Magpie Tales#42

Willow's picture calls up memories of mind-games long past!

In cycling "time trials" competitors ride "against the clock", starting at one minute intervals to eliminate "slipstreaming" and pacemaking. In the 1950's  hundreds of these events were organised by local cycling clubs. They were described by the miles to be covered on an "out-and-home" course as "tens", "twentyfives", "fifties." etc. Hard to believe that in those days, on summer evenings or Sunday mornings, competitors rarely encountered much traffic on British roads.

Class Act at an Evening "Tens" 

"This your first shot at this, lad?" Wally sneers,

"Giving up netball for a push-bike, then?"

Wally. Iron-founder. Hard as horse shoes.

Me. Grammar School. Sixteen. In Wally's eyes

I'm toffee-nosed and wet, no match for storemen,

strong-men, welders, checking out their bikes, 

choosing the chainset that will see them fastest. 

Little upstart, me, a time-trial virgin, 

poncy, all pale knees and Latin. Wally

thinks racing's not for the likes of me, and so

his next veiled insult is my "handicap."

More than two minutes! For ten miles! Big girls'

blouses ride off less than that!  He's telling me

I might as well not start. "No one will laugh,"

he says, "if you get lost, fall off, or faint."

"Get lost yourself," I think. So I don't say

I've trained long for this "ten," and half asleep

can clock his fucking course in twenty-five.

Which is what I did. My time screwed Wally.

I won the handicap event, in fact

lopped eighteen seconds off the previous best,

hauled home their crappy little cup. Stowed it.

Never looked at it again. And Wally?

Wally never spoke to me again, because

we both well knew I should have told him.

What we both learned of class, insults and lies

that night has stayed with me, remembered

from time to time with glee and hot-faced shame.