Wednesday, 15 July 2009

The Mighty Sprick

I'm posting this not because it's a great example of line and colour (and it's certainly not a prime piece of metrical writing) but simply because it reminds me that often a sketchbook is nothing more than a diary. This page brought back some warm memories of holidaying in the Dordogne with friends, sketchbooks and bikes.

Everyone else had to make do with their own machine, but I was lucky enough to find a Sprick in the shed at the gîte. Soviet made (or so I like to think), the Sprick was the last word in uncontrolled speed, inner-ear-rattling aerodynamics and here-I-come squeakiness. Seeing me rounding a corner on the valley road to Gavaudun must have been like 'being there' at an historic Tour de France in the early 1950s as Britain came last. But I didn't care -- I had the wind in my hair, rust on my ankles and stomach full of chips and rosé from the Café des Sports. And I didn't touch the brakes once.


  1. Fantastic! Reading this, I was there with you! but is your spelling of 'brakes' a Freudian slip?

  2. I suppose it must be! Oops -- I'll go and change that. Thank you:-)


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