RSF - The Off Road Cycling Club

The Adventure Starts Here

1985

I'm from Holland, and I'm used to rain. - Marianne Vos - Multi-Discipline Dutch Pro Cyclist

 

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1985 Jan-Feb Vol 30 No.1

We made Carrock Fell Hostel at five to seven with the warden standing at the door wandering whether to put the potatoes on or not. The hostel lived up to its reputation and we had an excellent meal.

1985 March-April Vol 30 No.2

The Fontburn reservoir is not visible from the road but its presence is announced by a “private road, public footpath ” signpost. I had passed the end of the road dozens of times before and had always respected the first part of the notice without ever taking advantage of the second. This time, on an impulse, I turned off left and immediately the old hills took on a new aspect and I felt the pleasure of entering new territory (a rare thing these days in my own county).

1985 May-June Vol 30 No.3

In the end sixteen pairs of bull eyes intently followed the cyclist’s movement, and one pair of cyclist’s eyes anxiously tried to keep the bull eyes at a respectable distance. One way or other this worked, but on reaching the gate “intently” became “indently” and “anxiously” became “painfully”, and soon a slightly bruised bike and its owner licked their wounds at the safe side of a ramshackle rusty gate.

1985 July-Aug Vol 30 No.4

At Warren House we were accosted on the bridleway by a farmer for wheeling our bikes. Evidently cvcles aren’t allowed on bridleways. He did allow us to use the concessionary footpath, which replaces the bridleway ploughed up by the farmers! Out of sight of the farm we mounted our steeds and descended to Kildale in sunshine.

1985 Sept-Oct Vol 30 No.5

We rode W.N.W., past the school, heading for Airor. Daydreaming we took a wrong turn and ended up in the front garden of Glaschoille House: nobody invited us in for tea, so, retracing our route, we cycled on to halt at the next good water, Sandaig Burn, our chosen site for the night.

1985 Nov-Dec Vol 30 No.6 (Index)

I put the map away and, as we started off again, we saw a man and a dog coming down the fellside. On reaching us he stopped and said, in a broad Cumbrian dialect, “Wheer the hell are ye two ganning wi’ that thing?” pointing with his stick to the tandem.

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