Fly Tipping by the Romans

Shock, Horror. For all of their organisational skills and attention to detail, as required to create a large and functioning Empire on 3 across vast swaths of 3 continents, the Romans were actually rather guilty of leaving behind quite a lot of trash. 

That is quite understandable after, in England, nearly 400 years of occupation, suppression and settlement. 

The presence of rubbish dumps and waste deposits has given a detailed and unique insight into the more mundane activities and practices of the Romans and no more so than excavated from the field site of a major regional military camp at Brough in East Yorkshire. 

Under its period name of Petuaria the four and a half acre site was one of the few in England to have been in use for the whole duration of the Roman Occupation of the country. 

Merchant and military shipping unloaded and disembarked after making their way up the Humber Estuary from other parts of the Empire and struck out for York and beyond. 

At that time it was possible to ford the river easily at low tide and so there was a continuation of the Ermine Street corridor from the Southern parts of Britain. 

Petuaria was therefore a busy staging post. Even before the arrival of the invaders the area was part of the territory of the Parisi Tribe. 

Modern era excavations found a large camp with ditches on three sides and later walls and fortifications in local limestone. These included projecting Bastions which were projections to conduct a side-on defence against attackers. This indicated the planned process of developing the site across a number of epochs of occupation. In one archaelogical dig a stone with an inscription referred to a Theatre.

There were traces of conflict and the site will have been pillaged quite frequently. 

Found in the discarded rubbish were coins from the reign of, in no particular order, Marcus Aurelius, Constantious, Licinius and the Usurper Emperor Alectus. 

Domestic tools and objects included Samian Earthenware with some items bearing the name of its makers, amongst them Divicators and Paullus. 

One notable find although incomplete was a handle for a wine jar of a type three feet high. Cooking vessels and weaving frames will have been in daily use and readily discarded after use or if damaged. More fancy items illustrated that there was some wealth around. 

Jewellery finds included a brooch depicting a wild boar, the animal being held in some reverence in particular by the Parisi. 

More morbid discoveries were of the skeletons of babies although live sacrifices were known to take place as part of a ritual blessing of buildings and this could have been the case at Petuaria. 

This area around what is the now large commuter area of Brough continues to throw up relics of the Roman Occupation under the farmers plough or where new housing estate residents happen to disturb the ground in their gardens. 

Battle of Stamford Bridge

Up and over the narrow hump-backed river crossing on the contraflow green light, sweep left into small market place and then a short incline before passing modern housing developments and that's it. 

The village of Stamford Bridge, some 8 miles to the east of York. 

Track back 954 years as of yesterday and the scene will have been starkly different. 

You will have been witness to the mayhem and horror of a pitched battle that contributed to one of the most significant changes in the history of England. 

It was a time of dispute over the right to be the Monarch in the void left by the death of Edward the Confessor. 

In the frame of succession were home based Harold Godwinson, the continental William of Normandy and Harold Hardrada the King of Norway. 

Harold Godwinson had already been crowned as rightful king but forces were beginning to form alliances against him. His own brother, the exiled Tostig, approached Hardrada and the two of them planned an invasion. 

After landing a force of 10000 Norwegians from 300 Longships on the north east coast they established a strong foothold in the effective capital city of York with a victory over the Northumbrian and Mercian army at Fulford on its outskirts. 

In order to save his fledgling rule the newly crowned Harold the Second assembled an army and made a forced march over the far from easy route from London up country, a distance of 190 miles on little more than cart tracks if any actual byways existed at all. 

His army was 10500 footmen and 2000 on horse strong and their swift deployment took the Viking army by surprise. 

I seem to remember a project sheet about the ensuing Battle of Stamford Bridge from way back in my junior school days. The images of a huge Scandi-Axe Man keeping Harold's men at bay on a narrow timber crossing point over the River Derwent are still deeply engrained in my 8 year old consciousness, such was the graphic detail of the art on the work card. 

What made the event even more memorable was the thought of one of Harold's soldiers floating along under the bridge and ramming a spear into an orifice with fatal consequences. 

This opened the battle out for Harold. Both Hardrada and Tostig were killed. Of course the victors write the history and although home casualties were not recorded the away team were reputed to have lost 8000. Only 24 Longships were required for the retreat across the North Sea. 

The actual battlefield site is still a matter of debate. The locating of a mass grave from clearance of the dead in excavations in the 18th century has never been validated. Any 11th Century timber bridge structure left no traces. There has been no meaningful trove of rusty relics thrown up by the plough or in the regular over-spilling of the Derwent.  

Even to this day there are a number of riverside meadows where the bloodbath is reputed to have taken place. That referred to as Battle Flatts is the front runner and a few of the residential streets in the village are named on the same theme. 

Harold may count himself fortunate in his rout of the invaders as it appears that an additional 5000 enemy troops were just 15 miles away keeping a watching guard over the fleet of longships. This will have been along the Ouse River which fed into the Humber Estuary.

The death of Hardrada is considered by historians to mark the end of the Viking Age. 

Of course, there was no time for an after party celebration for King Harold. Within a matter of days the arrival of William the Conqueror on the South Coast required his attention and another arduous route march and a third major confrontation in a matter of just over three weeks. 

As they say, the rest is history. 

Minty Fresh

 Apart from the obvious printed "Best Before" date on the wrapper you can never be too sure how old a bar of Kendal Mint Cake really is.

It is perhaps one of the most stable and dependable products on the planet in that it's characteristics are such that it does not freeze nor at the other end of the thermometer does it melt. Interestingly its invention in or around 1869 was down to a batch of, as the legend says, glacier mints being boiled for too long and with the resultant tasty residue only being discovered the next morning of the production run. The combination of the overcooked caked texture, the minty flavour and the fact that all of this took place in a Bakehouse in Kendal made it pretty easy to give it a name. That was fortunate given that the person who stumbled on the famous mix had the surname Wiper which does not have the same sort of aura and commercial viability (unless selling things to clean a windscreen)

The properties of being able to cope with extremes put this unique confectionery offering on the shopping list for those planning an expedition whether deep in the desert, jungle, up a mountain or at the far ends of the Earth.

Of course the composition of sugar, glucose and peppermint oil make for an ideal source of energy for the most demanding of situations and with endorsements from Adventurers of the calibre of Shackleton, Hillary and Tensing, Boorman and McGregor you can appreciate the demand for those seeking to emulate those who strived in difficult terrains and climates in those halcyon days of exploration and human endeavour.

My Father was in the category of Kendal Mint Cake Officianado.

There was always a bar of the stuff in the glove compartment of the family car even though none of us knew how long it had been there. It remained pristine in its wrapper for, I would say, more than two decades and not only that but it was transferred between a few successive family cars along with the more usual contents of the glove box. 

We were in awe and respect of such a pedigree item and its historical back-story . Even though we, as children, may have been very, very sweet toothed on a particularly long car journey or just bored if it was a bit of a tedious trip we knew that a nibble or even a sniff of the ration bar was out of the question. My Father must have been very close to breaking that Kendal Mint Cake bar out as survival rations as he would avail us of many stories of difficult motoring conditions including snow drifts and fallen trees but they were not, in his opinion, sufficiently extreme or perilous for all that to justify such a thing.

I did have a bit of a personal craving to taste the famous Kendal Mint Cake and my long time membership of the Scouting Movement did give me access to the source of the delicacy on the occasions that our Troop had a summer camp in the English Lake District . That was however only if our tented camp was within a bus ride of the town of Kendal.

In those days the genuine product was not as widely distributed and sold as it is now and so it was the case that an actual mini-expedition was necessary to get some.

I can truthfully say that, to me,  the taste was not the main attraction. In fact it is quite hard to eat too much of it even when struggling along on a countryside ramble or under the exertion of defying gravity on a mountain hike. Too much sugar doesn't half make your teeth ache. The glucose element is not really that noticeable as it takes some time to get into your system. Strong peppermint can make your nasal passages painfully open to freshened air.

There is actually more kudos in just leaving the bar in its wrapper in and in keeping it for years and years in a safe but easily reached place.

As my Father would say it is best to have some Kendal Mint Cake stashed away- just in case.

Other brands and flavours are available,

Makes Midsomer look crowded

 The directional road sign looked forlorn sticking up out of the verge.

We are well used to huge groupings of metal posts and signage in our towns and cities but coming across a sole example in the middle of rolling countryside can be quite startling.

The brown tourist information livery bore the words "Deserted Medieval Village", in itself enough of a curiosity to act as an incentive to divert traffic from their otherwise pre-planned and determined route towards the North Yorkshire Moors and Heritage Coast Resorts.

What to expect of a village from the middle ages and one that has been deserted for all that?

For those vaguely interested enough to take the narrow side lane there must be imaginings and expectations of what lies around the bend in the road. Most of us will have studied the period in junior or secondary school at least and I can still recall the illustrations in text books of mud and thatch huts, small wicker fenced livestock pens, a lot of folk milling around and a few industrious looking plumes of smoke from kiln, smelter and brewery.

Some confusion may arise in our thoughts from images of settlements depicted on the big screen representing either a Hollywood interpretation of the Middle Ages or that mythical Middle Earth.

The car park appears. Not very medieval looking in loose dressed granite chippings and a few dispersed waste bins. There is still nothing to be seen apart from a rustic wooden arrow pointing down another narrow way, this time only suitable for those on foot, mountain bike or horse. A few may just give up and return to their vehicles at this stage as actually reaching the elusive site involves a bit of physical effort albeit downhill.

After a 100 metres or so down the track there is a kissing gate and stile to negotiate and a shallow but sparklingly clear water stream is crossed by a Pooh-sticks bridge but still  nothing at all ancient to gawp at.

Something is however changing in the natural landscape.

Beyond the watercourse the path rises again to a blind summit. This is the northern end of a high Wold valley in this part of East Yorkshire. It is a typical steep sided, "v" shaped valley common to the county but with three critically unique features, 1)It is not dry due to a continous source of water, 2) following a landslip in geologic time it has a plateau in the bottom and 3)a mainly north/south alignment before curving away and shallowing out to the west.

Unlike the other equally picturesque examples which characterise The Wolds the combination of these factors has permitted habitation by humans for millenia, at least from Neolithic times and followed by Iron Agers, Romans, Anglo Saxons , Saxon Normans and to the Middle Ages .

This is Wharram Percy.

The first part of the name is thought to have been derived from Scandinavian for "at the bends" and the second denoting ownership by the powerful Feudal Dukes of Northumberland who controlled and exacted wealth from huge tracts of North Eastern England. 

Over the near horizon appears the tower of a church and in its shadow a low range pair of cottages.

A few modern information boards explain the just above ground footings of former peasant dwellings but most interesting of all is an artists impression of a thriving village with, verified by the Domesday Book, two manor houses, 35 other properties, a dam and fish pond with water mill, glebeland and other utility structures to meet the everyday needs of an estimated 150 strong community requiring self sufficiency and a means of sustenance and livelihood.

There was some value in all of this to a landowner and Lord of the Manor with, after the Percy domination control by, amongst others, an Archbishop of York and a Baron.

The depopulation in the fifteenth century was down to the wholesale eviction of the inhabitants to make way for sheep grazing.

The site remains as one of the most important of its type in the UK but yet only 6% by area has been archaeologically investigated and with the last dig and study being in 1991.

Without human attention the predominantly organic buildings rotted away or the materials were commandered and taken away by occupants of nearby hamlets and farmsteads. Part of the tower of St Martins Church fell down in 1959, some ten years after the last act of worship and the farm cottages were last lived in in the 1970's.

The church has many phases of masonry but with 10th century origins. The graveyard investigation revealed 700 skeletons and yielded much about the villagers, their physical stature, health and welfare. Unusually there was a higher than average rate of left handedness. The hard graft required to work the valley caused considerable erosion of cartilage in joints. A skull showed signs of skilful surgery to remove bone fragments from an impact injury.

Other aspects of daily life were reflected in excavated artefacts including candle holders to illuminate the hours of darkness, implements of spinning, recreational pastimes and pottery from as far away as France and the Mediterranean.

Remains of cattle and horses were plentiful for lugging heavy loads and with skeletal parts to show that dogs and cats were kept not so much for pets as usefulness for keeping vermin at bay.

To the visitor from the 21st Century it is a fascinating glimpse of the lifestyle of our distant ancestors.

It is also a beautiful place to just spend some time. Clambering past the pond and up the steep eastern slope gives an awe inspiring view to the soundtrack of meadow birds and under the shadow cast by the large wing span of a circling Red Kite.

You could easily lose a few hours if it were not for the thought of having to make the long return haul back up to the car park.

Gratis

What have the Romans ever done for us? 

Well, for my family they have certainly provided a lot of free stuff over the years and to my parents with five children and my own three wonderful youngsters that has been, on many days-out, a deity send.

I am a firm believer that there is some educational content and value in everything. This could be a strong material fact, an anecdote or just, my speciality, an unverifiable piece of urban mythology. It is little wonder that my children, when growing up, became a bit confused when, on what they thought was just an enjoyable day trip out they would be bombarded with some useful and some not so useful fact about things we drove past. That could be a building, a type of tree, a funny shop name, a rare car, a very distant aircraft or even a strange or suspicious looking pedestrian. 

In most instances, through the speed we were travelling or the lateness of my actual noticing of the interesting item, the children would have nothing to see as the essential illustration of my fact or statement. This would involve some complex explanations for the ensuing 10 minutes involving frequent hands off the steering wheel. Everything was, without the visual explanation, totally out of any context. 

Roman things are, by design, the perfect free educational resource. A Roman road, wonderfully straight and some good miles long provides the opportunity for me to have a rolling brief on its engineering, logistics and purpose. I will intentionally plan a long journey to include a stretch of Roman road. Sometimes I may be surprised by an arrow straight trunk road which just appears after a particularly car-sickness inducing series of bends, rises and falls. This starts my contention with the children or indeed any passengers at the time as to whether we are on a true Roman road or just a concession to a modern by-pass or much needed overtaking opportunity to clear a backlog behind labouring juggernauts and caravans. Gradually, by such subversive indoctrination my children, now all adults, have come to recognise the trademarks of a Roman road and I swell with pride if they identify such before I have had a chance to remark. 

I will pay the often extortionate entry fee to visit te best surviving artefacts of the Romans. Vindolanda in Northumberland is well worth the large amount of denarius' that are handed over to the youth dressed most unsuitably for the chill of the north-east in sandles and body armour. Actually, the latter is very useful for a night out in Newcastle. Hadrians Wall is also a good free resource but any educational content has to be paid for by a bit of a hard long walk across rough terrain and we have only tended to do this on the way back from a holiday in Scotland or well out of season if we have managed to get away for autumn half term or a spring break. 

We are very regular visitors to the City of York which has an abundance of free stuff from the walls and defensive buildings to fragments of stone pilfered after the Roman abandonment and then used in later construction. Unwittingly, the period may well have been remembered not so much for the architecture, engineering and culture as the greatest for the supply of hardcore, rubble and dressed stone for Anglo-Saxon housing and patios. My favourite feature in York is the incongrous pillar of very mixed materials which stands close to the Minster. It was found in flat pack kit form in an early excavation and subsequently re-assembled. If you get to see it you will understand that there were no actual instructions provided. It may even be upside down which, from my own experience of self assembly, can easily happen. 

I spent a year of an internship in Lincoln, another great Roman garrison and cultural centre. More free stuff around the Cathedral and Castle, a stone gateway,some spa baths. One of the partners in the firm I worked for had a house built on Roman foundations and I was invited to see them having expressed an interest in such things. The stonework was perfectly preserved and accessible from the cellar. The craftsmanship was beautiful to behold. Of course the labouring will have been done by slaves with their Roman Masters getting all the glory. 

My strongest memory of Roman artefacts also emphasised to me the cruelty and hardship of that period of, lets face it, occupation by a mighty foreign power. In the mid 1970's my father took me to the site of an archaeological dig in a field just adjacent to the busy A15 or better known Ermine Street, the M1 of the invaders. Maps of the locality between Lincoln and the Humber crossings on the way up to York showed many villa sites. Prime real estate for those qualifying for freedom from military or civil service. Early retirement at 35 but with a life expectancy of not much more. The field was quiet after the working party had left. The site had been throwing up bits of mosaic tile and pantile fragments for many years under the farmers plough or from treasure seekers. 

A large rectangular shape had been revealed after careful removal of tons of topsoil. I could make out detail from my school projects on villas, some hypercaust pieces from the underfloor heating, labelled pieces of pottery still partly embedded in the ground and short stretches of partly intact but largely jumbled up tessera (Resource book; The Romans in Britain for ages 8 to 11. Published in 1970). 

Then, in the four outer corners of the excavation I saw four metal collection trays, upturned as though to protect or hide something being worked on. Ever curious and a bit nosy I lifted up one of the trays. Huddled in the corner was the skeletal remains of a small baby. This was the same for the other three corners. I was shocked but also a bit morbidly fascinated by this discovery. 

My father explained that the babies would have been sacrificed for a favourable blessing for the villa by the deities. I was already following the train of thought about who would supply babies for this barbaric practice. The field was soon returned to the farmer after meticulous recording and removal to a local musuem of the most important items. I hoped that the babies had received a suitable and respectful memorial if they had been left where they had been put to the sword.

The withering of Withernsea

The seaside town of Withernsea is a regular destination for my work. 

On a map it sits on the North Sea Coast some 26 miles to the east of the City of Hull. In the mid 1800's it was not much more than a hamlet with a resident population of 107 souls engaged in inshore fishing and the usual range of rural and ancillary activities and services. 

The catalyst for its expansion and at quite a rapid rate was the connection by railway line to the national network through Hull and this saw an increase in the population to 2000 by 1903. All seemed poised for the establishing of a thriving resort town and at the turn of the twentieth century it was predicted that within 50 years the town could expect to have grown to around 40000. 

A newspaper correspondent for The Hull Daily Mail carried out his own investigative bit of journalism in 1903 by taking the train and spending a day in Withernsea. 

The town was not shy in self promotion and very much on the current message of using snappy three word slogans the mantra of "Withernsea Wants Visitors" was bandied about. 

This was followed up by enticements to come and see the seaside attractions of amusements, restaurants, donkey rides, musicians and the ever present Pierrot mime artists. Withernsea was seen as the playground for the residents of Hull but there was strong competition as Hornsea was also reachable by railway and involving a shorter journey. 

The return fare to Withernsea was, in 1903, the sum of 18 pence and for that outlay this specific day-tripper commented on the ancient railway carriages, seat cushion springs being lumpy and out of level and the rather unhygienic accumulation of biscuit crumbs and orange peel strewn around. The railway line ran through the eastern suburbs, Marfleet and then to Hedon before going cross country through Holderness past sleepy platforms just on the edges of the the villages of Keyingham, Ottringham and Patrington. My wife's grandfather lived as crossing keeper on this route. There was also a dropping off point at Winestead for well to do guests at The White Hall, a large country house. 

Our correspondent remarked that Withernsea Station was quite small but with a view immediately onto the towers that were the sole remains of what had been a major tourist asset- a Pier. Unfortunately it had been destroyed by a storm stricken ship and never reinstated. 

The picture presented of the principal Queen Street was not that complimentary in that it was not much more than a rough carriageway requiring kerbs although with signs of work in progress. 

In 1903 some villa style terraced houses were springing up on Southcliff and being taken up by mostly Hull folk who were attracted by the health benefits of sea air but also cheaper living costs away from the local taxes of the UK's Third Port. 

As for the beach, well, our intrepid reporter regarded it as inferior to those found, for example at Blackpool and other resorts being of soft sand and pebbley. On this day a few families were enjoying the open space or paddled in waters sticky with weeds and mussel beds. 

Mention was made of fun to be had in clambering on the crumbling boulder clay cliffs in the search for fossils, fragments of Jet, shells and bone fragments. 

There was altogether not too much by way of other amenities to write home about. 

The newspaper columnist ended with the advice to the townsfolk of Withernsea that they should wake up if material progress was to be made. That did not deter hordes of visitors though who were determined to make the most of what was in reality just 8 weeks of a season and on weekends, Bank Holidays and the annual regional shut down of industry Withernsea was invaded by many thousands arriving by excursion trains and buses. 

However, external factors conspired to disadvantage the town. 

Other North Sea resorts forged ahead to make the most of their attributes such as harbours, marinas, Castles and better accessibility from large population centres and Withernsea was relegated down in the hierarchy of popular destinations. 

The railway link fell victim to the Beeching cuts in the 1960's and the great optimism of developing into a large regional town were dashed. 

The most recent census figures from 2018 was 6458. 

The town is certainly not unique in its fortunes amongst many around the UK coastline but perhaps more hard done to than most. 

Whatever floats your boat

There I was doing a bit of daydreaming out of the office window. 

It is a great view out over the mighty Humber Estuary and with the fantastic suspension bridge that gets it name from the river in clear and unrestricted sight. 

It is a wonder that any of us get any work done at all with such an outlook on every work day. 

There is regular traffic up and down stream with coastal freighters and low set fuel barges vying for the deep water channel at high tide. The Pilot Service go past the window at a number of knots in contrast to the more leisurely passage of yachts and motor cruisers. It is very much an international trade route with my ShipFinder App tracking and identifying a specific vessel, the flag of its country of registration and a list of previous ports of call and where it is next expected. 

On this particular morning the tide had turned and so only shallow draught craft were able to navigate past the hazardous sand and mud banks which give the impression, as in centuries past, that you could actually make a crossing from the North to South banks of the Humber on foot. Into view from upstream, about 50 metres out, came a sleek silhouette. I could make out a sharp prow and a sloping bulkhead in the style of a fast motor boat but it was most definitely of a rowing boat variety. 

It was certainly of a higher calibre than those available for hire on a public lake or usually seen slung across the stern of a cabin cruiser. I immediately visualised the actor James Coburn using it to find a neutral ship in the movie "The Great Escape". 

Whatever its place of origin the boat was on the loose. There were no trailing ropes or damaged rowlocks and so how it began its quest for freedom was a mystery. 

The tide was now moving vast volumes of muddy water out to the North Sea. Gradually, as I kept watch, the boat edged closer to the shoreline. I am not at all familiar with the laws of salvage on the high seas although I seem to recall that if someone helps to rescue a vessel or cargo in times of peril then there is an entitlement in law for a reward commensurate to the value of said items. I was more in the frame of mind of "finders keepers" and somewhat eagerly at the prospect of gaining a boat for nought I enthusiastically took an interest in its progress. 

The current trajectory would bring the craft onto the muddy foreshore just along from the office car park. I made my way along the top path but a slight breeze was complicating matters and it soon became evident that any beaching might not be for some distance away. 

That was a shame as I had a busy working day ahead and so I reluctantly waived any rights or entitlements I might have had in law or otherwise and went back to my desk. For the rest of the day I mused on the lost opportunity although in practical terms I had nowhere to keep such a boat nor, in actuality, any time in hand to mess about in it on the water. 

In mentioning this episode to my wife, whose father had owned and used an inshore fishing coble for some years, she told me off for not alerting the Coastguard. Some hapless mariner could have fallen out and gotten into trouble or worse and of course notwithstanding that a maverick object in navigable waters constituted a hazard to other vessels. I did feel bad about that lack of judgement but anyway some other soul downstream was sure to have dragged the boat out of the shallows and put their name on it. 

You can appreciate therefore my astonishment just this morning, some 18 days after the first sighting, of making out in midstream the same distinctive shape making its way in completely the opposite direction.

Where had it been for the last two and a half weeks? 

Perhaps it had been nestled in the reeds and rushes just a short distance from when I had last spied it or trapped in the boulders of the flood defences which protect a business and retail park a bit further towards the Western Docks of Hull. 

Being a dutiful citizen or rather to avoid being chastised by my wife I dialled the number for the local Coastguard. The tone rang and rang. I repeated the call a couple of times but still no one picked up. I had carefully rehearsed what  would say to describe the boat and its course but all in vain. By the time I realised that the Coastguard was elsewhere engaged the boat had drifted out of sight. 

It had been a strange series of events on the riverbank and to be honest I don't think that will be the last time that I will catch sight of that elusive and ghostly vessel. 

Now where are my wellies and where can I buy a second hand boat hook?

Raleighing Cry

Those of a certain age, likely to be in their 50's, will certainly remember the revolutionary two wheeled bicycle that was The Raleigh Chopper.

It was a stylistic representation of an easy rider motorbike with just enough street credibility to get by even if it required frantic pedalling to travel any distance.

There was nothing better for an early years teenager to pose on down the recreational ground, those new fangled shopping precincts or outside the gates of the Girl's High School. Raleigh Choppers, I recall, came in a Tango Orange or bright red paint job with oversized decals. I did not have one myself and felt pretty jealous of my contemporaries who had put fashion before function in possessing oner of the dream machines.

It was just about practical in the flat topography of an urban setting but you would certainly hesitate on venturing out to the countryside or where there were, heaven forbid, anything that resembled an upward slope.

It amazed me therefore to see an interview in Cycling Weekly magazine about a brave soul who took on the route of the 2015 Tour de France on his bright red Raleigh Chopper.

Here is an extract from the interview.

"When Dave Sims rode the 2015 Tour de France route on a Raleigh Chopper, it didn't please everyone to be passed by a bloke on a vintage kid's bike.

“Yeah, people weren’t always happy. They’d shake their head and mutter a few swear words.”

Dave Sims is the protagonist for the verbal outbursts that littered the switchbacks on the Alpine road when he rode up the Alpe two days ahead of the Tour de France’s arrival on July 23.

The 36-year-old, from Southport, rode 18 stages of the Tour on a modified-but-still-predominantly-original Raleigh Chopper raising money for Help for Heroes.

Assumptions that he would struggle in the high mountain passes were quickly dispelled, however, when he began breezing past riders on road bikes – including his friends who had especially flew out to France to assist him.

“My favourite was a bewildered Londoner with a strong cockney accent shouting, ‘f***ing hell, there’s some guy on a Chopper’. That made me laugh and cheered me up,” he chuckled to Cycling Weekly.

“Three of my mates came out to help on Huez but on the first hairpin bend I dropped them. I went up that climb in gear two like a man possessed.

“Huez was superb as it was the last mountain and my body had adapted to the demands I was placing on it. I reached a level of fitness that I’ve never had before and might possibly never have again.”

Sims has raised almost £8,500, almost double his target, after having his profile raised following physio treatment from Team Sky on an injured Achilles tendon that led to a meeting with Dave Brailsford and receiving a good luck voicemail off Tour champion Chris Froome.

“I was four miles into stage 14 and Jonathan, my driver in the motorhome that week, said ‘you’re riding 10 mph on a flat road. You can’t use your right leg. Just stop.’ Being told to stop was awful, I never wanted to hear that,” he recounted.

“I’d been speaking to Fran Millar who said to get in touch if we wanted anything so ringing Sky was my only option otherwise we would have had to go home.

“I rang her up and she said the physio had a slot at 7.30am so we drove 200km to meet them and they sorted me out with taping. It was brilliant.”The qualified nutritionist says he is leaner than ever before and has no plans to hang the Chopper’s wheels up, rather he is fine-tuning plans for his ‘Everest’ attempt up Alpe d’Huez on September 27.

Achilles injury-permitting, he is to ride up the hairpin bends nine times, the vertical ascent equivalent of summiting the world’s highest mountain. “It’s going to be pretty cool to do it on the Alpe,” he added.

“Nine times is psychologically easier to deal with than 165 times up a local hill.

“If my injury is still not fully recovered then I’ll get two lads from the army cycling team to ride it and I’ll be the co-ordinator. This is just the start of the Chopper project.”

Whatever next....., around the world on a shopper bike?

(Source. Cycling Weekly. Photo Dave Sims)

When the wheels come off

As a cyclist I have become well accustomed to being on the receiving end of abuse and lame comments from motorists. 

You know the themes- "get off and milk it", "hey, your wheel's going round", "look its Eddy Merckz?". 

Of course I have dismissed such comments without a second thought particularly in most traffic environments  I have been able to just leave vehicles and their frustrated owners stuck in the midst of a logjam. The motivation behind the shameful and anti-social behaviour of this minority can be attributable to many things although at its core, I firmly feel, is a deep rooted jealousy of the relative freedom and health benefits of riding a bike as opposed to being a prisoner in a box on four wheels (or even three). 

So, you can understand my sense of confusion and disbelief in that I am now attracting the same sort of verbal mud slinging in driving about in my latest car. 

If I mention that it is a Tesla and it is fully electric then you might yourself find a polarising of your own feelings towards the enigmatic but self-publicising Founder of the company or the dilemma that a move away from the internal combustion engine must be inevitable for the good of the planet and yet perhaps too much for us to think about in practical and economic terms for a few more years. 

My own decision to go for a Tesla was quite easy.  

I was just spending too much on the once perceived wonder fuel that is diesel and not a little concerned about the effect of the polluting particulates that choke our streets and all of those unwittingly inhaling them. 

There are obvious cost saving benefits. Just the other day my business workload took me to York, Scarborough and Whitby before a return to base in Hull. The 188 miles on a mixture of roads and variable amounts of traffic used just £4.68 worth of electricity. 

Add to that the hugely pleasurable experience of a very smooth and quiet ride, exhilarating acceleration when required and a great sound system and you have an all round performer of style and eco-credentials. 

These sentiments are as far away as possible from the driver of a big red Jaguar saloon who, on passing me in the opposite direction in slow moving traffic shouted out "Shiiiiiiiiiiittttttttt" at me and the Tesla. 

If I had not been so shocked at this verbal assault then I might have responded with "dinosaur" or "gas guzzler" but all I could manage was a good laugh a bit further down the street. 

Why was the driver so minded? 

The Jag could have been his dream car only attained after many years of hard work and saving up or even re-assembled tirelessly from a salvaged body shell and components. He could himself have been the target of attention by environmental activists over the polluting characteristics of the V6 engine under the bonnet and was just venting his wrath on the zero emissions of the Tesla. 

Increasing costs of fossil fuels, Road Fund Tax, Insurance and maintenance may have sounded for that driver the death knell of Jag ownership. His exclamation could well have been a lament. 

I hold my hand up to being enthralled by the sound of a throaty exhaust tone and sensation of tyres biting down into the tarmac when  an owner in the past of a capable vehicle but I recognise that such things are just not sustainable or acceptable. 

Yes, I am fortunate to be in a position to lease a Tesla but it just makes good business and ethical sense.

There are some great aspects of ownership of the make and model but I get the most buzz from the reactions of the younger generation who wave and jump about in an excited frenzy when they catch sight of the Tesla. 

Their unconditional expressions are borne out of a knowledge and appreciation of helping the environment, the need to fast track technologies and embrace quite revolutionary innovation rather than being bit of a cross between a cave man and a machine smashing Luddite.

My Hero Kelly

Forget about the medals, awards, honours and commercial endorsements. It may in some unfortunate circumstances be necessary to sell, pawn or donate all of the gold, silver, bronze and cut-glass if for example the athlete encounters hard times, financially or in terms of a decline in previously robust and durable health.

Yes, they are important but perhaps the greatest accolade that a sportsman or woman aspires to is have a street, a building, a stadium or something with a physical presence named after them. It is usually the case that the naming of the thing is in the birth town, home town or a location with a strong mutual identity. There may be family members or distant relatives still residing there and travelling through a street, avenue, square or driving over a bridge, past a civic centre, sports hall or medical centre bearing the same name must be a matter of pride.

There have been some situations where the name has had to be unceremoniously revoked.

This may follow allegations, proven or not ,of cheating such as in the taking of performance enhancing drugs or post-sporting career scandal and illegalities. Perhaps a bit of a slap in the face is where the naming rights are just sold off to the highest bidder. The general populus and in particular members of a City or Town Authority or Council can be fickle but using the argument of supplementing the public purse or reflecting outrage or opinion by auctioning off the naming rights to the highest bidder is a strong one.

A prominent example of this was the removal of Arnold Schwarzenneger's name from the football stadium in his home town of Graz, Austria. This was a decision by the town's Officials in an ongoing row over the death penalty in the USA, illegal in Austria, where Arnie attained the position of Governor of California.

 It was quite a high profile falling out and many believe that because of what has been said that Arnie will definitely not be back some time soon.

One of my all time sporting heroes has a pleasant urban square named after him in Carrick on Suir in the Republic of Ireland or Eire.

Sean Kelly dominated the Professional Cycle Racing scene in Europe in the 1980's with wins in the great Classics as well as performing to a remarkable consistency to win a succession of Green Jerseys in the Tour de France.

From a farming background Sean Kelly was quiet and reserved and he seemed destined to carry on working on the land until he discovered a natural affinity and athletic ability on the bike. He was Irish National Junior Champion at age 16 and took a senior Licence with further prominent wins before moving to live and race in Northern France in 1976.

To sum up Kelly's ethos and spirit a reporter wrote

"It is customary to talk of Kelly as quintessentially an Irish rider. For my part, though, I think it helps to place Kelly better as a cyclist to see him as the last of the Flemish riders.It stands for a certain type of mentality, willing to suffer, narrowly focused, and hard, hard, hard. Kelly had all this in him from his Irish small-farm background: the outside loo;the dogs that have to be chained before you can step from your car; the one career possible, as a bricklayer on a construction site, stretching away and away into the grey mists. On the positive side, along with the self-reliance, came a physical strength that even by peasant standards is impressive. In a profession of iron wills, there is no one harder".

 For all of that implied coldness and selfish determination I did like Kelly.

He had a presence on the bike and could excel on the flat as well as dragging his body up the punishing mountains. In post race interviews as winner or, failing that, a main  protagonist in the frantic action over the previous three to six hours his expressed feelings of being intellectually outclassed showed in a slow, hesitant speech, almost stuttering and struggling for words.

This did not prevent him, in retirement and to the present day from commentating on big races for commercial broadcasters. Granted, there are some long awkward silences and some barely audible and recognisable words and sentiments but it is all part of the package for one of the greatest road cyclists of all time.

I did have the privilege of slapping him on his back as he edged his bike through the crowds at the Wincanton Classic in Newcastle in 1989.

I think he came 2nd or 3rd behind the winner Frans Massen. I vowed, silently in my head, to leave that hand unwashed forever as an act of honouring Sean Kelly. That promise did not last beyond the end of the day.

I did think, however of a more befitting tribute to this sporting hero and my first ever house purchase came to bear a rustic carved plaque with the naming rights of "Kelly Cottage".

The sign came along on subsequent house moves ending up on the garden shed at our last house and now it lies on the shelving in the garage amongst a collection of bits of bike, but nevertheless a place of honour and reverence.

Pedal Turner to Page Turner

 Too engrossed in the televised coverage of the Tour de France to actually go out on your bike?

Well, the next best thing is to pick up one of the many cycling genre books on the market and become immersed in the facts, fictions, follies and thrills of the Grand Tours, the characters and the tactics.

Here is my list of favourite bits of writing in no particular order;

The story, inspiring and tragic of Dave Rayner, a Sheffield rider who rode on the continent and was destined for great things only to be killed in a city centre incident.

His legacy, The Dave Rayner Fund, has given the chance of European competition to many British cyclists with its
beneficiaries now performing at the Elite Pro level.

A coffee table book with route maps of all of the Tours de France up until the Yorkshire Grand Depart in 2014.

I enjoyed using the maps to try to work our where on earth I saw the 1984 race from the roadside astride my own bike.

I am none the wiser but have some 35mm prints to prove that I was there.

A chance to look up all of those team and national jerseys across the years that you came across in the pages of Cycling Weekly and other bike magazines.

Some classics and some shockers.

One of the first candid and honest factual works by a rough, tough Irish Rider, Paul Kimmage.

He was a domestique or general support rider at a time when non-Europeans were a rarity and a novelty in the peleton.

A text book covering the basics of getting into cycle racing.

Useful for those thinking about competition but of course nothing can really prepare you for the reality of a lung busting, leg aching and terrifying experience in that first event on the road.

This guy must have been good at the text book theory to have been so exceptional in dominating the racing scene for so long.

A one in a million athlete.

A great story of genius, perseverance, success against the odds with a backdrop of personal trauma by and about a very single minded character.

His battles with Chris Boardman on the track are things of legend.

The enigmatic Irishman figured amongst the emerging non-European riders in the Grand Tours with Kelly, Millar, Peiper, Anderson and the Americans of Lemond and Hampsten.

Roche achieved the triple of the Tours of France and Italy and the World Championship in the same year.

A fascinating book about the rivalry between these two greats and with modern day interviews on what really went on in what has been called the greatest ever Tour de France.

The darkest side of pro cycling is depicted in this confession style book by Tyler Hamilton, one of the former team mates of the disgraced Lance Armstrong.

The book blows open the doping epidemic in the peleton which was known but suppressed from the public.

I just find myself coming back to re-read this book about an ordinary man taking on and riding the route of the Tour de France.

There are some real laugh out loud moments between the sympathetic emotions and tears.

For those thinking about starting from scratch this book is inspirational.

Just finished this backstage account of the 2004 Tour de France by the former manager of The Clash.

Wandering freely around the race village and press centre there are some opportunities for mischief and mayhem.

The writer, his son and a lawyer friend get hold of an Official Pass and make the most of the buffet and freebies as well as putting 5000 miles on the odometer of a hire car.

A warts and all account which is eye opening and refreshing.

A very British attitude

Another favourite from 2015 and very relevant to the current late running of the Tour de France

The investment in British Cycling in the long roll up to the London Olympics and through, as I wrote about, a couple of days ago, the generosity of the cycling community in the name of the tragic Dave Rayner have been responsible for the slick professionalism, scientific approach and precision planning embodied in the main ambassadors in the sport, The Sky Team.

Before that it was a case that talented British riders had to go it alone with continental based teams and for much of the post-war period the idea of a British team by identity and style must have seemed so far out of reach.

I seem to recall that at least one Tour de France was run on the lines of National Squads and British riders did compete although trade team loyalties as in "remember who pays your salary" figured highly in race day tactics.

Home grown riders did possess ability but this country has not until recently regarded itself as a cycling nation and consequently for many years money through a dedicated financial sponsorship structure was sparse and sporadic and certainly not in the amounts required to take a team into Europe for the Classics or the pinnacle of most careers, a ride in the Tour de France.

In the mid 1980's one larger than life individual, Tony Capper put himself and his millions at the service of catapulting a British Racing Team onto the heady stage of the Tour de France.

There was a certain brashness and haphazard approach in his approach to the task as appeared to have been the case in his business dealings that had netted him his fortune.

Capper had some misadventures in the taxi business (in one version of the story his business partner committed suicide, in another he sold the company and it was only later realised by the new owners that it wasn't his to sell). Chequered is the word that is most often used to describe this portion of Capper's career.In the early eighties, with Thatcher's Britain championing entrepreneurial acumen, Capper set up an overnight delivery company, Associated Nationwide Couriers (ANC) - think DHL, Excel or the like. ANC was, essentially, run on the same principal as Interflora, a franchise operation where local franchisees paid to use the name and access the central network. It's also the way taxi companies are often organised, and Capper knew the taxi trade.

ANC's growth was rapid.

Within five years, the company had become big enough to be taken over by British and Commonwealth Shipping, leaving Capper a wealthy man. How wealthy is always a question, but it was wealthy enough for him to live in exile in the tax shelter in the Irish Sea that is the Isle of Man.

In growing ANC, Capper had involved the company with various sports sponsorship opportunities - darts, athletics and football. In 1984 he was approached by a British racer, Mick Morrison, looking for sponsorship. The following year, ANC was sponsoring a team of British pros riding on the domestic circuit.

Capper - a brash and arrogant forty-something, chain-smoking, pie-eating, Coke-swilling giant of a man (wider than he was tall is the kind way of describing his girth) - quickly set about taking a Thatcherite approach to the sport. History and tradition were bunkum - 'Whatever you've done in the past, it's wrong,' he would tell people. Cycling was a business, he was a businessman and he knew best.

British cycling at the time was still over-shadowed by Tom Simpson's death, was very insular and parochial.

To give  an idea of how hidebound British cycling was: though continental racing was just a ferry-ride away, domestic teams were limited to no more than six riders, a rule which effectively forced them to narrow their horizons and race only in the UK. A lot of people involved in the sport in the UK took a holier-than-thou approach to the continental scene, writing it off as drug-fuelled and corrupt, unlike the saintly pure local scene they championed. They wanted nothing to do with it.

Capper took a practical approach to the restrictions imposed upon him - he set up three different teams: ANC-Freight Rover, Lycra-Halfords and Interrent-Dawes. They co-operated in domestic races - down to splitting winnings across the squads - and gave Capper a larger pool of riders to draw from when he ventured forth and took on the European peloton, where the combined squads raced as ANC-Halfords.Capper was a man on a mission, a man with a dream, a dream which had come to him when he visited the Alpe d'Huez stage of the 1985 Tour de France: his dream was to put a British team into the Tour de France and bring them home safely. And to achieve that dream Capper knew that winning domestic trophies like the Milk Race wouldn't cut the mustard. His riders would have to show themselves at races like Paris-Nice and the Classics.

Malcolm Elliott, who Capper signed to ride for ANC in 1986, had this to say of Capper's ambition, when he recalled this part of his career in his 1990 autobiography, Sprinter"Not that many riders were bothered about [the Tour de France] anyway. I used to think: What do we want to go into that for anyway? None of us realised it at the time but this was the only way ahead. We'd started riding a few races abroad but a ride in the Tour seemed outlandish and we just humoured him. Capper was a trail-blazer, I'll give him that. ANC were the first fully-fledged British team to compete abroad consistently."

The trail Capper blazed was meteoric.

In June 1987 the Société du Tour de France gave him the nod he'd been waiting for: they were part of the 1987 Tour de France. From one rider in 1984 to five in 1985 and three teams in 1986, Capper was about to set foot on cycling's biggest stage.

Where the Société du Tour de France most failed the ANC-Halfords riders was in the way they handed out their wild-card entries to the Tour. It was not until June, a month before the race started, that the team was informed it could ride the race. In true chaotic style the riders were featured on the BBC childrens show, Blue Peter, when the news of the ride was announced.

In order to get that nod from the Société du Tour de France, ANC-Halfords had bust a gut from the beginning of the season, throwing themselves into races in the hope of grabbing the attention of the Tour's organisers. (That may have changed today, the wild-cards announced earlier, but it is still a problem within individual teams, who leave the last of their selection until as late as possible, with the consequence that some riders knacker themselves getting selected and then have nothing left for the race itself.)The ANC-Halfords guys, in their quest to catch the eye of the Société du Tour, showed themselves in races like the GP d'Ouverture, the Ruta del Sol, the Tour of the Mediterranean, Paris-Nice, Het Volk, Bordeaux-Paris, the Tour of Limburg. At the Flèche Wallonne Paul Watson finished sixth. At the Amstel Gold Malcolm Elliott finished third. At the Midi Libre in May Adrian Timmis won a stage. These hurried exertions meant that the team was exhausted even before the Tour de France had reached the grand départ in West Berlin.

Capper's failures, for such an apparently successful businessman, were surprisingly simple: the team was shoddily organised. From riders' contracts through support staff down to finances, Capper hardly got a thing right. That he even made it as far as 1987 and the Tour de France was an amazing achievement.

 Having built ANC Capper sold it to British and Commonwealth Shipping in 1986, but he chose to retain control of the company's cycling interests himself, through a management company he set up called Action Sports. This created a confusion which only became apparent when the team collapsed, with some of the riders contracted to Action Sports and some contracted directly to ANC. When the team collapsed, those contracted to Action Sports were left penniless. Those contracted to ANC only eventually recovered some of the monies owed to them.Another problem Capper created was in not recruiting soigneurs, mechanics and other support staff, preferring instead to hire them in on an ad hoc basis. Apart from Griffiths as directeur sportif, the team doesn't appear to have had any other permanent non-cycling staff beyond three people who manned its Stoke-on-Trent office. What this meant during the Tour de France was that there was considerable disorganisation - and strife - behind the scenes. Among the soigneurs, the mechanics and the directeur sportif, no one seemed to know where they were supposed to stand in the pecking order.

Much of this wasn't helped by Capper imposing himself above his own directeur sportif and insisting on driving the lead car in the race convoy, even though he wouldn't be able to help the team's riders. For Capper, the thrill of driving a car at rally speeds in the Tour's convoy seemed to be a reward he felt was due to him for sponsoring a team in the first place.

But the real problem Capper created was in budgetary restraint, or the lack thereof. Here's how Phil Griffiths, who Capper recruited in 1985 to act as his directeur sportif, described Capper's approach to budgeting:

"Tony Capper was always a gambler. The guy spent the ANC-Halfords budget by the Milk Race [in May] every year. That was his strategy. Spend it, win the Milk Race and then go back to the board to get enough to cover the rest of the season."

That tactic worked when Capper was in charge of ANC himself and could treat the company as his own personal fiefdom. But in 1987, he having cashed his chips in, there were new hands at the helm. And when the 'please sir, can we have some more' request came in, they ignored it. The first the riders knew of any problem was during the Tour when some of them discovered that their salaries had not landed in their bank accounts. The phone calls from home for Capper were also increasing in their frequency and it was clear that all was not well.

Exhausted riders could do nothing but drop out if the race. Capper simply used the abandoned riders' hotel bookings to accommodate family, friends and business associates.

The team turned up for the opening Prologue in  Berlin and were promised the best equipment such as specialist time-trial cycles. Instead, they rode the opening time trial on standard road bikes, with only four disc wheels between nine riders. After a gruelling three weeks of a particularly hot and fast Tour only four riders looked like they had a chance to make it to Paris. The only success was Malcolm Elliot's third place on one stage. The best ranked cyclist in the general classification was Adrian Timmis, ranked 70th

As the Tour enjoyed it's last day in the mountains, the La Plagne to Morzine stage, with the race within four days of Paris, Capper climbed into the team's Citroën and, promising he would rejoin them for their post-race celebratory dinner in Paris, drove off and was never seen again.

After the Tour de France, the ANC team was only revived for a few races. Joey McLoughlin won the first Kellogg's Tour of Britain and Malcolm Elliott won two stages in the Nissan Classic in Ireland. By the end of the season, the team ran out of money and was no more.

It would take a couple of decades for British Cycling to recover from that fiasco and feel confident enough to have another go. If anything the Capper Business Plan had embodied all of the "what not to do"aspects of putting together a credible and competitive racing team for the European scene and thankfully lessons have been learned as can be seen from recent and sustained successes.

(Sourced from Cycling Weekly, Rouleur, Podium Cafe, Wikipedia, Wide Eyed and Legless)

All about the equipment

 When it came to buying my first proper racing bike back in 1982 I wanted the best that I could afford.

This extravagance was only possible through a bequest from my Grandfather as at that time I was an impoverished student.

Money was tight, even under the old Grant system and my diet reflected this. I lived on ox liver, tinned tomatoes and for a real treat I could often be found sitting in a city centre doorway working my way through a baguette, just the baguette with nothing on it.

Momentarily flush for cash in my bike fund the decision on what equipment to put on the custom measured racing frame was made easy. It had to be Campagnolo.

The founder of the Italian components empire, Tullio Campagnolo was a legend in his own lifetime.

He not only invented, engineered and patented an unsurpassed catalogue of equipment but also a larger than life image of himself on which he capitalised for his business interests.

Take the most well known story of how the quick release skewer came to be.

Anyone with a modern racing bike with lightweight wheels will be very familiar with the quick release. In design it is the epitome of form and function. In its pure incarnation it consists of a long, thin rod, threaded on one end and with a lever operated cam assembly on the other. The rod, inserted into the hollow axle of a wheel hub is secured at the threaded end by a nut fixing and then the lever can be closed to secure the wheel to the frame forks and dropouts.

My first experience of a quick release was fraught with difficulty and uncertainty and to some the use of it can constitute a major problem.

There are, in this internet age, many on-line tutorials on how to correctly use the mechanism. How to loosen, how to tighten, in what position to leave the lever when the wheel is secured are the main issues.

This only goes to illustrate the pitfalls as well as the advantages.

At the age of 26, as the Campagnolo legend goes, the enthusiastic Tullio was competing in top level cycle races in his home country. His Palmares or record of achievement shows participation in events such as the classic Astico Brenta (still running today) in Northern Italy, the epic Milan San Remo and the Giro Lombardia albeit very much in the lower placings.

Racing bikes of the time were unwieldy although there were innovations taking place to make frames stronger and lighter. Fixed gears were the normal transmission with the rear wheel being the mounting for different cogs, one on each side.

If a gear change was required it was a case of stopping, dismounting and wrestling with the wingnut fixings to be able to turn the wheel around, refix and then continue.

You can imagine the sheer frustration and inconvenience arising from this performance. Any forward momentum and motivation to go fast would just disappear. It would only be on a downward slope that you could hope to turn a bigger gear to regain lost time.

On an undulating course the stop-go-stop-go rhythm, or lack of it, must have been infuriating.

The Campagnolo story in this instance involved just such a scenario.

Tullio was in the Gran Premio della Vittoria (now the name of a major horse race). On snow covered roads, whether due to altitude of just the early Spring weather he attempted to change gears.

Frozen hands made it difficult to operate the wing nuts on the back wheel and he lost time on his rivals. This setback had quite an affect on the mid twenty something. The phrase "necessity is the mother of invention" must have been at the forefront of his post-race-post-mortem and so, the legend goes, the quick release skewer was invented.

There has been some doubt cast on the authenticity of the story. The photograph looks like an intentional pose but that is not intended to be a criticism.

Research has suggested that Tullio did not even appear on the start list for the Gran Premio della Vittoria and that the race is later in the season and therefore unlikely to be subject to an extreme winter climate.

Whatever the truth Tullio was a prolific inventor during his life and many developments that we now take for granted were amongst his many Patents.

He was also quite analytical of existing equipment and had a determination to reverse engineer and make them much better.

He pioneered an early version of a derailleur gear changing system although already widely used in mass production models.

I cannot help but marvel at the Campagnolo components that still adorn my 1982 wonder bike purchase.

The brake sets, front and rear changers retain that satin lustre as though machine polished only yesterday.

I have kept the downtube gear shift levers even though their operation demands a lot of pre-planning and that momentary downward glance can be hazardous whilst travelling at speed on a public highway. Younger cyclists on expensive carbon or aluminium frame bikes with integral components often flag me down to have a gawp at the Campag group set as even at distance it just shouts out quality and style.

The chainset, unfortunately, sheared its threads a few years ago now but I keep that work of art on public show on the shelf at the back of the garage/bike shed/workshop. As for that tub of 1982 vintage Campagnolo bike grease- well it is still going strong even if there is such a thing as a "Best Before" date in relation to exceptional quality gunk.

Me and Tullio have a bit of history through his beautifully crafted and manufactured components.

I have my Grandfather to thank for the means to purchase the bike and I think that he would certainly have got on well with Mr Campagnolo had they ever had an opportunity to meet.

Bangers and Merckx

This is from a few years ago but I felt it fits in well with those enjoying the action of the Tour de France 2020 edition.......in September!!!

I was a bit geeky as a child and was always fascinated by the next thing, whatever that was.

In one summer holiday period I displayed an obsessive desire to be, in what I recollect as the correct chronological order,

1) In the US 7th Cavalry

2)Apollo Mission Astronaut

3)Racing Driver

4) Professional footballer
and, strangely,

5) A show Jumper.

All of these career ideas were spawned by, following the same numbering, Saturday morning cowboy films, Cape Canaveral rocket launches, Le Mans 24 hours, an FA Cup Final and latterly an invitation to the Burleigh Horse Trials in Lincolnshire.

In my late teens I became interested in cycling.

It was another of those genetic traits inherited from my late Father, himself a very keen and well travelled cyclist following on from an affinity to pick up litter in public open spaces.

In the 1980's TV coverage of cycling was very limited. Only a few enthusiasts knew about the Milk Race in the UK to the Classic European Races and the National Tours.

That was until the big sponsorship by cereal manufacturers Kelloggs who promoted some great city centre criterium races with prime time commercial channel coverage. The viewing figures and sheer numbers of on-course spectators must have taken the programmers by surprise and to capitalise on this there was an up-scaling of coverage with  The Nissan Classic in Ireland and then Channel Four began their excellent live and highlights broadcasting of the Tour de France.

I began to compete in local races in the early 1980's and began to live, eat and sleep all things cycling, If not out training, taking part in events or sitting glued to the TV the best thing to do was to catch a live event out in the countryside or in a town centre. A few of us would ride miles, often setting out at first light, to be in a good roadside spot to catch the race as it passed by.

I did get to see a stage of the Tour de France in 1984, setting off on my own from the house near Paris where I was staying for a week with my younger sister, at that time nannying for a French family. It was quite an ambitious thing to do in a strange country, with only schoolboy language skills and a large scale map that covered from the Scottish Lowlands to Morocco.

That flash of the pre-race publicity caravan, motorcycle outriders and then the riders themselves was absolutely thrilling, albeit over in all too short a time.

My journey in cycling has been and still is quite a surprise to me.

I was a poor and very under-achieving competitor in a very brief foray into racing but have two small trophies for "Best in Club" for one particular year.

In my late twenties Self employment allowed me to sponsor a local cycle racing team in my home town over 15 good years before the banking crisis and recession. My son has started to compete and trains hard.You can find me following some distance behind.

I continue to enjoy the sport and hope to stay fit and healthy to continue to ride out when I get an opportunity. In this way I have been able to live out an obsession, now the longest single one in my catalogue of obsessions and fascinations.

I was therefore quite taken with the achievement of one Alex Clarke, whose story has some paralells with my own.

He started off collecting and selling vintage bicycles in the US before acquiring a consignment of classic cycle team jerseys. These sold well through the internet and his natural thought was to capitalise on this demand and actually make replica jerseys using modern Merino Wool.

The baggy and obviously very hot woollen team wear, both shirts and shorts in the 1970's included some gawdy and striking designs such as Brooklyn, Bianchi, Dreher, Sammontana, KAS and Jolly Ceramica. One jersey design that Alex Clarke openly avoided was Molteni, the team of Eddy Merckx and before him Motta, Altig and Basso.

However he had an open mind and meeting a well known Italian Cycling Photographer convinced him that Molteni embodied the core values of cycling.

The Molteni team was financed not by a large pan-European Corporation but a family firm who made award winning sausages.

Clarke's new obsession saw him spend thousands of dollars of his own money on turning a plain and drab 1976 Volvo 244 Saloon Car into an authentic replica of the Molteni Team Car that accompanied Merckx and co on some of their greatest exploits.

The result is striking and I am, I admit, just a little bit jealous.

Four wheels following two

Ahead of tomorrow's retrospective  blog about the replica Volvo team car for the Eddy Merckx team of the 1970's I have ventured into the wider world of vehicles which form the entourage for the great cycle races in Europe and worldwide. 

Here are just a few of the more interesting ones.

Alfa Romeo-Bianchi 

Unofficial do it yourself Sky Jag

The classic Merckx Volvo 244

Big Citroen-1980's

Huge station wagon-stateside

Peugeot-Vintage Tour de France

Peugeot-Peugeot

Volvo 244 as fashion icon

Tiny Fiat

Milk Race traffic jam

Early Japanese sponsorship

More Alfa's

1970's Peugeot's- model and real

Merc in the snow

My own Volvo 850 for The Lands Classic, 1990's

That 244 model again