My bikes have shared flats with interesting people back in
the day.
Back in the day, when I was a singleton in London I lived
briefly in a one roomed flat in a big house I shared with a number of other
mortals in Lawrie Park Road, Sydenham.
One Sunday morning I was up at 4am to have a breakfast before riding out
to do a time trial on the A3, west of London, near Cobham.
It was probably a 15-mile ride.
I set off while the rest of the house was still asleep. Of
course they were. Who in their right mind would rise at 4am, unless they had to?
Well, I had to. I had to ride this “25”.
I recall riding due west along the South Circular Road and
somewhere around Tooting suddenly realising I would not reach the start in
time.
What to do?
I stopped at the side the road and thumbed a lift.
A car soon pulled up. A man was driving his young son to a
judo tournament – as you do.
Can we help, he asked.
Bit of cheek, I said, but are you going via the A3, near Cobham?
They were passing that way and kindly offered to give me a
lift.
I removed the wheels and slid the bike into the
back of their estate wagon.
So where are you off to, I said.
I’m taking my son to a judo tournament in Guildford, said
the father.
Where was I going?
I told him, describing the time trial. We all three swopped
stories about our respective sports.
They dropped me off about a mile from the start of the TT. I
was extremely grateful.
I recall getting changed in what often passed for dressing
rooms in an early morning time trial – behind a hedge at the roadside.
But I couldn’t fault the organisers. Because it was a very fine hedge, dense
foliage, with huge overhang to keep your change of clothes dry from the rain
which had started to fall.
I cannot recall the time I posted. Nothing to write home
about. I was a road racer, really. Well, sort of. Once briefly rose to the rank of second cat.
I didn’t have the
pure speed needed for time trialling. But I liked to ride them occasionally, to
test myself, alone, suffer unaided and against the clock, after which I would
tell myself, never again.
I could expect a top 20 in a hard rider’s event, because I could
climb reasonably well, and take corners fast.
But I wouldn’t normally trouble anyone in a flat out and back TT.
What struck me about this particular course were the
terrifyingly large slip roads you had to cross, where a solitary cyclist felt
adrift in a sea of tarmac exposed to traffic hurtling by. Thankfully, traffic was
light on this occasion.
For this was a section of the newly opened A3, built to
motorway standard. I vowed never to
ride it again.
And then I rode home, stopping briefly for a coffee and sandwich
at a café somewhere. I was indoors again
by 11.30am, having been out for about six hours. Felt like a whole day – a refreshing
vigorous workout.
The house was as silent as when I had left at first
light.
No one was up. The curly headed guy and his girlfriend were
still in bed. Well, it was Sunday!
But Martin poked his head out of his room as I parked my
bike on the landing. And he emerged to admire my Harry Quinn Bill Bradley model, sparkling in kingfisher blue with half-chrome forks.
Martin was an amusing fellow, from South Africa. He wanted
to know where I had been and I told him. He was mildly interested and told me
his chosen sport was sky diving.
He regaled me with tales of daring do, free-falling from
12,000 feet at over 120 mph before opening the chute to arrest his fall and so
glide the final 4000 feet or so.
And how during free fall he would aim to catch up a mate and wreck his dive by yanking open his rip cord to prematurely open his 'chute –– before shooting away again at speed, leaving his
mate swinging there screaming….
“B
A s T A A A A A A R D……………”
