My Cycling Roots by Jack Riegen

My cycling roots go back to the 19th century, for it was on the day of Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee that my father acquired his first bicycle. He lived in North London, but because he was very fond of Surrey he often got over to the Portsmouth Road, where cyclists met at Ditton and Ripley. One year he spent his week's Summer holiday cycling to Edinburgh and back, with a final dash to the Sussex coast to see some girl friends.

Living in the same parish was a Wiltshire-born man and his wife and daughters Minnie and Annie. When, in the early nineteen-hundreds, he decided to retire he returned with his family to Salisbury. This was bad news for Reg, Dad's pal, because he had a crush on Minnie, and the only way he could continue his courting was to cycle down at weekends. He didn't fancy doing the journey on his own, so asked my dad to cycle with him, which he did two or three times. Sadly the ride was too much for Reg, and he decided to look for love elsewhere. However my father had developed a fancy for Annie and continued the journeys on his own. This involved leaving London after work on Saturday morning and cycling down to Salisbury, returning after tea on Sunday. And this was the way he did his courting. Annie bought a bicycle, and loved to tell of the occasion when she decided one Saturday evening to ride out to meet him. It so happened that father had made better progress this day and called in on some friends in a cottage at St. Thomas's Bridge. As ill-luck would have it this was just the time when Annie sailed past on her way across the Plain to Andover. Of course, when dad reached her home he had to chase back after her, and she was well on her way to Middle Wallop before he overtook her.

They married in 1909, and honeymooned with their bicycles at New Milton. I still have a faded photo of my mother, with her big flowered hat, standing with her bicycle by the Rufus Stone in the new Forest. Two years later I was being pulled around the Hertfordshire lanes in a wicker trailer. I can vaguely remember an occasion when we were caught in a violent thunderstorm, and I got soaked. In 1913 dad switched to Motorcycle and sidecar; but it wasn't as reliable as the old bike! One day we set out for Salisbury, but the machine stalled on Egham Hill. We turned, free-wheeled into the village, tinkered with the engine, got up a burst of speed and tried again - same result. This must have happened several times for I vividly remember it. We never got to the top: trip abandoned! The Great War put an end to all this journeying.

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