When cycling mate another greets,
Adorned in lycra, helmet, cleats,
As Wednesday morns draw near to nine
And gather those who so incline,
Legs astride our bikes, we natter:
“Let’s go west. It’s so much flatter”.
We think na on the long, road miles,
The cafés, bothies, paths and stiles,
That lie between us and our hames,
Where stored we keep our other frames,
Our mountain bikes and rain proof gear
And sits our cycling-widowed dear.
This truth fand honest Gra’m O’ Nantwich
As he frae Macc did puff and pant, which
Silk Town is oft the limelight hogging
With local folk who enjoy dogging.
O Gra’m! Hadst thou but been sae wise
As ta’en thy ain sweet wife’s advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a biker,
Freewheeled, enjoyed a drink (just like her),
That frae October to September
Of Macc Wheelers you were a member;
That ilka midweek wi’ Mick Warren,
(One Burns Night glimpsed both sporting sporran),
You’d cycle ’til you both would drop,
When Mick would say, “Now then, Mow Cop”.
She prophesied by Lower Peover,
Not far from where we cross the Weaver
You’d come to grief, with flat both tyres.
For such like things are sent to try us.
Ah, gentle dames, it gars me greet
How thus our Gra’m ignored her tweet,
That oft he thrilled us with surprises.
No need to guess, there are no prizes.
So to our tale: Ae Wednesday noon,
’Twas time for lunch. Nae greasy spoon,
Gra’m settled in at Audlam Jane’s.
He’d cycled there through leafy lanes
And now was planted unco right,
Was ready for a tasty bite.
Tuna mayo awaited Stan.
(If Jane’s one favourite, Stan’s her man).
Whilst Gra’m had ordered BLT,
The best there is this side the Dee,
Whilst who should scour the board for curry,
Our Rainow man and Scot, Raph Murray.
The rest the a’ day breakfast took,
A special’ty of Audlam’s cook.
They’d still the space for one wee slice
Of tea loaf, moist with hint of spice,
Then up they got back on their bikes,
Some glistening bright, especially Mike’s.
Now if you are a cyclist keen,
What follows you’ll know what I mean.
For pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow’r, the bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river –
A moment white, then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point the place;
Or like the rainbow’s lovely form,
Evanishing amid the storm,
For when you find yoursel’ immersed,
Thorns on the ground your tube will burst
Or as you’re going like a train,
In changing gear, off comes your chain,
Or downhill crouched o’er bars and speeding,
You hit a rut. You’re bruised and bleeding.
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The sun was dipping. Gra’m maun ride
To reach the spot where car was parked
Before the moon her journey marked.
Weel mounted on his hybrid cycle,
He sped ahead of Ken, Dave, Michael,
And soon Church Minshull’s village loomed.
It’s rumoured in its kirk entombed,
Bogles and ghaists and houlets cry.
(Not really, just a wee white lie.
How else can I re-conjure here
Rabbie’s electric atmosphere?).
Gra’m paused, his bike propped by the wall
O’er which he peered, not being tall,
And there, amidst the mossy gravestones,
Drear, dank and dull, not artist Dave’s tones,
The De’il was blowing with might and main
To reinflate his tyres again,
For it’s not just the good and glorious
Who suffer punctures fast and furious.
Beside him on the church’s portal,
Bell and Blackburn in combat mortal,
Not physically, but in debate,
“That’s not right, Bill. Let’s get this straight.”
It drags from point to point obscure
The Greeks ne’er reached such rhet’ric pure.
The De’il steps in. It’s almost settled,
Though Bill and John both end up nettled.
That’s when Gra’m roars, “Weel-done, ma boys.”
And in an instant, no more noise.
As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke,
Gra’m just has time to mount his bike,
The De’il himsel’ in hot pursuit,
With hellish peleton astute
They’re closing in as bridge draws nigh.
Will Gra’m reach it? He maun try,
For if he crosses flowing Weaver
He’ll have the right to take a breather.
A hand has seized Gra’m’s saddle bag
His morale’s sapped, but he’ll na sag.
A running stream they darena cross.
Gone saddle bag, he cares nae toss.
Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read,
Ilk man and cycling fan, take heed.
Whene’er to ride you are inclined,
Or brand new frames run in your mind,
Think! They may cost dear the things you like.
Remember Gra’m O’ Nantwich’ bike.
(Lines in italics borrowed from Burns' "Tam O' Shanter", particularly those similes concerning pleasures as they are unsurpassably vivid)