Assault and Battery

However hard I pedalled, huffed, puffed and pedalled some more I just could not catch the old man.

I needed what I call a "chase down" to salvage something of what had been a difficult day.

In the course of a couple of hours of cycling , all resplendent in my flashiest lycra and on my best lightweight road bike I had not been able to chase down, by that I mean having seen another rider up ahead , to catch and then give the impression of effortless overtaking before making the next available  right or left turn and hoping  that the now overwhelmed and disenchanted rider was not taking the same route.

This may sound a bit mean and mealy but every cyclist with a competitive streak in them partakes in the same activity.

The massive upsurge in the number of two wheeled road users of all abilities that has been so evident since, I would say, the London 2012 Olympic Games has certainly provided an incentive for the chase down to be carried out.

I have myself been caught and left wallowing in this way. The perpetrator is typically in full team issue gear and on an expensive shiny road bike, either self funded with perhaps a bequest, redundancy or divorce settlement or through one of the many Ride to Work incentive schemes. I would at this point say that the rider can be either male or female. I have been overtaken by both.

It is not a nice feeling particularly as my participation in cycling goes back some 30 years and in that time I have competed in many events from mass start road race to individual time trials, ie against the clock over 10 , 25 or more miles.

I fully accept that speed and stamina do tail off with advancing years but nevertheless, eating a face full of gravelled road surface from being overhauled and dropped is humiliating at best.

With my reduced ability to pedal fast or at least on a sustainable basis I have taken to selecting my chase down targets very carefully.

Hence the old man on this occasion.

3 miles from home on a busy city dual carriageway I had spied a slow moving, cumbersome looking bike and the aforementioned senior citizen pull out of a housing estate comprising mostly bungalows. There was a distinctly greenish shade to the clothing of the gent, suggesting to me a tweed jacket and perhaps gardening trousers. A faint whitish cloud emanating from under a flat cloth cap indicated that he was smoking.

On the criteria of suitable chase down material this was to me a certainty as in a Senior Citizen, inappropriately dressed for fast cycling and a hard core smoker as well.

I picked up my pedal revolutions to what I estimated would a good average speed to enable a catch and pass before either of
1) The road reached my house or
2) the man reached wherever he was going.

Under point 2) I was guilty of yet more stereotyping of the gent in assuming that he was heading for one of the three public houses on the main road, any of half a dozen tobacconists or newsagents or to one of multiple Betting Shops in that broad location.

I was encouraged but not a little shocked by my bigoted and judgemental assessment but any self disgust was tempered by a little light headedness from the previous couple of hours exertions and the need for a small but significant victory on the road.

In spite of bit of renewed vigour in my riding I was not making up any of the distance.

Traffic light sequences were synchronised to the pace and traffic was not heavy or obstructive. There was no influence from wind or other factors such as stray gutter resting shopping trolleys or a glass strewn carriageway.

I chased and chased, head lolling about and tongue almost touching the handlebars. This must have been a startling sight indeed for other road users.

In contrast the old man was evidently still enjoying a cigarette. He may even have lit up another whilst on the move.

This was getting ridiculous.

I tried to recall the events diary of the current Cycling Weekly magazine for any reference to famous old cyclists in town of Barry Hoban, Sean Kelly or Charly Wegelius pedigree but that train of thought smacked of desperation on my part.

By now my eyes were in double vision mode plus early signs of a headache.

Then up ahead the "Tweed Speeder" had stopped, parked the bike on its stand and was making his way into, well, a fish and chip shop.

As I rode by with an incredulous expression bordering on admiration for his athleticism I noticed a strange anomaly. Although upright and stationary the back wheel of the old mans bike was still spinning at multiple revolutions. There was the faint hum, even above the ambient city noise, of a battery powered motor.

I was not sure whether to laugh or cry.