Passione Celeste

by Mark Pritchard

  PASSIONE CELESTE

  Captain Century’s

  Bianchi Bicycle

  Diaries

  Mark Pritchard

  Copyright © 2017 Mark Pritchard

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 9781788030854

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For the memory of David and Elizabeth Pritchard.

  If you hadn’t given me that tricycle in December 1959

  none of this might have happened!

  And for my own personal peloton: Katherine, Megan and Huw. You may not be cyclists but you are the greatest team I could wish for.

  ‘Mark Pritchard grew up riding in an era before the mass explosion of cycling in Britain. He was inspired by the achievements of many of the great European professional riders that I raced against during the 1960’s and 70’s. Mark has ridden the length and breadth of Britain and in Europe on long one-day rides and multi-stage tours. His enthusiasm for riding is infectious – whether you are a novice or a seasoned rider. Vas-y-Mark!’

  Barry Hoban, winner of 8 Stages of the Tour de France and author of Vas-y-Barry

  (available from www.thepedalpress.uk)

  ‘For many cyclists completing their first one hundred-mile ride, or century, is a major achievement and for some, almost a rite of passage. Mark Pritchard rode his first century over 40 years ago and hasn’t stopped since. For him, riding a century is almost an everyday event! In Passione Celeste he shares some of his rides, and his passion for century riding. You can ride with Mark, and his alter-ego Captain Century, on their tours around Britain and in Europe and learn about the places he has visited, the people he has met and the fun he has had along the way.’

  Chris Sidwells, author of Best 100 Mile Bike Routes

  ‘Mark Pritchard (aka Captain Century) has a very special relationship with his Bianchi bicycle family. Now you can join him on a journey that travels to the heart and soul of this iconic bicycle brand. This is a story that celebrates the DNA that is unique to Bianchi – its Passione Celeste.’

  Andrew Griffin, Country Manager, Cycleurope UK Ltd

  Contents

  1. PROLOGUE

  2. WHERE IS THIS ALL HEADING?

  3. LAND’S END TO JOHN O’GROATS

  4. BIANCHI: MORE THAN JUST A BICYCLE

  5. THE SIXTY CENTURIES SERIES

  6. TOUR OF TUSCANY

  7. THE SUPER SIX GO TO THE LAKE DISTRICT

  8. DOUGHNUTS AND DENVER

  9. MEMORIES AND MILESTONES

  10. MORE MEMORIES AND SOME MEDALS

  11. A DAY OUT WITH THE COUSINS

  12. MILES, LOTS OF MILES

  13. TOUR OF THE PYRENEES

  14. THAT’S SO LAST CENTURY

  15. SIXTY CENTURIES – SOME REFLECTIONS

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  1.PROLOGUE

  I was between appointments and slightly ahead of schedule so for once I had the time to stop at a passing café for a cup of coffee. The café was virtually empty and I took my cappuccino to a table by the window. Sitting down and looking around I could see one other customer. A person in their mid-forties, I reckoned, and wearing Lycra, so probably a cyclist. Glancing out of the window I could see another cyclist approaching, also clad in Lycra. Slightly older, mid to late fifties possibly, and judging by their tanned and wind-weathered skin, someone who spent a lot of time outdoors.

  After propping up their bike, which looked to be an expensive modern carbon-framed machine, the newly arrived cyclist entered the café. Looking around the second cyclist saw the first and nodded in acknowledgement before going to the counter to order a latte and a sticky piece of flapjack.

  Cyclist number two walked towards cyclist number one and asked if it would be okay to sit down. Cyclist number one seemed to welcome the company and so a union was formed. I wasn’t close enough to hear all that they were saying, but with very little hesitation they appeared to be chatting quite happily together. I wondered. Were they passing acquaintances, or if not were they close friends?

  The older cyclist seemed to be doing more of the talking and I sensed that the younger one was seeking information by asking a succession of questions. Their mood was a relaxed and happy one. Two people linked by a shared interest. As the conversation developed, I detected a subtle change. What initially seemed to be communication at a sort of friendly yet slightly reserved level was evolving into something very different and far more sophisticated. Comments were exchanged, eye contact was being made and held. Body language shifted. Almost imperceptibly the atmosphere changed. It moved beyond casual conversation to something on a totally different level. A level that mere words were incapable of describing. Now it seemed that their communication involved feelings of the heart as much as the words they were speaking.

  I was fascinated. The two cyclists were so engrossed in their conversation and with each other that they were oblivious to my observations and eavesdropping. As a casual observer this seemed almost like a romantic encounter; maybe a first date, a tryst in the making? At the very least some interesting intrigue to recount to my friends later.

  Although I was too far away to hear clearly what was being said, I did work out that there was talk of carbon, and words in a strange language, like Campag, which sounded vaguely Italian, yet were spoken with English accents. One phrase stood out and was used several times by the older cyclist. That phrase was ‘Passione Celeste’.

  Suddenly, and without any warning, the older cyclist said, ‘It’s been great to chat to you but I must be going as I’ve still got another 50 miles to do.’ So the conversation ended abruptly. Standing up, the older cyclist said ‘If you want to learn more about Passione Celeste I’ve just published a book. Look it up on the Interweb.’

  As the second cyclist headed to the loo I thought I would sneak a quick peak at his bike. Slipping out through the door I could see that both bikes were resting against the café’s wall. Surprisingly, they were both the same colour – a sort of bluish green. And I noticed that they were made by the same company. An outfit called Bianchi.

  2.WHERE IS THIS ALL HEADING?

  Tuesday 22 July 2012, 101 Miles

  How It All Started

  I was feeling great. No, I was feeling better than great – I was almost euphoric. I was about 60 miles into one of my favourite rides on a lovely warm sunny day. Behind me lay the raw and desolate Suffolk coast with sweeping views across low-lying marshlands. With few trees and hedges, you can see for miles on a clear day. It is a lightly populated area and with not many cars on the roads there is a great sense o
f freedom. Although it can feel like a lonely place it is also a place where I usually feel completely comfortable. And especially so on days like today with perfect riding conditions and a ride that just seems to get better with every turn of the pedals and roll of the wheels. The feeling of an escape from the pace and pressures of daily life is one that I cherish.

  The soft hiss of rubber on tarmac and the light whoosh of wind passing by can be quite soporific. At a sort of subconscious level I’m taking in what’s going on around me and am alive to potential road hazards. It’s as if I’m in a sort of low-power mode. When I feel like this my mind tends to wander off on its own ride and I do some of my best thinking and quite a lot of daydreaming. Today I’ve been reflecting on my life on a bike; how I originally got into cycling, and why I’ve stayed on the bike for most of my life.

  I was born in 1956 in Trinidad, in the West Indies. I got my first set of wheels, a tricycle, when I was three and I used to race around our house and garden, much to the consternation of my parents. My mum used to say that I would pedal furiously and showed no fear of crashing, which apparently happened quite often. Around the age of seven my dad took me to an athletics meeting. I don’t remember much about it. Apparently, I was bored rigid by the track and field events. But at the end of the meeting there were some track cycling races and, according to Dad, they totally captivated me.

  I have a very vague recollection of that afternoon. Two things stick in my memory. First, there was a team from Italy taking part and they were riding some pretty stylish bikes. (Years later, Dad told me they were riding track bikes made by Bianchi.) My other memory was of Roger Gibbon. Roger was a Trinidadian track cyclist who was well known locally and had won several medals at numerous regional international events. I like to think he beat the field on the day I saw him.

  The upshot of all this was that I was soon the owner of a fixed-wheel kiddies’ bike. Although it came with stabilisers I removed them within a couple of days and by the end of the first week I was tearing around our garden quite happily. I was the ‘new’ Roger Gibbon and winning everything. Not long afterwards word got back home that I had been spotted riding on some busy roads, which led to the bike being confiscated and me being grounded for several weeks. I had already worked out that a bike was the key to freedom and independence.

  From the mid-1960s I spent a few years as a boarder at prep school in Surrey, where there were no opportunities to ride. I can’t recall anyone at the school having a bike. In 1969, my parents returned to the UK and in 1970 I left the prep school to attend a local school. Arriving home at the start of the summer holidays, I was presented with an upright bike, complete with three-speed Sturmey Archer gears. I spent the summer exploring the local area, the Chilterns, and getting to know my bike. In September I started what was to become a daily ritual: I rode the 4 miles to school. For pretty much the next five years I did the 8-mile round trip and reckon, conservatively, that I clocked up over 6,000 miles. As I made new friends at school, my bike became the key to meeting up with them. Quite a few of us also used to race around the local woods on tracks we created – our version of a cyclo-cross circuit.

  Two significant things happened around this time. I got what I consider to be my first ‘proper’ bike: a Coventry Eagle with drop handlebars and five-speed derailleur gears. This was a reward for my O Level results, coupled with a contribution from me in the form of my paper round earnings. So now I not only felt the part, I sort of looked the part!

  The second incident occurred as I rode home early on a Sunday morning from the swimming pool. I was head down on a wide A-road, giving it everything on the Eagle. Looking over my shoulder I noticed another rider a couple of hundred yards behind me. The race was on, and I sped up. I was still in front when I reached the turning for our village, and looking back I could see the other rider hadn’t really gained on me. Result! I carried on pedalling, but eased up quite a lot.

  Anyway, a couple of minutes later the other cyclist caught me and was pretty pissed off. He thought I was his minute man in the local club time trial! Well, every cloud has its silver lining, and this incident eventually led me to joining the local club and discovering the world of cycle racing. At that time, the club cycling scene was very much about road racing and time trialling. Apart from training rides there was very little in the way of social riding, which is a huge part of today’s club scene.

  I also discovered the world of professional racing, particularly in Europe with the Spring Classics and the Grand Tours. This was at the end of Eddy Merckx’s reign (one of my heroes) and I also used to follow Barry Hoban’s achievements (another of my heroes). Cycling Weekly (‘The Comic’) was essential reading for keeping up with events in this pre-Internet and sports channels era. With virtually no television coverage of cycle racing, The Comic was the only way to keep in touch.

  Although I held a British Cycling Federation racing licence for several years and rode some races and time trials, it was very much a case of my enthusiasm exceeding my athletic abilities. Then, as now, I was much more interested in distance riding than racing. But I did enjoy any opportunity to wind it up whenever I got the chance. I also enjoyed, and still enjoy, hill climbing. I guess that’s something I absorbed during my daily school run which included a classic Chilterns climb.

  Most holidays were spent on my bike, riding with friends, and we used to go on some quite long outings. I remember what was probably my first century ride: from home along the Icknield Way and the Ridgeway to the Vale of the White Horse and back, with one of my school mates. We set off early and got back after dark. Much of the route was on rough tracks. When my Mum eventually discovered where we had been, she was rather cross. I was grounded and my bike was confiscated for a while. However, there was no stopping me and I was soon back on the bike.

  One of my happiest memories is of a bank holiday weekend in 1974 when a group of us rode to the Welsh Borders, overnighting in youth hostels. I have some vivid memories of this great adventure. First, I rode a borrowed bike – a ten-speed Bianchi Rekord (I think). Sadly, all the photos I had of it have long since been lost. I had agreed to buy it but unfortunately it was stolen before I could conclude the deal. What I do remember is that it was a celeste steel frame and was rather uncomfortable, probably because the frame was too big for me. I carried my spare clothing in a small canvas rucksack on my back, which certainly didn’t make me any more comfortable! I also remember a night, involving a lot of beer, at The Sun in Clun which we noticed because there was a Cycling Tourist Club sticker in the window. It was a real trip down memory lane for me in 2015 when I stayed again in Clun on my Lejog ride.

  For the next several years I continued to own and ride various bikes as I continued my journey through school to university and into the world of full-time work. With the increasing demands of work and the priorities of a growing family, my riding reduced. But I still enjoyed some great rides, especially as my job took me to different parts of the country. Working in North Wales in the early 1980s meant that I could really get into the hill-climbing groove!

  In 2010 I had the opportunity to retire, which I grabbed with both hands. Whilst I didn’t have a clear game plan for life post-retirement, it didn’t take me long to work out that I now had the time to get back on the bike. And to get back on it with a vengeance. So that’s what I did! I now ride between 10,000 and 15,000 miles a year and absolutely love it.

  As I rode along the sunny Suffolk lanes today, I realised just how lucky I am.

  Saturday 8 September 2012, 130 Miles

  The Tour of Britain

  ‘Respect!’ I looked across at the speaker, who didn’t say another word. Instead he just pointed to the rear wheel of the bike in front of us. Eventually I realised what was up. The guy in front of us was riding a fixed-wheel (single-speed) bike. We were waiting to enter the starting gate to ride a stage of the Tour of Britain. Well, not the race that the professionals ride, but a sportive he
ld on the same route as the race would take the following day. The stage started in Ipswich and headed up the east coast to Great Yarmouth, before turning west and inland into centre of Norfolk, and finally turning back on itself and finishing on the outskirts of Norwich. Respect indeed! Or maybe madness. The thought of riding 130 miles on a fixed-wheel bike without any chance to freewheel seemed like complete madness to me. Well, each to their own I suppose.

  All too soon we were called forward to the starting gate, given our safety briefing, and then the flag dropped and thirty of us were under way. I think we were the second group to set off so we had a largely clear road in front of us. The first few miles of any sportive require a bit of extra concentration as groups of mixed abilities sort themselves out. It’s classic Darwinism through a process of natural selection. The hares race away, with the rest grimly hanging on until, one by one, the slower riders are shelled out the back of the group. Gradually a smaller group of similarly matched riders forms and the work can be shared.

  By the time we reached Woodbridge my group had formed up: six of us who all seemed to be at about the same level. With the odd nod of acknowledgement we started sharing the pace, taking turns to lead from the front. Generally riding in single file but occasionally doubling up. With relatively little chatter we gradually got to know each other – as riders. Then, coming out of Woodbridge, we were overtaken by about a dozen police motorcyclists, blue lights flashing. ‘Bugger’, was my first thought. There must have been a serious incident up the road and any chance of a good time was already lost to me.

  Rounding a bend in the road at the front of our group I was anticipating having to slow down and possibly stop at a crossroads ahead. But not a bit of it, for in the middle of the crossroads were two of the police motorcyclists who had stopped the traffic and were waving us across. I’m conditioned to obey road signs that say ‘Give Way’ or ‘Stop’ and I certainly don’t play chicken with cars that have the right of way. So faced with the sight ahead of me I wasn’t totally confident. However, the policemen’s waving arms certainly conveyed the air of authority, so instead of easing off on the pedals I stepped the pace up and flew across the white lines. The rest of the group followed suit.