Open Writing

That I did learn to ride a bike I am well aware. But at what precise moment I became master of the machine -- not vice versa -- when I could maintain stability by remaining vertical whilst the two of us were in unified motion, that moment escapes me, as does any recall of the bike itself. One thing for sure -- it would not have belonged to me.

The earliest memory I do have of practising such a discipline was during a visit to my cousin when we would both be ten years of age. I had obtained from someone, somehow, a two-wheeler known then as a ‘fairy cycle’, a title which, for some reason, is not in general use today.

My cousin rode a larger model, one which he could control rather more than I could, since my machine tended to take control of me. I remember him, clever-clogs, saying, “I’ll try and ride in a circle.” To myself I said, “If I could ride in a straight line, I’d be happy.” Yet when such time arrived I wasn’t at all pleased. Still, that initial spell of riding sufficiently persuaded me that I had mastered the art of two-wheeled propulsion and filled me with sufficient confidence for a second attempt, whenever the occasion should arise.

Bike riding was the ‘done thing’ in those days, the 1930s. Even girls rode bikes, an’ ah mean, if lasses cud do it, ther mun’t be much to it. It must be easy. Oh no, it needn’t be, as I was to discover.

My next recollection of being astraddle a saddle was on home ground. Again, whose bike it was I am unsure. I do remember that it was a ‘sit-up-and-beg’ model. So many of them were in those times.

There was I then, mounted on the machine, full of ignorant confidence and confident ignorance as to my cycling capabilities. And where did I choose to make my second solo performance? Not only on a descending main road, namely the High Street, but also at the point where it disappeared round a blind left-hand bend.

Reviewing the event from an action replay point of view, there was the bike awaiting instructions from some controlling power, namely me. These it did not receive. I simply raised my feet off the ground. Where I put them I have forgotten, but I suspect it was not on the pedals. Rather, they stuck out on the end of a pair of rigid legs, perhaps in the vain hope of their acting as air brakes. If so, they didn’t.

I did remain upright, but that was all. The bike simply followed the terrain and carried me down the incline and across the road, irrespective of whether traffic was approaching from the blind side or not. Fortunately there was none. For the first time in my life I was petrified -- totally ignoring the shouted instructions from my colleagues telling me to turn the front wheel or brake, or both. Turn the wheel? I couldn’t even loosen my grip on the handlebars sufficiently to reach for the brakes. It was the fear of falling over that prevented me from attempting a change in direction. I underwent an early realization of rigor mortis.

Across the road which I travelled stood the post office, and it was this which halted my progress. There was no damage to myself, the bike or the post office, but the whole episode brought home to me the need for practice in changing direction whilst in motion on a bicycle. My associates thought the performance hilarious, delighting in describing the affair in minute detail over and over again. That isn’t why I remember the incident in such clarity. I rather believe it was the acidity of fear which etched the episode on my memory. Eleven-year-olds are quite impressionable.

Matters evidently improved after that and without threat to life or limb, since I did master the art of control over a bicycle and then quite naturally began to pester my grandmother with regard to me obtaining one. Forever protective, she was for a time most reluctant with regard to my pleas. In all probability she lacked the wherewithal, but such matters don’t exist in the minds of tunnel-visioned juveniles.

That enquiries regarding the purchase of a machine had been progressing unbeknownst to me came to light one summer evening when I was told to escort grandma to the home of a friend, where, it transpired, also resided what was to be my first bicycle. It belonged to the eldest son who, for whatever reason, wished to sell it. But I was in no way interested in his needs. Mine lay with the bike, which for the princely sum of one pound came into my possession.

The makers of the bike were Dunelt of Sheffield. No, I had never heard of that brand either and only once since have I heard the name. I remember the frame was red and it had ‘racing handlebars’ as opposed to ‘sit-up-and-beg’. Also there was a ‘goose-neck’ saddle pillar and, as one sour-grape merchant boastfully pointed out, a crack in the frame at the point of the bottom bracket.

Isn’t it quite noticeable how easily one slips back into the technical jargon? Saddle pillar, drop handlebars, bottom bracket, and that was only the beginning. Cotter-pins, ball-races, fixed gears, brakes, side-pull, cantilever centre-pull varieties, brake-blocks and shoes, Sturmy-Archer three speed gears, Deraillea three speed gears, toe-straps, toe-clips -- all were to follow as the delightful and hitherto unknown mysteries of bicycles and their component parts were revealed to me over a period of time.

I was proud of that bike, as I’m sure others have felt the same kind of attraction for their first machines. True, I didn’t understand its mechanics at first. Indeed it’s a wonder I didn’t completely fracture the frame the first time I attempted the replacement of a cotter-pin, having first failed to inspect its construction, with the result that I went against all its design when fitting -- or rather attempting to fit -- the part. There was I, belting the pin with a hammer -- ‘all Hell and no notion’ as the saying goes -- and in the process totally disfigured it and got it stuck into the bargain. How the situation was resolved I don’t recall. Perhaps it was the son from next door to us who rescued me, if only for peace and quiet since the operation was being carried out upstairs in an evening and, as he worked on the buses, he could well have been on early shift.

That particular bike though was to receive plenty more hammer before we parted company. It transported me to and from school and carried me around the local highways and byways. As in earlier years when on foot, intimate knowledge of the local topography was gleaned. Thus when riding one became aware of provincial road hazards -- lumps, bumps and pot-holes. A split front tyre resulted from me riding across a raised chequer-studded manhole cover. Obviously all such were avoided afterwards.

Thus my cycling education was widened, in puncture repairs and cost of renewals, also the conversion from hammer to spanner when adjustments were required. Our house joined the ranks of other bike-owning homes with its display of bent spoons, testimony to their use as tyre levers.

Along with other boys of similar age and with similar possessions, there would be the highly technical discussions, arguments and rows as to the merits and demerits of tyre brands. Were Woolie’s brake blocks inferior to those from Wigfalls? We learned to refer to grease nipples without collapsing into fits of schoolboy laughter. Makes of cycles were heatedly reviewed. Which was foremost in quality and durability? Mine as a Dunelt caused raised eyebrows and the question, “What’s that?” I was happy with it, and for me that settled the matter.

Skidding on crushed boiler clinker might have been impressive with its dust clouds and scored furrows which such actions created, but they also played havoc with tyre tread. Anyone practising such displays for amusement or bravado, as it often was, were in general looked upon as being foolishly extravagant or, more precisely, bloody daft.

Mind you, there were other balm-pots around at the time. In those days a traffic island stood in front of Dewsbury Town Hall, and one boy was convinced that whilst circumnavigating it he could make his rear wing-nuts touch the ground. Obviously he failed to appreciate the obvious. First, his pedal would make contact before the wing-nut did and, second, the angle required to achieve his desire would be much too acute. As if that wasn’t stupid enough, he persisted in taking the half-mile run at each attempt from his house to the Town Hall. Why, I have no idea. Then he would faithfully push his bike back up the hill for a further attempt. I mention this to give an idea of the intellect of some at the time. They didn’t all die at birth. He’s dead now though, of natural causes I might add.

However, one didn’t have to be hare-brained to come a cropper whilst riding a bike. Rounding the same Town Hall at too keen an angle many years later, my bike and I parted company, with me making a one point landing -- on my chin. The scar remains as a reminder. Still, I married the girl I’d been chatting up previously. That accounted for my haste -- I was late for work.

My first bike supported me in all weathers. It had to, for when I left school my first job was a butcher’s errand boy, and since there was no shop bike available, I had either to use my own or walk, and the daily mileage was considerable. There it was that I mastered the art of single-handed bike control, carrying the delivery basket on my other arm. And like most early riders I progressed in proficiency until I could proceed with both hands free of the handlebars, fortunately without the experience of one young lad who, as the story goes, cried out, “Look Mam, no hands.” His next statement is said to have been, “Look Mam, no teef.”

By the time of our final parting my bike had served me well in providing a test-bed for an apprenticeship of machine maintenance. I could then reduce the assemblage to its component parts, and what is more important, reassemble them to their original unity without any leftovers. All right. I lost a few ball-bearings from the fork-frame coupling the first time I dismantled it, but not so many that you’d notice.

Eventually bike and I went our different ways, well some of it did. Stripped of all salvageable parts, the frame with its long-time cracked bottom bracket -- which had never varied in width -- was cast onto the rubbish heap. There was no sadness in my heart, no tender farewells. It was out with the old and in with the new. By that time I was a wage earner and thus it became possible for me to acquire a more modern bicycle, this time a brand new one. And that brand, far from being obscure, was well known, BSA. Shiny black and with a Cyclo-Star three speed gear. Hey up, world, here I come.