Growing up in rural Wiltshire,

A racing bike was my pride and joy,

A Raleigh Lenton (Reg Harris approved!);

 What's not to like for a fifties boy?

 

And I still recall with fondness, 

It was British through and through...

Cyclo-Benelux, Brooks, and Dunlop  -

All those famous names I knew.

 

I lived on top of Bowden Hill, 

My very own Mont Ventoux,

It loomed above the countryside,

A highpoint in my view.

 

Brutish and short like Britons of old,

It always stood there in my way

Every time I cycled home,

Daring my courage each day.

 

But with young limbs aching,

Teenage muscles fuelled with fire,

I always kept the pedals turning,

Heaving my bike ever higher.

 

I'd make it  my honour never to stop

Eyes fixed firmly on the road

And pushed on with my ears popping

Until its summit I bestrode!

 

I'd reach our cottage and dismount

Triumphant in my youthful will;

Out of breath - barely able to speak;

King of that steep and twisting hill.

 

Nearly sixty years on I now look back

And relish what my younger self did then

In those far off days of freedom -

And would happily live those days again!

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