Cycling: My life on two wheels

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Cycling was always my main interest as a schoolboy in the very early 1960s. I was the proud owner of a green, Derby-built, Mercian bicycle which took me on lots of Sunday rides accompanied by two friends, Barry Smith, who like me went to Rykneld School, and Dave Bennett, from Derby Art School.

I can’t remember any of us having any ecclesiastical interests as such, but we always seemed to end up cycling to places with fine churches or cathedrals such as Lincoln and Coventry. We also did a bit of competitive cycling in the form of time trials, usually starting from Little Eaton and heading out towards Denby, often in the company of Derek Woodings, one of Derby’s top racing cyclists of this period.

By the time I started work with the GPO, in January 1963, I had shown little interest in motorbikes, despite my dad having had motorcycles as a young man and a motorbike and sidecar as family transport. It was that memorable first week at work that really kick-started my life with bikes.

I had been shown around the various departments of the Midland Road building where the current Post Office now stands and was eventually taken into the motor transport workshops, directly opposite the Rutland Inn, one of several hostelries that would also significantly shape my later life.

Lined up in a corner of the garage were a row of gleaming, red, Post Office BSA Bantams, which my guide, postman Dennis Allsop said I would be riding in 10 months’ time, when I was 16.

I gazed with envy as a rather scruffy looking telegram boy came rushing into the garage, placed a peaked white helmet loosely on his head and fastened a wide black leather belt around his waist that held the telegram pouch.

Then, displaying a huge grin to one and all, he put one of the bikes into gear and kick-started it into life. He swept out of the garage with the engine screaming and the tortured clutch burning, leaving a choking trail of hazy blue exhaust smoke and sparks in his wake as he banked the bike over hard, allowing the leg shield to dig deep into the road surface.

The lad was, I later found out, Simmo, aka, John Simnett, one of life’s great characters that the Post Office (and the railway) had in profusion in those days. He left me with an indelible image. I just couldn’t wait for my 16th birthday.

My job, until that time, would be office messenger which, apart from mundane tasks like regularly disinfecting telephones and making tea, also involved cycling up to a British Telecom depot on Markeaton Park and the GPO’s parcel depot in Curzon Lane, Alvaston, delivering internal correspondence.

The bikes I had to use were a far cry from lightweight racers, being more like butchers’ bikes with large carriers at the front. Added to the heavy weight, was the fact that I was also rather small and often struggled to reach the pedals. All the bikes, as I recall, were of a standard, universal size.

So, with that and the weather (the winter of 1962-63 was quite bad), I was soon educated in the art of scrounging lifts from departing Post Office van drivers by fellow messenger, David Roome who was extremely smart and also an expert church organist in later life.

I was now working in an environment where motorcycles were very much a major form of ride-to-work transport and the GPO bike sheds were absolutely full of different models, used by telegram lads and postmen alike.

The ones that I specifically remember were Pete “Noddy” Hanson and his Norton Dominator, Barry Powles’ Villiers-powered Sun, John Hinchcliffe’s Matchless 09, Dave Hilton’s 650 BSA Rocket, Mick Testro’s Francis Barnett, Brian Day’s Ariel Leader and my uncle, postman Maurice Sharpe’s Royal Enfield Bullet.

The summer of ’63 was quite bewildering for a young lad; there were so many exciting things happening. But, despite my love for the music of the time, particularly the Beatles, and the occasional girlfriend, I was engrossed in biking.

I was buying every motorcycle magazine available, with the central colour spread from Motorcyclist Illustrated, featuring all the racing stars of the day, regularly finding its way onto my bedroom wall. I was also cycling to every motorbike shop there was in Derby to drool over the machines behind the large, plate-glass windows that tantalisingly separated me from potential ownership.

Of all the shops I visited – James on the corner of Lowerdale Road, Macton Motors on Normanton Road, Palm’s on Osmaston Road, Gray’s on London Road, and Minions on Park Street – it was Ingles on Walbrook Road and Wileman’s on Siddalls Road that I most liked visiting. Ingles, for instance, had a gleaming, red BSA Rocket Gold Star at the front, while Wileman’s, a bike emporium my dad always dealt with, prominently featured a black Velocette Venom Clubman, both of which I wanted!

I was gripped by the racing scene, especially BBC radio’s TT coverage and Sportsview. One man’s name was repeatedly being mentioned – Mike Hailwood. I just had to go to see him race.

I had seen advertisements for the 1963 Race of the Year at Mallory Park and decided I would cycle over to see what this racing lark was all about.

I remember arriving quite late and leaving my bicycle, unlocked, against a fence! Inside, I found the crowd was huge and just managed to get a glimpse of the riders as they flashed past.

But it was the sound, above all else, that captivated me. The winning MV Agusta of Hailwood and the Geoff Duke-managed Gilera Fours sounded absolutely fantastic above the steady drone of Manx Nortons, Matchless G50s and AJS 7Rs. I was absolutely hooked and Mallory Park, Mike Hailwood, John Cooper and the rest would be my whole life throughout the 60s and early 70s. I so desperately wanted a bike to get there, though!

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