RSF - The Off Road Cycling Club

The Adventure Starts Here


“When I go biking I am mentally far, far away from civilisation. The world is breaking someone else’s heart.” - Diane Ackerman, American poet


All content in the journals is copyright either of the RSF or the author or indeed both. It's use without permission will result in a stiff memo. If you would like to use an article or images please contact the general secretary in the first instance

1967 Jan-Feb Vol 12 No.1

Afterwards ginger-bearded Dave Edwards — all 6ft. 6ins. and 161 stone of him, in Fred Barber’s red nylon anorak acted as Father Christmas doling out our presents. A large pile of wrapping paper appeared before Ellie, due to her generous husband adding about half a dozen surprise packets. Afterwards Ida organised a hectic game and we were all glad of a rest and more slides, this time from Stan Argill on Greece, Italy and Spain, and Dave Edwards’ year in Antarctica.

1967 March-April Vol 12 No.2

The smell of methylated spirit or the roar of a primus stove brings back memories of numerous outdoor meals in Scotland, but most vivid is that time when we ‘brewed-up’ with Bob and Gerry & Co., in the bothy of Landon Castle. On that occasion we had seven primuses roaring away at once, in a super and rather hilarious meal time, before wading across the beck on our way over the Bowland Fells to Bleasdale. Then there is the old song South of the Border

1967 May-June Vol 12 No.3

Loch an Eilean lies like a jewel in the heart of the old Scots pines and rideable tracks run all round it. There is also a Nature Trail laid out, and a good chance of seeing Golden Eagles and Buzzards both of which nest around here. An old ruin on an island in the Loch is known as the “Wolf of Badenoch’s Castle” but this legend is quite incorrect. The Wolf of Badenoch was a natural son of Alexander III of Scotland and gave the country good cause to remember him for his evil ways. 

1967 July-Aug Vol 12 No.4

Ice-cold rain, a cape that billowed with the storm-lashed wind, and a lonely cyclist battling his way up the Ceiriog valley at midnight — yes, that we me, on my way to ‘the Nant’. On through darkened Llanarmon D.C. and then the gradual climb to the beginnings of the pass, with the rain still stinging my face. I was feeling a little wretched with it all, but cheered up somewhat when I looked down to the camp site, and saw the clustered tents. Yes, there was one with a guiding candle lit inside.

1967 Sept-Oct Vol 12 No.5

Just before we got to the farm we had to pass through a field in which there was a bull. I went in first and I wheeled ‘Rupert’ down the track to the lower gate. Cyril said to Nellie, ‘Hold my bike whilst I fasten the gate’; before he could look round she had caught me up and was urging me to get the other gate open. As you already know, Nellie doesn’t like bulls ; however this one proved to be very docile, which was perhaps quite as well as the gate was rather rusted and difficult to get open.

1967 Nov-Dec Vol 12 No.6 (Index)

The villagers, although surprised to see a European cyclist, are always friendly, with their shouts of “Saru Bature” (Greetings, white man). Along the narrow paths one has to be careful to avoid the line of village women walking in single file, striking in their brightly coloured cloth wrappers, carrying wooden bowls of milk and eggs on their heads. In the rainy season they are often hidden around a corner by the tall grass and guinea-corn stalks.

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