Lightweight

The inheritance from my Grandfather was used to buy a bicycle.

Perhaps with hindsight the money should have been invested in a high interest earning account and if left untouched may have accrued to a tidy figure indeed , enough for a small sports car or a reasonable down payment on a house.

Gloriously I spent it all on the bright red frame and iconic Italian made components that have carried me for many tens of thousands, if not more, miles since my purchase all those years ago.

It was a serious racing machine and at that price, taking into account inflationary trends, the figure today would be regarded as a great extravagance. It was my first real bike.

Not that I had ever been lacking in the bike department given that our family house contained, on one count, over 30 machines ranging from a chunky wheeled starter with brackets for stabilisers through to the pedigree cycles of my Father.

A summer job working on a farm had raised enough to buy a lightweight 12 speed racer from a catalogue. Pearl white finish, thin razor edge alloy wheels, decent equipment for the price range. I spent my leisure hours charging about the countryside and before long looked the part, or some part, of an enthusiast of cycle sports. I soon became obsessed with the statistics of miles pedalled, hours duration of a run, average speed and top speed . A handlebar mouted odometer could also be most demoralising if I had overreached myself so that even the slightest incline in the road brought on a rapid tumbling of the numbers on the liquid crystal display.

The clothing came next. A lycra jersey with the trademark rear pockets to stow away inner tubes, puncture repair kit, tool kit, Mars Bars and a few coins for a phone call if I encountered any insurmountable technical or physical problems. My first involuntary dismount was soon to follow. It may have been a front wheel skid on a cowpat on the road or due to my inattention from a simple error of steering. Calmly, on my return to the house on foot pushing the damaged bike, my Father assessed and then promptly repaired the problem. What I had considered to be a terminal affliction was only a minor scrape and a twisting of alloy metals to an experienced mechanic like my Father.

The swish of racing tyres on tarmac, the rush of adrenalin on a fast descent, the chill of an early morning ride and a feeling of overwhelming well being and fitness cannot be surpassed by many things in life. I would disappear for a whole day at a time on the bike. My perceived invincibility often resulted in my realisation some 60 miles from home that I would struggle to make the return trip but with relentless pedal rhythym, not a little hunger induced hallucination and careful rationing of water and my last chocolate bar I would always make it back eventually, but not in good shape. Gradually the same distance out and back became easier and enjoyable. I could finish with a race against the traffic through the town and easily imagine a crowd thronged street and a finish line. I was ready for the next level of bike.

The red speed machine was hand built. I had found the small cycle shop in a suburb of Nottingham where I was a student. At first the proprietor seemed to speak a different language. It was bike-ese. Technical, dealing with brazings, tubing, sizings, guages, clearances, tolerances and angles. I thought it better to tell him how much I had to spend. We came to an understanding on a pre-declared budget basis.

Brian 'Pinky' Green was a Master Frame Builder. I was carefully measured for leg and arm reach, foot extension and many more dimensions which would contribute to a customised product. My input at this stage was a stipulation that it had to be in the brightest red metallic enamelled finish. Next, the components. They had to be Campagnolo. Skillfully crafted Italian made works of functional art. Upon lifting up the lid of the box containing the toothed chainset I was dazzled by the mastery of the faultless metal. The same sheen and quality persisted for the following 30 years of use and even when it was eventually retired from the bike it could still grace a position as a focal point in a living room- if permitted by the lady of the house.

I clearly recall my visit to the shop to collect the completed bike. The freewheel of the Campag gear cluster clicked enticingly and seductively as Brian, his wife and son looking on, wheeled it out from the secretive enclave of his work room into the shop. I had eyes only for that thing of beauty and grace, forged from lightweight tubing with ornate brazing connections and the deepest hue of red that you could ever imagine. For some reason I gave it, her, the name of Loretta. It stuck and Loretta Langdale became an integral part of my life.

The current day Loretta has not changed much from the original. I have replaced a few components and upgraded and concealed the brake cables as has become the fashion. A recent re-enamelling with a stipulation for the same red went horribly wrong and Loretta came back a bit darker and a little less striking. I hid my tears of shame upon letting her down in such a way.

I am also ashamed to admit that I have not been out cycling much recently. There is always something more pressing that must be done before the mind, body and soul can be released on two wheels.

I did ride out yesterday, the first time for a while.

It was a great feeling and me and Loretta zipped along efficiently and as one entity. As a measure of my fitness I did manage to overtake two cyclists. One of them gave me look of incredulity from under the visor on his cycling helmet as though to say "how could a chubby man propel an off-red coloured bicycle so fast ?". He was about four years old and, granted he was sat in a baby seat behind his pedalling father. Nevertheless, to my mind it still counted as two cyclists as I flashed past in a blur of over-stressed lycra and a fine spray of perspiration.