Rolling back the years

Ian Jackson wonders if living too long with bikes creates an inexplicable quantum entanglement with our ancient comrades from the roads of the past… Rolling back the years

CLAUD HUNG AROUND at the back of the bike shed. Stripped of his components he waited, listening to the stories the other bikes told of their adventures, hoping his chance would come again.

As winter approached he sensed a growing fear from the others, they hated the grime. A plan was hatched with Chas and Dave (his chrome plated friends) even old Bob J agreed, their common fear of road salt uniting them.

Claud knew that any parking error in the tightly packed bike shed, would have damaging consequences.

One cold windy day, as I returned a serviced bike to its hook, they made their move, Chas swayed with Dave in close harmony and Bob jolted into Claud. The resonant echo emitted by his pinged tubes, was reveille-like in its effect. A call to arms had been raised and demanded attention.

Summoned by his call, fellow journeymen he had known since he left the factory and equally aged chums he had picked up over the decades, stirred from their hibernation and presented themselves. All desperate for action one more time.

First up was Monsieur Atom. He's truly one flange short of a hub. Born in France in 1977, Atom was wounded in action during a PBP campaign. In 1999 two spokes decided they wanted him to retire in his homeland and conspired to exit stage right ripping his flange apart 15km from a control. But this stout little hub and his Mavic rim rolled on and refused to give in. At the control a technician appeared, and mechanical magic was performed – two new spoke holes were drilled into his tiny flange and once again he ran true. No spoke has deserted his side since. Age may have weakened him, but not his spirit, no longer burdened with a seized cog he has flipped himself to accommodate a single freewheel.

Atom is Claud’s road captain, between them they picked our team of twentieth century survivors. Me, I’m just the Jacques Tati of all trades, that puts these old troupers together. I know their foibles and how to direct them.

So, how did Claud and I meet? He used to live with a friend of mine, Dick McTaggart, and was gifted to me some decades ago as a stopgap after I had broken a frame. Strangely, however, I can’t remember ever seeing them together! This perturbs me as Claud’s livery is very distinctive: Angel Delight, Windolene or Maglia Rosa pink, take your pick. Claud kept me moving through that winter.

We had a brief audax career together a Gala C.C. Burns Supper 50K organised by Bruce Lees in 2006 and some route planning duties for a 200k I organised in 2009.

Time, unfortunately, is catching up on the auld Butler. The rust gods have taken their toll on his chain stays, full thickness pin prick holes and rusty pock marks now inhabit his bold pink frame. As for me, the flexibilité of youth has passed.

Over the years Claud, Atom and myself bonded. Road worthy we are not, but this winter we will ride again. We have become turbo trainer buddies. You might or might not like the magnetised hamster wheel and love or hate night riding. I love the latter and hate the former. Decades of nocturnal commuting alongside the river Tweed on B-roads using dynamos and “Never-Reddies” developed that joy, and Audaxing embedded it. I confess I do love hearing Dyna-mo hum – and no, I don’t have any Frank Zappa records.

So, we agreed a Baldrick-like cunning plan. Sanyo-San our venerable Japanese friend has joined us. He has insinuated himself with ninja like stealth behind Claud’s bottom bracket. Sanyo-san purrs away contentedly as we roll. No Peloton instructions or power meters for us. We aged purists gather at night, outdoors noses to the wind, but safely sheltered from rain sleet and snow. Shrouded in darkness we pedal towards a blackness punctured only by the warm glow of our 3-watt halogen bulb. No light but ours. Well almost none. A Vistalite with two of its five green diodes still active blinks away at us from its perch in an old apple tree thirty yards away. We like to think there are others out there.

As we ride, I’m thinking that the author Flann O'Brien was maybe on to something – perhaps personalities are affected by the interchange of atoms between bikes and their riders. You risk being assimilated if you spend your life with bicycles. Take care. “Buen ritmo” to you all.

back the years