The Freewheelin’ Blog Thrillin’

The boy always had bikes. From the moment he spied his big sister’s, he wanted one of his own. He had a wee yellow Halfords-made thing, a Stinger, all go-faster stripes and cartoon wasps with helmet to match, and it wasn’t long before he was cycling death-defying circles on the front grass, the stabilisers dispensed with almost as soon as I’d fitted them. D’you remember the rushing sense of freedom that accompanied those first stabiliser-free pedals of your own? Yeah! Great, innit! Once you’ve shaken the rickety wobbles free, you’re truly off and running, one of life’s first lessons in the sheer thrill of singular independence.

He had a blue Cube bike next. High spec and well built. The pair of us, sometimes three if his big sister was feeling adventurous, would cycle from Kilwinning to Irvine to visit my parents, their grandparents, a one-way trip of seven or so miles. He’d have been five or six years old at the time, but he was determined that wherever I cycled, he should cycle too. I’d lead the way on the stretch of National Cycle Network bike path that serves this part of the west of Scotland so well, the boy just behind me, his wee legs going like the clappers while I freewheeled most of the way. I’d ring my bell. He’d answer by ringing his back. I’d do two short pings and one long one and he’d answer in the same way. Daft games to make the journey interesting. I’d have a stash of chocolate in my pocket and if he was flagging, we’d pull to the side and I’d produce the energy-giver at the right moment. By no means was it the fastest way to visit gran and papa, but it was the best. For the return journey, my dad would often put the boy’s bike in the back of the car and run him home, but he was never happy about that. Big sister, generally, was delighted. But if I was cycling home, then so should he, whether he was six years old or home was another seven miles away or whether it was raining or not.

After he’d outgrown the Cube, we got him an orange bike, the make of which escapes me. It had great tyres, if I remember correctly. Solid when pumped. Proper road grippers, but narrow enough for speed. Being bigger and more gallus, he’d think nothing of encouraging me to take him further afield. We’d go all the way through Irvine Beach Park and past the myriad of links golf courses to Barassie, and maybe even Troon if the weather was favourable. We’d cycle into the hilly countryside, wheezing our way up and wheeing our way down north Ayrshire’s undulating landscape, still playing that daft bell game, still stopping for sugar.

In the school holidays, the three of us would cycle to Kilwinning train station, wrestle our bikes onto the train to Largs (no easy task during the Glasgow Fair when all and sundry head doon the watter for the day), hop on the ferry for the short crossing to Millport, then cycle the island’s pancake-flat ten-mile distance, stopping off first at the famous Ritz Cafe and then at Fintry Bay with its crabbit ice cream seller before getting the ferry and then the train back home in time to make tea. Happy days.

The best bike he had was a Bradley Wiggins-branded hybrid bike. Great build. Properly good spec. A high quality bike. Even in the depths of winter, the pair of us would be off and out. Sometimes ‘just’ to Irvine, but these days we’d take the longer and more scenic route, up to and over the standing stones at the top of Eglinton Park, a thigh-burning exercise in positive mental attitude, its long, fast and slightly treacherous snaking downhill the reward for the hard yards on the up-climb. We ferried not just to Millport but to Arran now. He never quite made it round the island’s 56 mile circumference (I thought he was still too young, a concept lost on him, with inevitably stroppy arguments as a consequence) but we conquered many of the Sleeping Warrior’s hills and winding bends like a father/son tag team of red polka dotted Kings of the Mountain. By now, he’d be faster than me much of the time. Bigger, stronger and less apprehensive of the fast and winding downward runs, more gung-ho at tackling the horribly steep climbs. And now, he’d be the one at the top of the hill, pulling chocolate from a hidden pocket, teasing me slowly upwards the way Hanna-Barbera might’ve teased a donkey with a carrot.

Then his football really took over. It was always there, but now he trained twice a week and played at the weekend too. Bike time was no longer part of the agenda. To accommodate his growing stature, the seat on the Wiggins bike had been adjusted as high as it would go. ‘We’re gonnae need another bike,’ I remember thinking. ‘…but he doesn’t cycle any more,’ I answered myself almost straight away.

We sold the Wiggins bike on Facebook marketplace yesterday. A nice guy bought it. His young son will be in Scotland for four weeks during the English school holidays and they hope he’ll want to cycle around Millport on it. The bike’ll be happy to see familiar roads again. It’s gone to a good home.

I went upstairs to tell my wife that the bike had been sold. “It’s gone.” I burst into tears.

That wasn’t expected at all.

Here’s Long Hot Summer. Lazy, languid, meandering and unforgettable, all the while taking its time to get to the end of the road; the perfect metaphor for cycling with your kids, as it turns out.

The Style Council – Long Hot Summer