Present Day.

Mark McManus stepped through the double-doors and into the social club. He was puzzled for a moment by the darkness inside. He had arranged to play a few frames of pool with his brother in law and was due to meet him here. Then the lights flicked on, startling his eyes for a moment.

Surprise! Happy Birthday! voices called out.

The room was full of family and friends, clapping and cheering. The balloons and banner read Happy 80th birthday. His birthday was the next day. This had caught him completely by surprise. He ginned in shock and delight as his wife Tina dashed up to him.

‘Happy birthday, love.’ She said, giving him a hug.

‘Thanks a lot for all this. I did say I didn’t want a fuss.’ 

‘Don’t be so miserable. Come on, I’ll buy you a birthday drink.’ Tina said.

 On his way to the bar, he was stopped by loved ones wanting to wish him happy birthday. He was hugged and his hand was shook over and over again.

While the party got into full swing, with the DJ playing 60’s pop classics, Tina showed him to the table stacked high with gifts and cards. As well as presents from those attending the party, Tina had also brought any gifts delivered to their home, so that all his presents would be here for him to open.

‘Wow,’ Mark said, ‘look at all this.’

He took a swig of beer, before opening the first present. 

One of the wrapped gifts was a small package. It was wrapped with pink shiny paper and had ribbons and bows around it. He opened the wrapping and tipped out the contents. He smiled as he stared at the packet of sweets in his hand.

‘Jelly Babies?’ His wife asked. ‘There is no card to say who they are from. I wonder who sent them.’

Mark knew exactly who had sent the gift-wrapped confectionary. 

‘Carol Barton.’ Mark said smiling, his mind drifting back to the 1960’s.

1960s. Manchester. 

Carol Barton was reading the newspaper at the kitchen table one Saturday afternoon, when her husband Terry came hurrying through the back door.

‘Come and have a look at this, love.’ Terry said.

As he headed back outside she rolled her eyes, folding the newspaper. What would his latest fad be?

There was always some new hobby with her husband, always on to the next pastime and then as soon as the novelty wore off, he would drop it and move on to a new interest. What now? What would be in the garden? It could be anything. Maybe he’d decided to try his hand at pigeon racing or maybe a rabbit in a hutch. 

She stared at the racing bicycle with its drop handle-bars.

‘You’ve bought a bike?’ Carol said. 

‘Yes, love, I want to get in to cycling.’ Terry declared. 

Carol said nothing, staring at the bike.

‘Before you say anything, I think it will be good for exercise, and I’ll be getting fresh air. And I’ll keep it in the shed, so it won’t be in the way.’ 

‘Can I have a go?’ She asked, her gaze still fixed on the red bicycle frame.

‘Yes, of course.’ He laughed, glad that she was on side with his latest purchase. 

Out on the street, Terry helped her onto the bike and held her steady.

‘Watch yourself. Make sure you don’t fall off.’ He said.

He held on to the saddle while Carol positioned herself on the bicycle. Carol started pedalling, the bike moved away. She peddled faster and faster, moving gingerly down the street. She wobbled slightly as she went, but laughed in delight. At the end of the street, she turned around and rode back towards her husband, waiting on their doorstep. She squeezed on the brakes and came to a stop next to him.

‘You like the bike then?’ he asked.

‘I love it. It feels like flying.’ She said.

And so what had originally been Terry’s new purchase, quickly became something the pair of them shared. They would take it in turns to go out on the bike around their neighbourhood. Carol was tempted to suggest she buy her own bicycle, so they could go on bike rides together, but there was something stopping her. And she sensed that Terry was thinking the same thing. In time her husband would bore of the cycling and move on to another random fad. When that happened, their bike would become hers. 

A month later, while Terry was going out on the bike less and less, Carol was hooked. There was no thrill like it, tearing along, peddling as fast as she could, it was such a rush. 

Sure enough, Terry moved on to making Airfix model aeroplanes, while Carol was still enthusing about the joys of cycling. 

Carol’s fascination with cycling stayed. The more miles she clocked up on her trusted racing bike, the more she enjoyed it. Any chance she got she would be out on her bike. Even if the weather was just awful she would be out there, coat zipped up to her chin, peddling away. She would have a packet of Jelly Babies sweets tucked into her pocket, claiming the sugar rush gave her an energy boost. When she was struggling she would pop a sweet in her mouth and peddle on. 

One evening, as they dined at the table, Terry was flicking through the local newspaper, as they talked about their day as usual. He stopped and pointed to the page of the newspaper in front of him. 

‘This could be the thing for you, Carol.’ He said, handing her the paper.

Carol read the advertisement with interest. The advert was for the Manchester Cycling Group. They were looking for new members and inviting anyone interested to come along on Sunday morning. 

‘Do you think I should go for it? Am I good enough to join a group?’ She asked.

‘Of course you are. You’re always whizzing about on your bike. You’ll be brilliant.’ Terry said.

On the Sunday morning, feeling nervous yet excited, Carol rode across the park towards the group of cyclists huddled together. There was around fifty of them, all perched on their racing bikes, a lot of them wearing shiny cycling shirts. Carol immediately felt amateurish and under-dressed in her jogging trousers and raincoat. 

A man with glasses and a moustache waved her over.

‘Have you come to join up?’ He asked.

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Excellent. Good to have you on board. I’m Derek.’ 

Derek explained that they’d be setting off shortly for what he called a run-out, just a brisk few miles to blow the cobwebs off. Carol nodded, said it sounded lovely, still not quite believing she was actually doing this. 

As they were about to depart, Carol noticed she was the only woman in the group. Even though they were living in the 1960s, and modern women were able to hold their own in the world, maybe that hadn’t quite reached the some-what old fashioned cycling group. 

‘Away we go!’ called Derek from the front of the pack.

Carol pushed away, telling herself that this was just a bike ride, like she’d been on so many times before. As he was passing, a man in a fancy cycling shirt, called out to her.

‘Just try and keep up.’ 

‘I’ll try.’ Carol replied with a smile. 

It was strangely thrilling to be cycling along with the group. The cyclists jostled and rode together, reminding Carol of a stampeding cattle, all charging away in the same direction. She did manage to hold her own and although she was near the back of the pack, she did not finish last. She wasn’t straggling behind or struggling to keep up with the group. That, she told herself, was a victory. Surrounded by all these men with their expensive bikes, and fancy shirts, she had finished the ride in amongst them. 

As the group were drifting away, Derek gave her a wave, saying he would see her next week. Carol gave him a thumbs-up.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘you will.’

Back home, she told Terry all about the group, the excitement of cycling alongside the others, the thrill of trying to keep up and hold her own with the rest of the group, and how she had been the only woman taking part.

‘Do you think you’ll go back?’ He asked.

‘Oh yes, just let them try and stop me.’ Carol said. 

In the weeks that followed, Carol quickly became a part of the cycling group. Derek would always be particularly encouraging and supportive, glad to have her as part of the group. She would turn up early every week, eager to ride along with the group, always a packet of Jelly Babies tucked in her pocket. 

As the weeks went by she would perform better and better, improving her position at the finish. She was soon finishing in the top ten riders every week, and being welcomed and made to feel an integral part of the group. While she was still the only woman rider of the group, she was seen a key player and a talented cyclist. Whereas a lot of the other cyclists only dusted their bikes off for the weekly group ride, Carol would still be out any chance she got, putting the mileage in, pushing herself, and training for the next session.

Just over twelve months later, one Saturday morning, Carol answered the phone. It was Derek.

‘Have you heard the latest?’ He asked.

‘No, what is it?’ 

‘It’s just been announced that there will be a bike race in the summer, held in Manchester. It will be a national event.’

He explained that the race would cross the city and finish in Albert Square, in front of the grand Manchester town hall. Hundreds of riders were expected to turn out, and according to rumours, Mark McManus will be racing.

‘The Mark McManus? The champion cyclist?’ Carol asked in disbelief. 

‘Yes, a few of us are putting our names down. Of course, we’d love to have you racing too.’

‘I could be cycling in the same race as him? That would be something.’ 

Carol hung up the phone and went to tell Terry how she would be racing alongside the famous cyclist in the summer. What an honour. Terry looked up from the model Spitfire plane he was working on and agreed that would be so cool. 

‘You know what you need to do now, though?’ Terry asked.

‘What?’

‘You need to train. You should train like you’ve never trained before. This could be the making of you. This is your World Cup Final, your Olympics. Make this count, love.’ He said.

‘You have got something there.’ Carol replied, turning to leave the room.

‘Where are you going?’ 

‘I’m going to get changed. I’ve got practising to do.’ 

Carol upped the mileage and the training in the months leading up to the race. She did feel like an Olympic athlete training for the games. Whenever she was flagging, or didn’t feel like riding, she would remind herself why she was doing this. She was preparing for the big race. 

And her times against the rest of the group improved as Carol immersed herself in her training regime. These days, she would finish in the top three riders, easily breezing past most of the other riders, and scrambling for first place with the group’s best cyclists. 

Finally, the morning of the race arrived. Carol woke before the alarm, eager for the day ahead. She stretched and lunged, limbering up. Downstairs, Terry made her a cup of tea before they left to head for the start.

There were hundreds of cyclists gathered at the start-line, waiting to set off. The air was thick with animated chatter as the cyclists talked amongst themselves, wanting to get going. Terry kissed her on the cheek and wished her good luck, before leaving her and heading off to join the other spectators. 

She found Derek and her friends from the cycle group, they were as excited as she was to be taking part. She leaned in to Derek.

‘Is he here?’ she asked.

‘Who?’

‘Mark McManus, who else?’ 

Derek pointed to the front of the packed area. Carol nodded and pushed her way through the crowd, calling out excuse me as she shoved her way through. She had to see the famous cyclist before they set off. She was simply honoured to be competing in the same race as him.

Mark McManus was at the front line. With his fancy cycling shirt and sunglasses he looked like a movie star. 

‘I just wanted to say good luck for the race.’ She said.

‘Thank you very much.’ Mark said with a smile. 

Carol gave him a thumbs up and headed back to her group. 

And then it happened. There was a shrill whistle from race organiser at the front, and the cyclists started moving off. As they were near the back of the pack, it took a few minutes for Carol and her group to set off. Derek waved a hand, giving his usual holler, away we go!

Carol clenched her teeth. This was it. This was her moment. She adjusted her foot on the pedal and set off. 

The race was like nothing else she had experienced in her time cycling. The event was on a bigger scale than she was used to. The distance would be more gruelling than she had completed before, but Carol hoped her training would stand her in good stead. The amount of people was different too. So many people, all around her, all pedalling away, pushing, shoving and jostling.

As the miles went by, the slower paced riders fell away to the back of the group. The more hardier cyclists, those who had clearly put the time in out on the road, and who could at least try and keep up with the front riders, rode on, hanging on, trying to maintain their position in the race. 

And the miles went by. Carol dug in and pushed on, telling herself to try and enjoy the ride. This was the race of her life. These were the moments, she knew, that she would look back on. While her legs hurt and her arm jolted with the bumps in the road, she told herself to try and enjoy and savour these moments. 

As the race went on, more and more riders lost their position, drifting to the back. Carol was still there, still pedalling madly, holding on. She could see the front of the pack up ahead. With every mile more riders drifted away, the crowd around her thinning out. 

Mile after mile. 

Carol was in agony but the adrenaline was keeping her going. Her thighs burned from the exertion and her shoulders ached. Her hands and wrist hurt despite the gloves she wore. But she was more determined than ever. 

More and more riders dropped away, falling back. Carol pushed on, swerving and speeding up, over-taking several riders, as she went. She knew they were nearing the later stages of the race. She just had to keep going, and not give up.

Suddenly they were on the last stretch. She pedalled as fast as she could to over-take a couple of riders up ahead. Then she could see the finish line. It seemed to glow like a beacon up ahead, calling to her. This was it. 

There was only one rider up ahead. All she could see was the finish line in the distance, and Mark McManus ahead of her. She knew she had the legs for the challenge. She reached into her pocket for her sweets. She pushed a Jelly Baby in her mouth and forced herself onwards. Something kicked in from deep within her. This wasn’t about a race, or finishing in the top two, or completing the course. This was about giving the very best account of herself as she could. 

She ducked her head down low over the dropped handlebars and pushed on. The figure of the famous champion cyclist grew closer. Carol tried not to think about anything, to simply drive on and on. 

 It felt like she was moving in a dream, as she came side by side with Mark. She could see he was really struggling, red in the face, breathing hard, his bike trembling from the exertion. 

She knew she had the legs for this. She nodded to herself. Sure of what she was about to achieve. She was about to beat the most famous cyclist in the country in a straight race. All the time in the saddle seemed to come right down to this very moment. 

While Mark was struggling, panting and groaning, trying to push himself on, Carol felt out of this world. She felt like she could ride all the way home and back again. 

Then she paused a moment beside her fellow racer. She reached in her pocket and held out the bag of sweets.

‘Jelly Baby?’ She offered Mark.

‘Thanks, love.’ Mark replied, lifting a hand off the handle-bars and taking the offered sweet.

Carol grinned and gave him a wink, before sprinting away up the steep road. She ploughed on, pushing harder and harder on the pedals, willing herself towards the finish line. 

At the finish line, the crowd hollered and cheered, willing her on. A few minutes later, with the crowd cheering her name, she crossed the finish line.

The crowd flocked to her. Her husband Terry hugged her tight.

‘I’m so proud of you.’ He said, tears in his eyes.

‘I can’t believe I won.’ She said. ‘I think I’m in shock.’

Terry pointed to the clock over the finish line.

‘They say you’ve broken the British record too. You smashed it, love.’

A moment later, to the crowd’s applause, Mark crossed the line in second place. Mark weaved his way through the crowd, wheeling his bike beside him.

‘Congratulations. You did it. What a race!’ Mark said.

‘Mark McManus congratulating me on winning. I must be dreaming. I’ll wake up in a minute.’ She said.

He shook her warmly by the hand.

‘Well done, you really deserve it.’ 

The record Carol set would remain unbeaten for the rest of the decade.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom