Introduction to Fixed Wheel

The following story is true, although some comedy buffs may spot that it contains more than a hint of Gerard Hoffnung, or perhaps the Dubliners.

I became a fixed wheel addict at the age of thirteen when I became the proud owner of a Paris Tour de France. It was so light and responsive that despite the prevailing trend, I removed the gears. Inevitably, my sixteenth birthday was accompanied by a provisional motorcycle license, and the Paris was relegated to a hook on the garage wall. It continued to be used on occasions when the motorbike was being repaired, and before being sold was involved in one last adventure when a friend asked if he could borrow it for a couple of days. After four days without the return of my mount, I called round to see if everything was all right.

Murray, for such was the friends name, was at home, and from his seat (on a Mini inner tube), told me exactly what to do with the lethal weapon to which I had subjected him. He had not, at the time realised what exactly fixed wheel was, and when he found out, decided that if I could ride it, so could he. The trouble came when he cycled down Easter Road, a cobbled street, which was in the early sixties a main road from Abbeymount down to Leith. As he started to pick up speed he hit a pot-hole. The force of the impact dislodged his right foot from the toeclip. He found himself virtually out of control, and as the left crank, then at the bottom of its stroke started to rise. When it reached the top of its travel, still out of control, it commenced the downward stroke. His left foot, and obviously all parts of the anatomy connected to it - including the buttocks, followed. Before the pedal had reached the six o'clock position.the tender parts of Murray's body hit the rear of the saddle which, being mounted on an old fashioned seat pin immediately tilted the front up to a near vertical angle. The left crank again commenced its upward travel, and reaching the top, started downward, bringing Murray's behind in contact with the front of the Mansfield North Road saddle, a slim affair capable of inflicting high levels of pain even when used in horizontal mode. This sequence was repeated three times before the runaway bike was brought under control.

Murray never did confide in me whether the painful contact was right, left or dead centre, but never again was I asked to lend out my Paris.

50/14 as a bairn.

you dont love your bike untill you have come uncliped and slapped the tt with your balls. FACT.

I feel unwell.

i'm laughing through the tears (i'm also quite drunk so it's mostly laughter)

I'm swapping back to the old style seat pin to take a naive spin down Swains lane...

Charlie, your last name wouldn't happen to be "Woods" would it?