Racing Times

It was as though I had spent the winter months riding a donkey, a heavy, crude workhorse but I only realised it today when I got my thoroughbred, faithful, old racing bike out of mothballs in favour of my equally faithful but considerably newer mountain bike.

It has been a good six months on the off-roader, the perfect machine on which to venture out of the city and career along the trackways, bridlepaths, riverbanks, old railway courses and headlands. It has been great fun to handle the bike over all manner of ground conditions and terrain although often resulting in a head to toe caking of mud, backsplash and other debris thrown up by chunky tyres.

I have been exhausted and exhilarated in equal proportions by the activities on two wheels especially as the diminishing daylight hours and deteriorating weather have made every opportunity to ride out a treasured one.

With the faltering arrival of Spring I have been gradually preparing my road bike for the new season.

It has been hidden away at the back of the garage, often squashed behind other cycles which arrive and depart with family members or shunted in between storage boxes and the red plastic box into which is thrown our recycling waste. Hidden but not forgotten and every so often I have turned the wheels so that the tyres do not perish on the cold concrete floor and rotated the pedals to make sure the axle has not frozen up from moisture and corrosion.

The recent purchase of an indoor trainer has seen the bike in some recent use but I have been waiting for suitable conditions in which to actually venture outdoors.

It must be perfectly dry, ideally calm and with no greasy residues on the road surfaces which give minimal traction to the 19mm slick and high pressure tyres which are the only physical contact with planet earth.

Today it was a case of settling for two out of the three criteria, the howling gale being unexpected on an otherwise bright and clear day.

The bike was hand built for me back in 1982, its purchase being possible by a more than generous bequest from my maternal Grandfather.

I have kept it maintained and up to date in terms of equipment and style although whoever re-enamelled a couple of years ago  must have been colour blind as my express wishes for a faithful reproduction of the original bright race-red resulted in, well, a bit of a darkish gangland murder pool of blood shade which does nothing to accentuate the beautiful clean lines, geometry and gracefulness of a quality bike.

The frame in Reynolds 531 tubing was top of the range in 1982 but has been surpassed by technological changes and advances in the use of aluminium and carbon fibre but there is a tautness and flex which makes riding a sheer pleasure. It may be a bit more weighty than current models but that brings momentum and power. As for the saddle. It is a bit of a knife edge and I will admit there can be some initial discomfort on mounting after a long absence but it is a rapid process that sees me integrated into the physical and mechanical properties that are a man and bike working in complete harmony.

My first push down on the pedals sees me out into the rear service road behind the house. I wobble a bit on the tightly sprung wheels and the narrow handlebars. I have been used to a more upright riding position on the mountain bike but there is a natural stoop and poised stance immediately on a racing bike and it feels good.

The early May watery sunlight catches the stainless spokes and I am mesmerised by that effect. I stare at the shimmering metal almost forgetting to look up and manoeuvre through the parked cars and pedestrians on the public highway.

There is the distinctive swish of the motion of the bike and an almost silent running which reassures me that my periodic oiling and maintaining in the winter has been acceptable. The transition from a constant 10mph average speed on the mountain bike almost regardless of the terrain to nearer 20mph on the road bike is scary but not quite as terrifying as having cleated shoes which make forward planning to put down a foot at a junction essential.

Three hours later I still feel the same affection for the bike although I have had to put the chain back on three times and I admit to shameful cursing on more than one occasion when the gears jumped a sprocket. Most endearing is that it has been a bit of a time machine and I have glimpsed some of the sporting prowess and ability that was present way back in the day.