At this time of year, around Easter time, I often reflect on my cycling journey. Easter is a time of re-birth. It certainly was for me 41 years ago this year. But, more of that later.
Apparently, I was riding a bike almost as soon as I could walk, a three wheeled one at least. I can remember my Dad teaching me to ride a two-wheeler. I can see now the path in the back garden, me shouting “you can let go, Dad” followed by the far distant cry of “I have, son”. I totally trashed the grass in the front garden by endless laps of the perimeter. As a slightly older child, I used to watch in awe from the back seat of my parent’s car as we passed cyclists on the open road. I knew then, that was what I was going to do when I grew up.
It was an English Schools Cycling Association (ESCA) initiative that got me into Club cycling when I was 13 years old. To encourage more participation from younger people the local cycling club (Lowestoft Wheelers) organised a series of Schoolboy 5-mile time trials – 2.5 miles out and back over a hilly country roads course, four events at two-week intervals. I rode on an ordinary single speed bike on which I had fitted dropped handlebars. The sense of freedom was tangible. I loved the racing, but more so the thrill of being out and the adventure.
From there I recall being invited on a Sunday morning Club Run. Just 25 miles they said, and true to their word it was, they had just forgotten to mention it was the same back again. I can still feel the pain of it. So exhausted I was that I had to be pushed up the hills. But I went back the next Sunday, and the next, and the next. In those early days, every ride made a difference. Before I knew it, I was happily riding 70 to 80 miles club runs. The format was always the same. Leave Lowestoft at 10.00am, ride for 2.5 to 3 hours into the depths of Suffolk or Norfolk, lunch in a country pub (pint of bitter shandy and bring your own sandwiches), another 2.5-to-3-hour ride in the afternoon to a tea stop, then another hour home form there. Normally in for 7.00pm! Without doubt, these were the happiest days of my early life.
It is with no sense of understatement to say that I lived to cycle. I looked forward to every Sunday club run and the world that was opening out under my wheels. However much I did, I always yearned for more, I always wanted to go further and longer. When I was not cycling, I was thinking about cycling or planning the next ride. Or dismantling and rebuilding my bike. I quickly learnt by trial and error how it all worked, what went where, what needed maintaining, what did not. Within a short time, I could strip a bike down to its constituent parts and rebuild it in under an hour!
At 13, I had found my place in the world. It is with no sense of false modesty that I say I was never fast. I was not. Others had natural speed, I did not. I worked hard for my modest improvements. But I was able to go a long way. At the age of fifteen I entered a 12-hour event, you race around a set course for 12 hours amassing as many miles as you can. Such are the demands of this event that they do not even have a Schoolboy category for it. And much of the perceived wisdom from those around me whom I admired was that I was far too young, and it was foolish to even contemplate the idea. But crucially I did have some allies who encouraged me and believed in me. That September 26th, I pedalled 216 miles in the West Suffolk Wheelers 12 hour on my 73” fixed wheel for 33rd place out of 57 riders, all much, much older than me.
By this time too, I was completely immersed in Lowestoft Wheelers Cycling Club. I had been the Schoolboy Rep on the club committee, was the Press Secretary and went on the next year to become the General Secretary.
At 16 I had school exams and whilst I managed to pass them, they did serve to illustrate that maybe my attention was elsewhere. I nearly left school at 17 when I secured a job at the Eastern Daily Press in Norwich, but I turned it down and (spurred on by a big put down by one teacher) I went on to secure some good A Level results. (I showed him!) But all this time I was still living to cycle. And, with university beckoning, it was only going to get better.
I chose to study in Liverpool and left Lowestoft and with it my beloved Lowestoft Wheelers. But Liverpool was home to some great cycling clubs and after an invitation from a friend I joined the Liverpool Century Road Club on 20th November 1979. And so, to the beginning of the chapter referred to in the opening paragraph. At university I was still clearly living to cycle, it was not for nothing that I quickly earned the nickname Bicycle Bryan. I cycled every day, everywhere.
In the early months of 1980, the club ventured into the hills of North Wales for weekly Sunday club runs. Known as car runs, for the simple reason they were accompanied by a club coach in his car, they were effectively quasi road races around about 100 miles long. There was a lot of talent on those rides, and then there was me. But I did ok, enough to be noticed and to get picked for the team to ride the four-day Tour of the Border Road Race in Newcastle over Easter weekend.
I was in my element. I stepped up my training even more. By February 21st that year I had done 2000 miles. But then, soon after disaster struck. I will never forget it. I had been out on a 40 miles training ride; we had returned through Kirkby where we were pelted with fruit by a group of lads. I got hit by an orange in the stomach which left me badly winded. That night I started to get a temperature, nothing to do with the fruit attack, I was coming down with flu. I knew this was not good. I had a week off and felt better and started riding again. But I was not the same. Whatever form I had was gone, I just did not have the legs. In hindsight I should have pulled out of the race, but I just did not want to miss it. The race was a disaster for me. I grimly held on to the bunch for the first half hour of each of the four stages and spent the remainder alone in the Cheviot Hills before rolling in last on each day. It was a tough race and whilst I had finished last on the road at least 20% of the field had dropped out over the course of the weekend. I shall never forget the prize-giving where I received the Lanterne Rouge award as last man along with some faint praise for keeping going.
To say I was devastated would be an understatement, but mainly for my team-mates. I really did feel I had let them down. They were great as I recall but I did feel badly that I had not been there for them. They were great lads and I admired them all.
I returned to Liverpool totally exhausted and had a spell getting over another bout of flu. As I reflected on the effort and the disappointment, on all the training miles put in, of the experiences I had sacrificed to get to this point, suddenly it pricked the bubble of what had been my world since age 13. In that moment I realised that my life had to be more than just cycling, that there was indeed a whole world out there and which I could not let pass by.
And so, to that extent, that Easter was a real turning point for me, a re-birth if you like. I accepted my limitations and embraced what was around me. And yes, cycling took a back seat for a while. I have never regretted it. And, I have never forgotten all the people who helped make those early years such a special time, those that helped me, encouraged me and supported me, who I admired and aspired to be.
And cycling has taught me many valuable life lessons, many of which are still relevant to me today. And the most important lesson of all – keep going, whatever you are doing, however tough it gets, just keep going.
Happy cycling! See you up the road.
Bryan Harper is a life-long cyclist. He is currently totally addicted to Strava and finds it hard to resist any segment. He is a member of Newbury Road Club.
Bryan is a highly trusted and experienced Programme and Project Manager in the world of corporate office relocation. Bryan has worked with some of the best names in the industry, both individually and through the major property consultancy CBRE.