I Want to Ride My Bicycle

In which The Author sees some world class athletes and jots down some ideas

This is going to be another one of those entries that starts somewhere, loops in and around on itself, and ends up somewhere else. Just so you know …

Last weekend I wished I'd actually completed my degree in Applied Biology back in the 1980s, because I could have done with cloning myself. It was karaoke in the Cambrian and Iwan's going away party on Friday night. I impressed everybody by managing to go to both and catch up with some other pals. In between singing and chatting to Iwan, I met Alan Everett, one of the stalwarts of the old Cynon Valley Quiz League. He's trying to re-establish the Sunday night competitions, and we're arranging a meeting to put things in place on 10 October. Watch this space …

On Saturday morning the Cynon Valley Museum and Gallery reopened, so I went along to check it out. It's been taken over by a trust, and is now run by a group of volunteers. Needless to say, after a week of fairly decent weather, it was absolutely pissing down on the day. The planned outdoor activities for youngsters were washed out, which is about par for the course in Wales. My pal Clint was there as the official photographer; David Leslie Davies, the respected local historian and author, was there as one of the organisers; as well as chatting to them, I bumped into some other friends while I was looking around.

It meant that by the time I got to St Elvan's Church, where Geoff was giving a talk on the Valleys connection in the Great War, he'd left by the other door. I caught up with him in the car park, and apologised for getting the time wrong. I'll definitely get around to seeing his presentation at some point, I promise.

I stayed in town for the rest of the day, because in the evening I had my third double-booking of the weekend. My friend Eirlys was having a birthday party in the Con Club, while my friend Shannon was having a going-away party in the Glosters. I stayed in the club until about 10.00, then made my way to the pub. I eventually crawled away from there some time after 2.00, leaving the youngsters to crack on into the small hours.

On Sunday evening I went to the Cambrian, where my old friend Mel Crew and another fine musician named Hugh Chidgey were hosting their monthly open mic session. Before they got going, Mel and I had a chat about the Tour of Britain. Stage 5 was set to begin at Aberdare Park, a puncture repair kit's throw from my house, on Thursday morning. Mel grew up in Nottinghamshire, and one of their local sporting heroes was a champion cyclist named Tommy Simpson. I knew his name, because his biography had been published shortly before I finished working in the book trade.

And that's where everything sort of ties in. Because here in the Cynon Valley, back in the late Victorian era, we had our own cycling hero, a chap named Arthur Linton.

I already knew there was a blue plaque on Arthur Linton's old house in Cardiff Street, Aberaman, because I photographed it a few years ago.

I didn't know much about the life of this chap until I read an essay about the Aberaman cyclists (Arthur, his brother Tom, and Jimmy Michael) in Old Aberdare Volume 5 a while ago. It's a fascinating and tragic story, which formed the basis of a play called Gladiator last year. (It came to the Coliseum, but I missed it for some reason.) Anyway, the current centrepiece of the reopened museum is an exhibition about the Aberaman cyclists. Another friend of mine, Callie Healey, has painted a marvellous portrait of Arthur Linton, working from old photographs. Some of Clint's photos are in the exhibition as well. The pieces were falling into place nicely.

Yesterday morning, dodging the showers, Rhian and I went to the park early to watch the cyclists depart on the latest stage of this gruelling tournament. Stage 5 took them from Aberdare to Bath, via the Eastern Valleys, the Forest of Dean and the Stroud Valleys. Local schooolkids had had the morning off to enjoy this remarkable occasion, and we were lucky to get a decent vantage point to watch the teams arrive.

We caught sight of Sir Bradley Wiggins, Mark Cavendish (who is much shorter than we imagined) and a host of world-class athletes as they came up to the stand to sign in and have their photos taken with the Mayor of Rhondda Cynon Taf CBC (who is much younger than anyone imagines). I got some fairly decent photos, a few half-decent ones, and some good video footage of the competitors making their way past the statue of Industry on their way out of the park.

Then Rhian and I went for breakfast (second breakfast, in my case), decided that we really couldn't have a Silly Day, and parted company about lunchtime.

And this morning, again dodging the showers, I took a stroll up to Aberdare Cemetery and took a few photos of Arthur Linton's last resting place. The memorial was erected by public subscription after his tragic death at the age of just 27. (There was some dispute about his birthdate, apparently, and his name is mis-spelled on the memorial. Nothing much changes, does it?)