More Nonsense - or From Beer Bellies to Garden Gnomes by Roy Sporne

As most people know I regrettably had to sell my Silhouette. Regrettable, yes, but if I did not have her to sell, I would probably now be living in a cardboard box in a shop doorway.

I have now taken up cycle touring. This came about by browsing through the books in our local library under sports and leisure for something I could do that would not cost the earth but get me out and about. I found this book called "Fat Man in France"; on the cover was indeed a fat man with a bike, a French stick through the straps of his panniers and a bottle of wine where his water bottle should be.

"Ha" says I, "Looks interesting. If this fat slob can go to France on a bike then so can I." So, smuggling the book out under my coat, as I still owe a fine for a non-returned book from 1952, I discovered further revelations: canal bank riding, no hills. I had not been on a bike for forty years but could still remember that terrible feeling, puffing and blowing and collapsing at the top of each hill. But canals don't go up hills. That's why I got rid of some water skis I was given - could not find one going downhill either.

Perhaps I could still go to France, not sail there in my Silhouette, but go on a bike, with a small tent perhaps. No petrol, no tax, no certificates of competence, no harbour or marina fees, no waiting for tides or for weather forecasts, with that stupid man saying "Southerly force 2 - 3, good", when it's blowing half a gale from the north, and so much mist you can't see the forestay.

Problem is, no bike, so off to the nearest cycle shop - no harm in looking. My God, how things have changed, wall to wall bikes and equipment, all the bikes different colours. In my day they were all black except G.P.O., and they were red. There were obvious racing bikes, all-terrain bikes, mountain bikes, comfort bikes, and going by the price tags the only way I could get one is to sell my oldest son to an Arab sheikh. That's an idea I had not thought of - get rid of the stupid sod and get a bike, all in one move.

"Can I help you Sir?" The voice came from a little sinewy man complete with little silver beard, who had a distinct resemblance to a garden gnome. Obviously too fit for his own good as he would not stand still, I had the sudden urge to lash him down before he went overboard.

"Yes" said I, "I'm looking for a bike". Bit stupid really, as the place was full of the damn things, and my bank balance was about as much use as a Railtrack share, and the amount I now owe would make the third world debt look like the end balance of Grannie's Christmas Club.

"Certainly Sir, What type?", says Garden Gnome. I don't know, thinks I - something red, ex-G.P.O., about five pounds, but explained what I wanted to do. "Ha" says Garden Gnome. "Just come back from France. Done over 900 miles. Smashing climb over the Pyrenees to Spain."

Trying to hide my baccy pouch and nicotine stained fingers I continued by explaining that my last bike was a Penny-Farthing so I knew very little about modern bikes. Garden Gnome then started speaking a foreign language. "What you need Sir is an eighteen inch frame, on/off road capability, butted alloy, Shimano triple chain set, to give a 24-36-46 eight speed freewheel, omni front suspension, Audax wheels with stainless spokes, on/off road tyres but not too much drag for road work - something like this."

He took me over to a resplendent machine in metallic blue with bags on the back, bags on the handlebars, computer giving speed and distance, pump, two water bottles, twin headlamps, even a computer which tells you what gear you're in.

"This Sir is completely ready to go anywhere. It's a trek bike - you could go round the world on this". For the price of it I could get an air ticket to do that if I wanted to.

Garden Gnome continued, "I could give you twenty per cent off, special offer this week."

Deciding Garden Gnome must have a brother at One Stop Chandlery as there is very little difference between a cycle shop and a yacht chandlery - go in for a new spoke and come out with a complete bike. I managed to beat a hasty retreat clutching handfuls of brochures and saying I would go and think about it.

Returning home and feeling a little peckish, decided to go foreign for grub and roots as the cupboard was bare, take the dog for a walk at the same time, and ponder on my latest dilemma, how to get a bike. Having seen rabbits and other small animals foraging away in a field not far away from my house, and thinking this would be a good place to start, headed in that direction, only to find that neither my dog nor I had the faintest idea how to forage. (Evolution again,) It was either join the pigeons around Ben's Burger Bar or the seagulls in Tesco's carpark. Rich pickings in Tesco's carpark, especially if some fumbling short-sighted oldie drops her week's shopping, after tripping over some young thug's skateboard.

This caused me to stop and think of evolution and the plight of the Lesser Yachty, and what does the Greater Yachty know that we don't? The only way to find out is to join them on one of their migrations, either Burnham Week or better still, Cowes Week.

The thought of twenty or so Silhouettes crossing the Royal Yacht Squadron line, and all hopefully heading in the right direction to the first mark, is enough to bring a tear to the eye. Perhaps a team in the Admiral's Cup, then the Fastnet?

To this end I have tentatively explored the possibility of obtaining sponsorship. Milton Keynes Council are very interested and would supply the Lesser Yachty foul weather gear, namely brand new heavy duty bin bags with holes cut for arms and legs, suitably adorned with 'Property of Milton Keynes Council', front and back, in either black (household rubbish) or green (garden waste); also already cut-down garden wellies in black (bin man) or green (park ranger).

Little Chef have also promised the latest in navigation equipment in the form of up-to-date Little Chef location maps in plastic wallets to stop them getting wet, and a supply of lollipops on sticks complete with little wicker baskets.

Just think, forty or so Lesser Yachties standing around the Royal Yacht Squadron bar in dripping bin bags and cut down wellies, apologising for our late finish in the Fastnet, as no one told us there is no Little Chef on Fastnet so we could not find it, together with a down-turn in the economy, and a crash on the stock market, which might reverse the evolutionary cycle, and send the Greater Yachties back up the creek with the rest of us. This could mean M.B.E.s all round from Prince Charles, and large framed certificates from Greenpeace and the World Wildlife Fund, also articles in the yachting press about the decline in Greater Yachty feeding grounds (marinas), and massive publicity for our class, well worth a thought to save our planet.

The cost of entry for Cowes Week can be drastically reduced by avoiding the Commodore's dinner party, sticking to halves of Bitter, and using your own tender to get ashore instead of the R.Y.S. launch, where the box to gather tips resembles the safe at the Royal Mint.

I would also do my bit to assist in the entry fee by returning to Tesco's doorway with my hat on the ground and my dog, to sing sea shanties. I never get any money but perhaps we could raffle the tins of Pedigree Chum I always get. Unfortunately this would also mean hard times for the manufacturers of white cotton trousers, blue blazers and yachting caps, but a word in the right place could possibly solve this problem by providing new uniforms for Milton Keynes ? metro bus conductors.

Deep gloom now overcame me, especially after September 11th when the world decided to kick Osama Bin Laden's arse, and he took to the hills, just when I was negotiating to sell him my son to be used as target practice at one of his training camps, for the price of that lovely blue bike. What with mounting household debts, and a line of creditors outside my house being mistaken for a polling station in Zimbabwe, I was beginning to think that the only way I could get to France and all that lovely cheap baccy and wine was to become an asylum seeker, but going the other way - hop on a freight train in Dover.

Then my daughter changed her job and returned to live at home to help run things. Seeing all these bike brochures all over the kitchen table she says:" Do you want a bike? I'll buy you one if that's what you want. You had to sell your boat to save the house, and you've got to have something." So I am now the proud owner of that lovely, go-anywhere trek bike, complete with tent, stove etc.

To be continued.........