Post: This is Charlie doing his bit for King and Country – well helping anyway. Although he is not cut out or attired for racing, he certainly does his bit today, and gets himself well tired into the bargain. He manned just about the furthest checkpoint from the start after his first stint of marshalling in Preston but was well pleased with the outcome. I do believe I have the finish results which I will attach later, they occur in a separate document.
Sunday, July 19 Lancashire Road Club ‘12’
Today is to mark that great event amongst Lancashire speedmen, the Lancashire Road Club 12 hour event, a cycle race that only the fittest of the fit can hope to gain a place. Think of it, twenty-four sturdy Red Rose lads, in tip-top condition, handicapped according to recent form, pitted against each other on over 200 miles of Lancashire and Westmorland roads, for 12 hours on end. Ah! such a gruelling they’re likely to get before they can cease striving in open, clean competition. What of the reward! Those who get beyond 180 miles will receive a medal, commonplace enough to see, perhaps, but a better reward than money can give. The medal reveals the sport in the man – that he will fight in a way that is beyond all reproach, fight to the very end of his tether on this long feat of endurance, just for the sake of Sport! No publicity is his, nothing beyond the applaud of the cycle club, small enough, to be sure, but sincere, and if he should fail? A handshake just as warm and sincere for the man who tried, given by a friend – yes, there is a sport for you! One that does not get into the papers, one that does not make fame in a way that the boxer or footballer or tennis champion does, but one that is cleaner and straighter than other sports – and is fought just for sport.
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In an event of this length, a great amount of help is needed – it can be guessed what help is needed when every fork or cross-roads for 200 miles has to be watched so that there can be little chance of going wrong, every feeding station must have several helpers, checkers must be found for certain turning points, some may have to look over the machines, some to start the competitors and some to ‘run them out’ when their time is nearly ‘up’. I should think that in the LRC 12 there were a hundred voluntary helpers, each of whom lent their willing aid free and without thought of remuneration – not even a thanks – for the cause of sport.
It so happened that I had announced my willingness to help (being far too much of a potterer for racing myself), and had received a letter, asking me to be at Belmont, 4am to help start the riders, take spare clothing to Barton, then proceed to Lancaster where I can help to ‘run them out’. This is done as follows: The competitors pass through Lancaster on their return, this point being about 176 miles. Here they pick up a cyclist who must follow them, until, at the end of the 12 hours exactly, they must be stopped, and the exact distance determined, so many telegraph poles from the nearest signpost or milestone, the distance is then measured, and the competitor’s mileage (to one furlong) ascertained. As this race is a handicap, each competitor has a follower, maybe two.
I started at 3am with lamp lit, and proceeding through town, I gained Belmont road, just as dawn was breaking. The moors were on fire; a thick pungent smoke-pall was hanging over the road making eyes smart and all but choking one. I picked up a Radcliffe member, then the Hon Sec of the LRC joined us, and we proceeded to Jim Rushton’s together. Here I was detailed to be at the cross-roads in Preston at 5am, so I started immediately. The dawn itself was worth the early ‘get-up’, the effect over the shadowy moors, wonderful, the many tinted sky gaining light and the valleys hiding below the morning mist, whilst the higher ridges stood out like an archipelago of islands. At Hoghton I saw two sailors asleep in the hedge (no doubt the result of a spree). From Upper Walton, Preston on its misty elevation above the River Ribble looked like a fairy town (though heaven knows it is not!) with its spires and chimneys above the light haze. Needless to say, as I entered the town it became the usual sordid, squalid place.
I took my stand to direct the competitors, the first of which appeared soon after 5am. Each had a cheery word to answer our “Good luck, old chap”. One rider had already found the puncture friend, having had three up to that point. I was not sorry to quit my post, for standing for over an hour at that time o’day is a chilly task. Now I carried on to the Fulwood cross-roads and chatted awhile with the checkers there, who were waiting for the competitors on their return from Blackpool.
Then I took the Lancaster road to Barton, where I was asked if I would take charge of the machines whilst the feeding was taking place. Over an hour of this now, changing tyres, adjusting things etc, and at 8.45 I was free to have breakfast. Not for long, however, for at 9.15 Mark Haslam (organiser and Hon Sec) came in with the announcement that it was going to be hot and windy, and the competitors would like something to drink. Would I go to the Mossdale Café and get some tea and a bucket of water for them? Yes, I would go immediately, so off three of us hiked.
It was 27 miles away and the competitors would pass about 11am, so it meant a blind all the way. I managed to get in front, and put every ounce of energy into it, having the help of a high wind – Lancaster, Carnforth, the fork-roads, then another four miles, and at 10.40 I reached the café and procured the necessities. Neither was I too soon, for simultaneously, my two companions and a rider appeared at 10.50. How the competitors all blessed that cup of tea! It was a pleasant surprise for them after a gruelling stretch dead against the wind blowing up from the south.
Two of them chucked up here exhausted, and, although we tried to persuade them to carry on, we could not blame them. One said “What, face this wind again from Kendal, no not likely! Before the last man came, the first came again on his second circuit, so we were kept busy until 2.30, when all had gone. We had not had anything to eat so far, and I was feeling the effect of the sun too, but we started back immediately to report for duty at Lancaster. A long ride dead against the wind to the Lune Bridge did not improve me, and there, being detailed with another to follow J Williams out, I had to wait a long time.
He came, and we followed about 20 yards behind, but it was pretty easy for us, because he was feeling the ride now. At Galgate I punctured, and had a tidy job mending it, the tube being peppered around one place, and even then it kept going down, but I managed as far as Barton, where I finished the job. There were so many at Barton that I saw no hope of getting my tea for over an hour, so at length, after waiting until nearly 7pm, I decided to make towards home, and returned by the usual route, tired out. I had nothing to eat between 9am and 9.30pm except for one slice of bread, so it can be guessed that the work of a helper is not all honey. 108 miles
