SUNDAY STEADY – well worth a try!

This is the Club Ride that’s like no other,

Pounding the tarmac one after another,

Training for the rich, training for the poor,

No matter your G group, it will help you soar.

Longer than Saturdays, more of a climb:

Inclines may tax you but slowing’s no crime,

Through downland and swampland, river and vale

Snorting invective, thin air to assail,

Few other riders; deserted the lane,

Sundays are special, the air pure champagne.

 

Admiring the glances, on our approaches,

(Whoops! you ain’t heard that, it’s last night’s samosas,)

The birds strike up in mellifluous chorus,

As we fly by their nests, in rhythm so flawless.

The countryside sleeps, but folks are a stirring

“RCC are about, I hear their wheels whirring”.

 

Half way approaches, the aroma is strong,

The tea stop is coming and cake before long.

Thirty or forty, the miles done to date,

The company great, no pain to relate.

We arrive at the Boathouse typically welcomed,

By the Scotsman’s rude greeting, we’ve never quite fathomed,

Glad of our custom, his intentions well meant,

Testament to our, terms of endearment.

 

Now for the social, the discourse it flows,

You’re here amongst friends so anything goes,

Helpful advice for problems galore,

Joshing and joking, your choice to ignore.

Bike chat ad nauseam

And any old flimflam,

And chat, chat about anything

Newsworthy or nothing,

Family and friends, exploits to extol,

The trip down to Aldi, or to the North Pole.

Stories about, a hospitalisation,

Engendering seemingly, endless frustration,

Of kids whining on about latest flirtations,

Hitting them hard - such devastations.

How did we dig such a bloody great hole

At thirty why are they, still on the payroll?

So onward we bang, spouting such rubbish,

Great fun in its way but completely un-British.

But time is our enemy, we must press on,

Bearing in mind our trip’s just half done.

 

So Auld Lang Syne to our dear Scotsman,

The same as well to the rest of your clan,

The haggis to die for, as surely we would,

Had we ingested a portion and attempted Combe Wood.

Lucky for us, no one did it tempt,

So PBs aplenty, did grace that segment.

A couple more inclines to round off our sortie,

Bruce, Johnny and Walter, Chris and PG,

So why don’t you join us, a treat lies in store,

Sunday Steady’s a ride, straight from the top drawer.

 

 

With apologies to W H Auden

On whose poem ‘The Night Mail’ this report is loosely based.

 

Philip Gibson

Event / Article Type
Sunday Steady 24-01-2016
Sunday Steady 24-01-2016