My first cycling memory was riding a trike. I doubt that this machine was actually mine; it is more likely to have been a hand-me-down, as were most things were in my youth. I remember it being red, although this may not have been true. I also remember it having a small rounded boot which opened downwards like a London Taxi. Roscoe’s Farm had a flagged back yard which was only about 10 feet wide, but ran the length of the three cottages giving a decent area for a little guy to zip around. I also had access to a 2½ acre field adjacent to the house which allowed for off-road riding, although the trike was no good for this. I don’t remember how old I was when I learned to ride a bicycle, but I remember an adult (probably one of my brothers) running along holding my seat while I wobbled my way down the field. I recall shouting for whoever it was to ‘let go now’, only to discover that they were 20 yards away and I’d been riding solo for some time. I can’t remember what bike I used at this point, but it must have been approximately the right size for me. Also available to me was an old rusty bike which had no tyres and probably no brakes, but could be ridden of a fashion by the 7-year-old me. My problem with this full sized bike was that I couldn’t reach the pedals whilst straddling the cross-bar, so I would ‘scoot’ down the field balancing on one pedal. I also vaguely recall having a scooter with eight-inch wheels, but I can’t remember much more about this.
Around this time, my brother was a trainee mechanic and he bought (or was given) an old Ford Prefect which was parked up in the field for some time. This was an old, black car, probably pre-war, which I never recall being driven on the road. My entertainment as an eight-year-old was to put the car in gear and then use the starting handle to slowly turn over the engine and thus move the car inch by inch around the field. Every so often, I’d jump in and turn the steering wheel a bit so that the car would change direction. I don’t suppose at this stage the engine had any spark plugs in it, or I don’t think I’d’ve had the strength to turn the engine against the compression. I remember the wonderful smell of the leather seats and I would spend many hours slowly creeping round the field in that car. I was easily entertained, even then.
There was always a pair of stilts around the house as I grew up. I say stilts, but they were simply two lengths of wood with brackets fastened about 18” from the end. The brackets were salvaged from old steel bedspreads, and for some reason we had many of those hanging around. As a child, I would strut around the place on these contraptions for what seemed like hours. They were great until I ventured onto the slippery flags of the back yard (with unhappy consequences) or conversely, onto the softer ground of the field where they would sink into the soft earth and I would be grounded.
Another popular method of transport, which I never really mastered, was the ‘bogie’ which was a contraption with two fixed rear wheels and two front wheels fixed to a rotatable axle controlled by a rope, or your feet. There was always a bogie around the place, but being on my own as I was for much of my early childhood, I could never really use it alone, needing someone else to push me on it. The one I had access to didn’t have sides as they were always depicted in the Beano, but the same basic design was there. I remember that in 1969 part of Moss Lane was made into two culs-de-sac and a bridge constructed over what was to become the M61 motorway. This man-made hill was ideal to trundle down on the bogie, even though it had no brakes and only rudimentary steering.
At some stage my sister owned a pair of roller skates which I tried to use, but could never balance on them. Since they had seen better days and would never be used as skates any more, I modified them by sawing one in half and fixing each pair of wheels to a small plank of wood, thus making a basic skateboard. I don’t recall ever having seen a skateboard prior to then, so I was certainly an early adopter. I never mastered standing up on the thing, so as an alternative, I fitted another short plank at 90˚ to the first, making a cruciform shape. I could then kneel on the rear part and hold onto the cross plank at the front and use my arms to lean left and right making use of the skate steering geometry to change direction. Everything was fine until a small gravel chip from the road would stick under a wheel making the vehicle stop suddenly or change direction without any input from me.
My brother-in-law to-be (Roy) also led me astray when he would tow me to the top of the motorway bridge behind his moped and then I’d race down using gravity. Holding onto the rope whilst being towed up was actually more fun, because I could go faster and if anything went wrong, gravity was on my side to slow me down. Roy still talks about this even now.
The first proper bike I remember was a beautiful blue colour. I’m not good with colours, but it was similar to kingfisher blue, but a bit paler. It came from somewhere second-hand, but ran well, and I remember a photograph of me on it cycling round Anglezarke with Mum & Dad in 1972. On the steep hill just past the Waterman’s Cottage, Mum rounded the bend and then swiftly came to a halt on the 16% incline before starting to roll back. She finished up in a tumble of wheels and limbs at the foot of the hill, more embarrassed than injured. I never pass that spot without thinking of this incident. I remember the trip well, because it was very rare for the three of us to go out together like that.
Whilst we didn’t often cycle together, we regularly went for walks as a family on a Sunday evening. My memory is of Mum suggesting that the whole family should go for a walk, but only some of us would go, my brothers and sisters, perhaps only going unenthusiastically. We wouldn’t go that far, perhaps three or four miles, round Lucas Lane & Town Lane, or perhaps along the canal bank to Whins Bridge in Higher Wheelton. Dad didn’t walk very well by then due to his heart condition, but he could cycle and potter all day in the garden without getting tired. He cycled to work every day until he retired.
Later bike experiences are covered in more detail in another chapter, but I clearly remember two cycling incidents which happened in 1976. At the ROF in those days it was typical for apprentices to go around the site carol singing in the run up to Christmas. We did this to earn some extra cash for ourselves, not for any charity! Thursday 23rd December 1976 was my last day in work before Christmas, and with other apprentices, I’d been carol singing. That day, we’d earned £6.41 each, which was a substantial amount considering that I only took home £19 per week at the time. I wasn’t working in the afternoon, but had gone to the sports club for a few drinks, spending some of my carol-singing earnings. At about 4pm, I was cycling back through site on my way home and my route took me past the MoD Police headquarters, although in my inebriated state, I didn’t quite get past and collided with the door mirror of a car parked outside. When I reached the main gate, 50 yards away, the policeman on the gate stopped me and pointed to the mirror lying on the ground near the car. I can’t remember much more about what happened then, but he must have taken my details and sent me on my way to reflect on the consequences of my actions.
When I arrived home, probably somewhat chastened by this event, I heard the dreadful news that my dad had been knocked off his bike when cycling into Chorley that morning. He was taken by ambulance to be treated in hospital but apart from a few bruises, he was OK and was later sent home. Mum recalls that he was taking some cash from the school into the bank when the accident happened and when she saw him in hospital, he was lying on the bed, still clutching the money to his chest! The crash had demolished his front wheel and forks, but a local bike shop fixed his dark green bike but returned it with black forks rather than green. I don’t know if Dad ever received any compensation for his injury, but knowing his desire for a quiet life, he wouldn’t have pushed for this. He was 62 at the time.
I was back in work on Tuesday 4th January when my foreman received a phone call from the MoD Police Chief Inspector (whose car I’d damaged). I was called to the foreman’s office to take the call where the inspector gave me a sound bollocking for riding under the influence, which frightened me to death. Once he’d put the fear of God into me, he then explained that since he’d been able to fix the mirror at no cost, he would let me off and told me ‘the incident is now forgotten’. I’ve never forgotten it, however, and it was nearly 40 years ago. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. I’d worried about it all over Christmas.
My diary entry reports that it was Mr Dibble who was the Chief Inspector at that time. Really? Officer Dibble? I suspect that writing that name in the diary was evidence of my sense of humour being restored once I found out that no consequences were arising from the incident. Thinking about this now, I wouldn’t be surprised if the inspector had taken his car to the vehicle repair workshop on site and got them to fix it for him as a ‘foreigner’. A lot of this went on all the time, and everyone turned a blind eye.