sixty miles depending on the time of year and the weather. We have a library of routes to pick from – all include café stops. 

During retirement, I have cycled in various parts of the UK as well as short tours in France, Spain, Portugal and the Netherlands. My stable of bikes has grown, so that much of my non-cycling time is devoted to decided which bike to use on the next outing.

Sixty years later, I am back to where I began. The bikes are smarter, the refreshments are tastier and the Devon horizons are wider than Blackheath, but I am still spending my free time cycling around aimlessly with friends.