Long ago, when we were 11 or 12, I received a wonderful favour from Cooksey. We used surnames only at prep school, so Cooksey is all I have: hardly enough to track him down now. His parents were in Hong Kong, but at half-term, when almost every boy went away for the Saturday and Sunday, he was invited to stay with his aunt. My own parents sent word that I could not go home that weekend. So I stayed at school and Cooksey lent me his new bike.
Its beauty captivated me: a Raleigh Kingfisher, metallic blue frame, drop handlebars, caliper brakes, three-speed gears and a racing saddle. Those were the days when a boy might have to make do with a more ancient kind of bicycle: matt black, stirrup (rod) brakes, no gears – the kind of indestructible bike that Miss Marples would ride round the village whilst she snooped and solved mysteries.
There was only one snag: I had never ridden a bike. The headmaster’s wife Nora Brummell-Hicks told me I could do what I liked for two days: no school discipline or time-table applied, as long as I was indoors by dark. She and her husband wanted the time off too! I could go to the kitchens when hungry: Cook had been instructed to leave some cold food in the safe. I hadn’t been as free since stepping off the Rangitata at Tilbury. It felt like heaven.
The sun shone from dawn to dusk and I didn’t waste time indoors. I was out with the bike when the dew was still shining like diamonds on grass and hedgerow.
The school was where it says Great Sanders on the map. The red arrow points to a disused track through the woods. That’s where I got on the bike and tried to ride it. I don’t know how many times I fell off into nettles and brambles or on to the hard track. I became covered in scratches and stings and dust, my nostrils full of cow parsley and meadowsweet and crushed nettle-leaves. The track was dappled with shade but I sweated with the sun and the effort and didn’t relent though hunger and fatigue pulled at me. Frustration and defiance were stronger goads. When I could ride five yards without falling off, I knew I could ride.
I went to the kitchen and summoned Cook as if I were Lawrence of Arabia at the Officers’ Mess in Cairo, as played by Peter O’Toole, dressed as a sheikh, with an Arab boy in tow:
LAWRENCE
We want two large glasses of lemonade!
BAR MAN
This is a bar for British Officers.
LAWRENCE
That’s alright; we’re not particular.
. . . . . . . .
BRIGHTON
What’s going on?
OFFICER
It’s Lawrence, sir.
LAWRENCE
Lemonade with ice.
BRIGHTON
Well, explain yourself.
LAWRENCE
We’ve taken Aqaba.
BRIGHTON
Taken Aqaba? Who has?
LAWRENCE
We have. Our side in this war have. The
wogs have. We have. He likes your
lemonade.
Then I went back and rode the bike, from end to end of the track through the woods, never falling off. Only when dusk made it too hard to see did I collapse into my bed. If I could, I would have taken the bike between the sheets with me. I dreamt about nothing but bicycle-riding and the next morning, still dusty, every muscle aching, I got up, washed in cool water, and went out to ride again.
PS this post was inspired by Serenity’s latest on the same topic.
PPS After keying in the tale, I did try and chase up Cooksey on the Net, despite the lack of a first name. Could it be Sir David? Yes. He is 2 years older than I. It fits.)
PPPS He died in 2024: there’s an enormous number of obituaries, haven’t got time to count them.
a wayfarer’s notes 
Nice detail, brings back such similar memories of my first bike, also blue, I was also eleven – the last kid I knew to get a bike! – and I also didn't already know how to ride… and my best memories are also combined with nature. I remember loving to get out early and loving everything about the experience: how the tires sounded over the pavement, the trails they'd leave if I went through a puddle, how the glittery things in the handgrips sparkled in the light as I rode around the playground, the adjacent streets, and the lane near our house which was narrow and had tall grasses and flowers along one side.
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A great tool for me, roamed the city far and wide on a bike, I have no idea where my parents were or what they thought, never seemed to be involved with that, until the little brother came along. I later switched to hitchhiking or just walking, but the beginning of freedom came on the bike.
I would have loved to roam your area, would have been great adventures.
Keep up the great work Vincent.
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Vincent,
I am so glad you wrote this piece, the detail is exquisite, as it always is in your writing. What strikes me about riding a bike, or something of similar nature that we commit ourselves to learning, is that no matter how many times we fall off, end up bloody and sore and scratched, we get back up on the saddle again to try, try again…focused and obsessed with achievement.
Thank you for writing this piece, and seeing the value in the memory and sharing the words. It is priceless.
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There are not many rites of passage for Western children, unless they are Jewish and go through Bar-Mitzvah. But learning to ride a bike is one. It is good to remember and compare our experiences, so thank you Paul, Serenity and Jim for sharing them, and adding so much value to this blog space.
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