Phil Gillam: On yer bike son, for a lifetime of memories
Our dad rode this ancient clapped-out thing that was quite possibly a danger to himself and others.
Yes, it had two wheels and pumped-up tyres and a chain and handlebars and mudguards and a saddle and lights – and even a bell – but, even so, to call it a bicycle would be an insult to bicycles.
It probably shouldn’t have been on the road.
Nevertheless, for years he rode it to work and back without ever doing any harm to himself or passers-by.
He’d get home about half past five (which, on a Friday, would have been half way between the end of Crackerjack and the start of teatime), and I would ask if I could take his bike out for a ride.
This machine was black from top to tail, its split black saddle held together with heavy duty, water resistant, black tape, and – for some reason – it had on the crossbar a black and gold sticker saying “CAR OF THE YEAR”. (Dad’s little joke, I expect).
I remember it was quite difficult to control – bulky and unresponsive, and the brakes weren’t terribly good. And the other thing about it was that the oily chain would frequently slip off, making a right old mess of the bottom of your trouser leg.
So (in spite of all this) I would go off on this thing, exploring the streets of my beloved Castlefields, reading the nameplates on the cosy Victorian houses, up and down North Street, Queen Street, Burton Street, West Street, and Benyon Street (the latter having been named, by the way, in honour of the brothers Thomas and Benjamin Benyon who, in the early 1800s, built and ran a flax spinning mill in the area which – by 1816 – employed more than 400 people). This history would spin around my head.
And then it was on to Severn Street with its quaint Dog & Pheasant (one of Dad’s favourite pubs), around Albert Street and Victoria Street, up to the prison, and then Beacalls Lane with the old “Lancs” School which I attended in the 1960s. Ah … so many memories.
Hey, don’t get me started on the “Lancs” – with its stirring old hymns in assembly (When a knight won his spurs in the stories of old, he was gentle and brave, he was gallant and bold.
With a shield on his arm and a lance in his hand, for God and for valour he rode through the land); and the caretaker sprinkling sawdust over sick (what was all that about?).
Anyway … back to my teatime bike adventures!
By today’s standards, you’d have to say that old bike was not really fit for purpose. But, then again, you could start a thousand sentences with those words: "By today’s standards".
One of my favourite routes was along the riverside, as far at the railway station bridge in one direction, and then back again in the other direction, under the Castle Bridge and on to the weir (or, as I like to call it, Shrewsbury’s answer to Niagara Falls).
Don’t ask me why, but I can even recall the pop record that was often playing in my head when I went out on these two-wheeled expeditions (Baby Come Back by The Equals). How do I remember this stuff? More to the point, why do I remember this stuff?
Well. Fast forward about 50 years to the present day and my wife and I walked this route (actually, to be precise, from the Greyfriars Bridge to the weir and back again) on Sunday, which of course reminded me of when, as a boy, I used to charge around on this mechanical beast, no doubt imagining myself as a knight winning his spurs (or bicycle clips) in the stories of old, being gentle and brave and gallant and bold.l me at philoncloudbase@gmail.com
