Padraig
Active Member
- Location
- St. Helens, Merseyside
You'd probably need to be of a certain age to understand what I'm talking about. There used to be a scheme called Cycling Proficiency, designed to train children to ride their bicycles safely. I was six in 1958. My tricycle had just given up the ghost in rather dramatic fashion. I was judged old enough for a proper bicycle. Off with us to the cycling emporium run by the Misses Webb, two unmarried sisters who were neighbours of my great-aunt in one of the more upmarket parts of town. The deal was done, and I was the proud owner of a bicycle, the make of which I'm hanged if I can recall. It was a single-speed with stirrup brakes, and came with a leather Brooks saddle and matching leather tool bag. It was decided that I should go in for the Cycling Proficiency award. This was signified by a pennant in lurid yellow felt, attached to a steel rod on your handlebars. About the worst health hazard you can imagine. I wonder how many children came to grief as a result?
Anyway, the introduction to this scheme was a film show at the local Police Social Club, conducted by Sergeant Smith. Not his real name, for reasons which will become apparent. We all knew Sergeant Smith. He came around to all the primary schools, conducting film shows to teach us safe cycling. He was a fine specimen, magnificently uniformed and sporting a huge ginger handlebar moustache. In those days, we admired men like him. After the film show, I signed up, and the course was held in the ample playground of a local school which my mother, an Anglican, had attended. It was marked out to simulate roadways, kerbs, etc., and there were temporary road signs to which we were expected to conform. The course lasted for several Saturdays, and we were finally subjected to a test. At the conclusion of this, awards were handed out. I seemed to have been overlooked. I sought out Sergeant Smith, who was loading all the temporary infrastructure into the back of a large van. How had I fared? I'd like to be able to tell you that he said: "I'm afraid you didn't quite make the grade this time. But look here, old chap. You are rather young, you know. Get some experience on your bike, and come back to us next year, and let's see what happens." What he actually said can be epitomized in three words. He said: "You've failed miserably." Just that.
Having led something of a sheltered existence, this was the first time that an adult had spoken to me in such a way. I didn't go back next year, or any other year. I acquired the yellow pennant from a friend, in exchange for something or other. Later, at secondary school, we were having a new school building constructed on part of our playing fields some distance away. Our headmaster was Brother Augustine. The gown worn by the De La Salle Brothers was unbelted, and had an unfortunate tendency to emphasise any portliness. Accordingly, Brother Augustine was referred to (although not in his hearing) as Fat Jack, or simply F for short. One day, he summoned me to his study over the Tannoy. He needed a reliable boy to convey messages to and from the project manager at the playing fields. A boy with a bicycle. He had a soft spot for me because I was Irish. But had I passed my Cycling Proficiency? I lied shamelessly. Didn't I have the pennant to prove it? The absolute joy of being set free from your lessons to go off on your bicycle, maybe taking a bit longer than was absolutely necessary. Sergeant Smith, having retired from the police, ended up running a rather seedy driving school. To me, he seemed somewhat shorter and less impressive than I remembered. When it was time for me to take driving lessons, I took pleasure in patronizing a rival concern. And in passing first time.
Anyway, the introduction to this scheme was a film show at the local Police Social Club, conducted by Sergeant Smith. Not his real name, for reasons which will become apparent. We all knew Sergeant Smith. He came around to all the primary schools, conducting film shows to teach us safe cycling. He was a fine specimen, magnificently uniformed and sporting a huge ginger handlebar moustache. In those days, we admired men like him. After the film show, I signed up, and the course was held in the ample playground of a local school which my mother, an Anglican, had attended. It was marked out to simulate roadways, kerbs, etc., and there were temporary road signs to which we were expected to conform. The course lasted for several Saturdays, and we were finally subjected to a test. At the conclusion of this, awards were handed out. I seemed to have been overlooked. I sought out Sergeant Smith, who was loading all the temporary infrastructure into the back of a large van. How had I fared? I'd like to be able to tell you that he said: "I'm afraid you didn't quite make the grade this time. But look here, old chap. You are rather young, you know. Get some experience on your bike, and come back to us next year, and let's see what happens." What he actually said can be epitomized in three words. He said: "You've failed miserably." Just that.
Having led something of a sheltered existence, this was the first time that an adult had spoken to me in such a way. I didn't go back next year, or any other year. I acquired the yellow pennant from a friend, in exchange for something or other. Later, at secondary school, we were having a new school building constructed on part of our playing fields some distance away. Our headmaster was Brother Augustine. The gown worn by the De La Salle Brothers was unbelted, and had an unfortunate tendency to emphasise any portliness. Accordingly, Brother Augustine was referred to (although not in his hearing) as Fat Jack, or simply F for short. One day, he summoned me to his study over the Tannoy. He needed a reliable boy to convey messages to and from the project manager at the playing fields. A boy with a bicycle. He had a soft spot for me because I was Irish. But had I passed my Cycling Proficiency? I lied shamelessly. Didn't I have the pennant to prove it? The absolute joy of being set free from your lessons to go off on your bicycle, maybe taking a bit longer than was absolutely necessary. Sergeant Smith, having retired from the police, ended up running a rather seedy driving school. To me, he seemed somewhat shorter and less impressive than I remembered. When it was time for me to take driving lessons, I took pleasure in patronizing a rival concern. And in passing first time.
