Page 16 - PBCOctober2019

Pickwick Bicycle Club Magazine Volume 16 No.2 October 2019 !16
Memories of an Old-Timer

Those of us of a certain age may remember with great affection the racing in the 1950’s.
The private and confidential RTTC, The National Cyclist Union and the newly formed BLRC
the rebels. I first joined the Barnet Cycling Club in 1952 aged 12 years old. It was a mix
of road men and time-trialists. The clubroom was at the Green Man Pub in Barnet and
there was always a ferocious tear up going home from the clubroom with the finish under
suicide bridge at Archway. In the 50’s everyone idolised the Italians. I called myself
Engers Elle because at the back of my mind I thought that this would help to make me like
my idol Fausto Coppi. At the clubroom one night I arranged to enter a 25 on what was
then called the N4 course, which now runs parallel to the A14. My club mate Eric Sim, who
we called Bartali, I have no idea how he got that name, maybe it was because he was so
unlike Gino it just stuck.

We met at 12 noon on Saturday to ride the 40 plus miles. We both had our sprints on
carriers at the front of our bikes which was normal then, and not many people had cars at
that time. Our digs for the night were in a village called Lowick which is near Thrapston.
When we arrived we introduced ourselves to our host an
elderly spinster and inquired where out beds for the night
were. She indicated a vertical ladder against the wall and we
climbed to find a double bed with a bolster which felt as if it
was filled with sand. There was a jug and basin – who needs
hot water! Remember we were kids on an adventure so this
was all part of it.

Later we had dinner which was egg and bacon followed by
treacle tart – all this for 10 shillings per night. Our host then
relayed to our eager ears all the local village gossip which
centred on the Vicar who it was alleged had misappropriated
the overdue library book funds (more on this later). I also
inquired about the location of the toilet, which was at the Tom Roker
end of the garden but was told to be careful of the bees as
they don’t like any type of perfume or cologne.

Oh dear, I had the then fashionable Brylcreem on my head. I waited until it was dark
hoping that the bees were asleep and crept down the garden with my flickering ever-ready
torch. I went in, yes there were newspaper squares to use which would be familiar to us
war time babies. Strange, as I could hear running water. I shone the torch down the pan