Date: Tuesday 18th January 2011
Route: WP, Walkinghampton church, Routrundle, car park, Peak ‘ill, down t’ lake, up t’ moor, down t’ mines, Scout ‘ut, Earthquake, HQ.
Riders: Martyn, Colin, Paddy, Stephen, Greg, Steve & Sam.
Depart: 19:40
Arrive HQ: 22:05
Distance: 17 miles
Weather: Perfect, crisp, moonlit evening.

To be heard in Alan Bennett style voice

“By ‘eck, me belly’s t’size of a cow’s tit”, thought Stan to himself as he stretched the shiny lycra over his lower region. It was a while since he’d placed himself astride his bike and the festive season seemed to have taken its toll. Despite what Thora said, he was actually twice the man he used to be, if not in quite the same places. He walked downstairs, careful not to tread on the runner lest he spoil the even knap. Thora was quite insistent the carpet was not for treading on.

“Right my love, I’m off,” he called.
“Out with that group of overgrown boys you call Gentlemen are ye? Ye daft lump. Be careful and don’t come crying to me if you catch your compensator on your flange again.”
“Alright petal. Do you mind if I have a swift half afterwards?” He felt it wisest to check before pursuing his own path.
“Aye, alright,” she replied, “but put bins out as well.”

Minutes later Stan had flung his leg over the crossbar of his Hercules with three-speed Sturmey Archer gearing and was making good time to the folks at the top of the hill. Thora didn’t mind really. She now had a thrilling night ahead, starching antimacassars and knitting foundation garments.

Arriving at Willoughby Park where several other lads waited with their steel and alloy horses. “How do?” announced Stan. “No’ so bad,” came the reply. There was a surprise. They were always, “No’ so bad”.

“Where to then?” said Stan.
“Up t’ moor, by way of Walkinghampton church, Routrundle, car park, Peak ‘ill, down t’ lake, up t’ moor, down t’ mines, Scout ‘ut, Earthquake, pub.” The routesetter were a man of few words but words can strike fear into men. Stan sucked his teeth and girded his loins. This were gonna be tough. Not all the men were of a similar countenance to Stan. Some were thinner than a whippet’s whistle, some fitter than a butcher’s dog that only got the lean stuff, yet others had nerves of such steel, they must have been conceived in a Bessamer convertor in the heart of Sheffield and then had their edges honed by the finest cutlers.

So off they set. Now I’d like to tell that this is a tale of where Stan finds his wind, shakes off the remnants of his Christmas frivolities and led the pack from start to finish – like a greased ferret on a piece of string. But he didn’t. Like the rather slow end of an overly long pantomime cow, Stan doggedly sat at the back, noting only the arse of the man in front. Not pretty. But there’s compensations to a big belly. Downhill, he were unstoppable. Gliding over the bumps and rocks like a slug on speed, his stomach wobbling like Thora used to in the good old days. Cruising past lighter chaps, they didn’t have the weight to keep them down on the ground; instead they bounced and jiggered like a donkey with a wasp up its nose.

All good things come to an end though and the pub always seemed to be at the top of the hill. Stan pottered in last. But his head was high and his heart strong. And more importantly, Thora couldn’t tell the difference between a half and two full ones. It would be a good night.

Reporter: Martyn