OK don't blame me for this one. Carefree 1970s, once again, the time when I thought I knew it all and thought I could do it all. And I was better on hills then, than I am now! 
So. Once again, I was pootling one fine day, a few hundred yards from my digs, on my spanking brand-new Pennine, 531 framed road bike. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by a bunch of roadies, wearing team colours I thought I recognised...
I stopped. Pleasantries began. "Nice bike." "Thanks," I mumbled. A few friendly comments about the bikes, where had I been, where had they been, etc., then someone piped up "Didn't I see you, down at the Univ., the other day?" I admitted to being a postgraduate student. Then: "Well why don't you join the CC then - looks like you've got the goods...?" At this point a red alarm LED started blinking in my head: I muttered "Hey wait a moment guys, I'm not a club guy, I'm not into TTing or any of that stuff, I'm purely a leisure cyclist, go out for spins at the weekends..." "Don't you worry about that, we have spins on Sundays, just outings, we'd be glad to have you join in, it's not a training run, it's not fast..."
So I started turning up on Sundays, going along with the gang. Someone lent me a jersey in the club colours. I soon learnt that the 'Sunday Spins' consisted mostly of cruising up Hollins Hill to Otley, big 1-pint mug of tea (bought for a pittance) at Tommy's Cafe, a cake or bikkies if feeling hungry, then back to Bradford. Well, Tommy's (alas long since gone!) was a splendid place, very convivial, every Sunday it was piled high in front of the cafe with a great tangled mass of road bikes, spilling across the pavement into the road.
But even of Tommy's, great place though it was, you can only take so much. Sometimes we went to Skipton instead, by way of variety, similar cafe (can't remember its name). The riding was OK, within my capacity in those days. Sometimes one or two of the lads would break into a sprint just to show off, I never learnt to sprint so I left them to it: but it was all very friendly, like. Once we were passed by Sid Barras, leading UK professional of the day, out training. A couple of the lads latched on to him, he good-humouredly played them for a mile or so, then with a cheery wave and a "see you lads" he dropped them in a twinkling. The rest of us caught up with the lads looking a bit crestfallen but they felt honoured by the encounter!
So this was all good fun. But I was getting a bit restless, so one day I suggested "Shall we do an all-day run? Go a bit further out, into the Dales maybe?" The club sec. hummed and ha'd and said, we'll think about it. Sure enough a week or two later a notice went up on the union noticeboard, saying, we're going further afield next Sunday, bring butties.
So the route chosen was Skipton, then Malham, up past Malham Cove to Arncliffe, down Littondale, back to Bradford via Grassington and Bolton Abbey. I don't remember, now, whether it was I who proposed this route, or whether it was by common consensus and agreement. Whatever, this was the route decided upon. I do recall pointing out that there were several good pubs on the way.
So we rolled into Malham, where we stopped outside the pub to eat our lunch (or pop into the cafe to buy some, for those who'd forgot). Was going fine up till now. It was then (I think) that I noticed that some of the others were on very close-ratio six- or seven-speed (9/10/11 speed cassettes were of course a thing of the long distant future!). I was fine on my wide-range 'granny' block. Also, everyone was on stiff cycling shoes with shoe-plates (there were no such things as clipless those days).
Ho hum.
The run up from Malham past the Cove and the Tarn to Arncliffe, is best visualised on the OS map rather than Google. This shows where the fun started.
As the close-ratio'd ones dismounted and walked, whilst I and the more fortunate ones continued to toil up on the pedals, I could sense glowering glances in my direction. I tried to keep spirits up with the promise of the pub at Arncliffe.
There are several other double-chevrons on the route; I can't remember if there were other 'walking' episodes. Possibly there were.
Eventually we reached Arncliffe, and as if by a miracle it was still opening hours. That pub, the Falcon, is still there today: I just googled it and behold! - even now, nearly 40 years later, serves Real Ale as it did then, foaming straight from the barrel (protected from the heat by a damp cloth) into a jug and then straight into your glass! None of your hand-pumps here if you please! We were all genuine Real-Ale-chasers in those days. Surely that counted for something!
The rest of the ride passed without incident, although the mood, albeit lightened by the pub visit, was nonetheless a bit muted.
After that day, the Sunday rides got somewhat diminished. I was still invited to join, but it was made perfectly clear that henceforth it would be Tommy's, and none other than Tommy's, no arguments, period. I was still on good terms with the lads, but never dared to venture an opinion of my own after that.
Eventually the time came for me to leave Univ., later that summer. I handed back the jersey which I'd borrowed, to the club sec. Mutual 'goodbye's. End of tale.
I've never crossed paths with any CC since.
Me bad!
So. Once again, I was pootling one fine day, a few hundred yards from my digs, on my spanking brand-new Pennine, 531 framed road bike. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by a bunch of roadies, wearing team colours I thought I recognised...
I stopped. Pleasantries began. "Nice bike." "Thanks," I mumbled. A few friendly comments about the bikes, where had I been, where had they been, etc., then someone piped up "Didn't I see you, down at the Univ., the other day?" I admitted to being a postgraduate student. Then: "Well why don't you join the CC then - looks like you've got the goods...?" At this point a red alarm LED started blinking in my head: I muttered "Hey wait a moment guys, I'm not a club guy, I'm not into TTing or any of that stuff, I'm purely a leisure cyclist, go out for spins at the weekends..." "Don't you worry about that, we have spins on Sundays, just outings, we'd be glad to have you join in, it's not a training run, it's not fast..."
So I started turning up on Sundays, going along with the gang. Someone lent me a jersey in the club colours. I soon learnt that the 'Sunday Spins' consisted mostly of cruising up Hollins Hill to Otley, big 1-pint mug of tea (bought for a pittance) at Tommy's Cafe, a cake or bikkies if feeling hungry, then back to Bradford. Well, Tommy's (alas long since gone!) was a splendid place, very convivial, every Sunday it was piled high in front of the cafe with a great tangled mass of road bikes, spilling across the pavement into the road.
But even of Tommy's, great place though it was, you can only take so much. Sometimes we went to Skipton instead, by way of variety, similar cafe (can't remember its name). The riding was OK, within my capacity in those days. Sometimes one or two of the lads would break into a sprint just to show off, I never learnt to sprint so I left them to it: but it was all very friendly, like. Once we were passed by Sid Barras, leading UK professional of the day, out training. A couple of the lads latched on to him, he good-humouredly played them for a mile or so, then with a cheery wave and a "see you lads" he dropped them in a twinkling. The rest of us caught up with the lads looking a bit crestfallen but they felt honoured by the encounter!
So this was all good fun. But I was getting a bit restless, so one day I suggested "Shall we do an all-day run? Go a bit further out, into the Dales maybe?" The club sec. hummed and ha'd and said, we'll think about it. Sure enough a week or two later a notice went up on the union noticeboard, saying, we're going further afield next Sunday, bring butties.
So the route chosen was Skipton, then Malham, up past Malham Cove to Arncliffe, down Littondale, back to Bradford via Grassington and Bolton Abbey. I don't remember, now, whether it was I who proposed this route, or whether it was by common consensus and agreement. Whatever, this was the route decided upon. I do recall pointing out that there were several good pubs on the way.
So we rolled into Malham, where we stopped outside the pub to eat our lunch (or pop into the cafe to buy some, for those who'd forgot). Was going fine up till now. It was then (I think) that I noticed that some of the others were on very close-ratio six- or seven-speed (9/10/11 speed cassettes were of course a thing of the long distant future!). I was fine on my wide-range 'granny' block. Also, everyone was on stiff cycling shoes with shoe-plates (there were no such things as clipless those days).
Ho hum.
The run up from Malham past the Cove and the Tarn to Arncliffe, is best visualised on the OS map rather than Google. This shows where the fun started.
As the close-ratio'd ones dismounted and walked, whilst I and the more fortunate ones continued to toil up on the pedals, I could sense glowering glances in my direction. I tried to keep spirits up with the promise of the pub at Arncliffe.
There are several other double-chevrons on the route; I can't remember if there were other 'walking' episodes. Possibly there were.
Eventually we reached Arncliffe, and as if by a miracle it was still opening hours. That pub, the Falcon, is still there today: I just googled it and behold! - even now, nearly 40 years later, serves Real Ale as it did then, foaming straight from the barrel (protected from the heat by a damp cloth) into a jug and then straight into your glass! None of your hand-pumps here if you please! We were all genuine Real-Ale-chasers in those days. Surely that counted for something!
The rest of the ride passed without incident, although the mood, albeit lightened by the pub visit, was nonetheless a bit muted.
After that day, the Sunday rides got somewhat diminished. I was still invited to join, but it was made perfectly clear that henceforth it would be Tommy's, and none other than Tommy's, no arguments, period. I was still on good terms with the lads, but never dared to venture an opinion of my own after that.
Eventually the time came for me to leave Univ., later that summer. I handed back the jersey which I'd borrowed, to the club sec. Mutual 'goodbye's. End of tale.
I've never crossed paths with any CC since.
Me bad!
