RSF - The Off Road Cycling Club

The Adventure Starts Here


“Think of bicycles as ridable art that can just about save the world.” — Grant Petersen, bicycle designer BikeRadar / Immediate Media


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

1997 Jan-Feb Vol 42 No.1

“You’re the fellah that’s followed us from Scotland.” There I was, stood standing on Preston station, minding my own business, resplendent in old, brown, heather stained shorts, sweat shirt and knobbly Knees. I had just waved vaguely Churchillian Victory V signs of farewell at Bob’s departing train, Green Jack having already made his own homewardbound connection. Whilst attempting, simultaneously, to oon my jacket and support my muddy bike with my buttocks, I was accosted. Stallion-like the steed turned its head to view the goings on in the vicinity of its valuable and vulnerable assets and reared backwards.

1997 March-April Vol 42 No.2

Queuing up for my third cup of tea at a cyclists’ meet, I spotted a notice: 'Open 10 Mile Time Trial. Sunday Feb. 25th 1996. Preference given to those booked for the Annual Dinner on the same day ’. Since Geoff and I had already got tickets so would be in the area, it began to seem like a Good Idea Finding the Secretary, I tentatively asked if I’d be allowed to enter, explaining that it might take me the best part of an hour if it was a windy day. ‘No problem. By the way, is your club affiliated to the RTTC ?.’ ‘I haven’t a clue,’ I replied,

1997 May-June Vol 42 No.3

The M6 motorway has taken the worst of the traffic from the once notorious road over Shap Fell, but for anyone wishing to avoid the tarmac of the A6 there is an alternative route, which follows the line of the old road. Riding south from Shap Village about half-a-mile after the turn-off for Wet Sleddale, the monstrosity of the Shap Granite Works appears as a blot on the landscape. Turn left through the works entrance and cross the line of the dismantled railway. A right turn brings you to the road used as a public path, which is the start of the Old Shap Road.

1997 July-Aug Vol 42 No.4

Goodness Me! ... It must be 60 years or more, since first I saw the sketch, yet I recall it all so well as if it were but yesterday. The sketch I mention, was one by the late Frank Patterson, the man who with a pen of magic, captured to perfection all that is good in the cycling touring scene. Even now in these my "autumn” years, whenever I look at a Patterson sketcn, it. . . "Does something to me!" But . . . back to the sketch I so vividly recall in the “golden age” of cycling in the pre-war 1930’s, when I revelled in the unbounded joy and enthusiasm of my first bicycle,

1997 Sept-Oct Vol 42 No.5

Further to last year’s attempt on the track from Kinloch Houm to Amisdale, when thwarted by flood conditions for any mid-way crossing of the river, two overnights were arranged at the excellent B & B of Mrs Nash at the end of the row at Corran. The day between was spent trekking along Glen Arnisdale, and after crossing the broader lower end of the river by two bridges shown on the OS, I eventually reached the unbridged river crossing that was deemed impassable on the previous visit. This was indeed ‘another day', not having been preceded by a run of bad weather; the river this time flowed innocently over a spread of boulders so as to be easily fordable

1997 Nov-Dec Vol 42 No.6 (Index)

Two candles helped to warm the tent and also gave light to prepare the evening meal, water had been obtained in my canvas carrier from a convenient stream before darkness. Then a warm sponge down and so to bed by 10pm. I remember slipping into the sleeping bag, with my woolly cap on my head, leaving the candles lit while I filled in a few words on my nightly crossword. Next moment (or so it seemed) it was daylight, I hadn’t moved an inch, cap still on, candles burnt out (very dangerous), but what startled me was the howling wind shaking the tent.

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