By some intricate and no doubt very tenuous route of contacts I received a short e mail from someone asking if I was the person of my name who in the early 1980's belonged to a cycle racing club in Nottingham.
The accompanying photograph to the communication was not immediately familiar. It was of a mature, middle aged man, clean shaven face and head and wearing a shirt and tie in an official business pose. The key, in my experience to forensically deconstruct a current day picture of someone to the last time you saw them is no concentrate on the appearance of the eyes.
Unquestionably the person was Smitty and I had last seen him in 1986.
That was our last bike ride out with the team before accepting that we were grown ups and that taking on responsibilities for ourselves and others meant that cycling became a pastime rather than, as we misguidedly had hoped, a lifestyle.
Smitty went to work in a transport despatch office in a large brewery in Nottingham, the other riders returned to college or drifted off to do other things and I was just starting my first full time job in Hull.
We had worked well as a team and every Wednesday afternoon and Saturday and Sunday Mornings, if schedules and timetables permitted, we would meet up in Nottingham City Centre or on the Ring Road with the intention of riding out in a large group into Derbyshire, up to Sheffield, across to Grantham or just to a greasy spoon café for tea and buns.
Some days we rode like demons, imitating a well oiled machine, a long paired line of athletes and skilled bike handlers throwing our machines around the potholes, parked vehicles and slow moving buses. Our reward, a plate of beans on heavily buttered toast with mugs of well sugared tea and sweet cakes at a cyclist frequented café in Ambergate or Loogabarooga (Loughborough) as we called it.
In retrospect the intake of proteins, sugars and caffeine may have technically infringed the prevailing rules on substance abuse, but as Lance later said- everyone was doing it. I can testify to that as I did see the Ashfield Wheelers gorging themselves on a huge plate of jammy doughnuts before putting in a phenomenal and suspect ride up the Via Gellia (The A5012 Trunk Road) which left our group as though we were rolling in a treacle road surface.
Some days we just struggled and straggled to find any cohesion and just abandoned any hope of leaving the city boundary. The punishment, beans and cakes but substituting hot Vimto for tea.
In the winter months this training regime was not much fun as toes, fingers and noses bore the brunt of the inclement weather. However, the camaraderie and common purpose- to be able to effectively race in the spring and summer - provided me with great memories which are strong even to this day, a quarter of a century on.
I have just met up with Smitty, his wife and two young children upon a rare visit for them to my home area. I spent a great hour or so in catching up with them and Smitty got me up to speed with the whereabouts and wherewithals of my contemporaries of that distant time.
Many are still on their bikes or the sport, in some form, still plays a major part in their lives as much as it does in my own. Me and Smitty agreed to get together again, perhaps for a drink and even track down a few of the lads and dare I say it, venture out on two wheels.
I expect we will just continue where we left off but take our time up the big hills and dwell a bit longer at a café on a welcome plate of low fat baked beans on olive oil spread slimmers toast, tea with sweeteners but abstain from the heavy cakes. We may not be able to pedal fast any more but we will be wise and clever with it and the world will be put to rights, if we can spare the breath.
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