Fatman and Robin

I often think of Robin Folkard, a friend who died young, now some 16 years ago. It seems like yesterday.

The following is something I wrote a few years ago but some things, like memories remain constant. 

It is mainly out of a feeling of my own mortality that comes with getting old.

My thoughts and memories of Robin were strong today because I was working in the Leeds area and that was where we did a charity bike ride one year. 

Usual thing, no preparation in terms of fitness or nutrition and with a last minute pumping up of  the tyres being the only real bit of bicycle maintenance. Charity Ride or global expedition, we would have probably had the same approach because we both just loved cycling.

In matching team jerseys we set off amongst the thousand or so participants. Coming from the very flat Hull we soon began to struggle on the slightest incline, be it a railway bridge, trunk road flyover or the actually very undulating topography that is encountered when travelling north west out of Leeds city centre. It was sure going to be a tough day for us bog dwellers.

Fortunately there was a large enough contingent of stragglers on shopper bikes, pensioners on trikes and children on two wheeled pink things to keep us company. I do not think that we had bothered to study the route to forewarn us of the difficult bits or even knew how far it was around the circuit which eventually finished back outside the grand Victorian Town Hall.

After a long climb, bisecting the ring road we enjoyed the brief respite of a plummeting descent into Wharfedale accompanied by feet off the pedals and some daft shrieks of elation but abruptly ended by a sheer climb up the other side of the valley. We were keeping pace side by side quite well although it was a bit disorientating being passed by brisk walking pedestrians.

The event was well marshalled and with regular roadside checkpoints providing energy drinks and water. Notwithstanding the physical effort it was also a blisteringly hot day and we were suffering badly. There was some natural shade on the minor roads as they passed under the thick full canopies of trees but the air was so still and the air hot and stifling. It was not a good time to find out that the jerseys, very flash and glossy with sponsor logos were not of breathable material. We would have been better off wearing black dustbin bags. An interesting clinical experiment in fluid loss and the debilitating and wasting effects of dehydration it could have been. 

Our faces, streaming with perspiration gradually took on a well tanned  hue being a combination of airborne dust, insects and a salt crust. With some disappointment and dismay we were informed by a high-viz wearing official that we were about half way around the course. Our legs, lungs and stamina had already decided to give up but we had no option than to carry on. Out of adversity we both found our second wind although this was actually as a direct consequence of reaching the fast downhill return leg to the centre of Leeds.

Some recumbent bikes shot past us with their flagpole masts flapping as they hit a low gravity version of 50mph. Suddenly envigorated by sight of the finishing straight Robin and me snuck into the slipstream of these strange machines. Whether out of fatigue or from the glare of the plate glass shop windows I was convinced that a speed camera had captured us in full flight. This was probably discarded during the processing stage as a technical glich. It was just not possible for two raggedy looking men to attain such speeds and the Crown Prosecution Service would surely implode under the pressure of trying to pursue an action in such a case.

For our charitable endeavours we got a medal on a bright stripey ribbon, a certificate with which to cajole those who had pledged monies to part with it for the good cause and some sunburn. We were silent in the car on the way home but we were both thinking that maybe the Tour de France was that bit more within our sticky mitten grasp. 

Delusion can be a sympton of sheer exhaustion  amongst us sporty types.

The Bonfire Night phone call with the news that Robin had died after a short illness had  a massive impact on all who knew him. 

Robin, after our cycling exploit showed another of his many skills by producing a wonderfully evocative water colour of the starting line of a bike race and that has pride of place in my living room and is a constant reminder of his great intelligence, wit and compassion.