Feral cyclists on pavements are spoiling our city centre

Anton is not happy about having to dodge youths on bikes in the city centre and recalls brushes with the law in his younger days

IHAD to go into town this week. It wasn’t an overwhelmingly pleasant experience. Plenty of apparently feral youths furiously riding bicycles around, weaving through unsuspecting pedestrians and ignoring crossing lights. A law to themselves, they are the latest menace to spoil our once pleasant city centre.

No police officers to be seen, though, despite the “hub” that opened in July, giving the constabulary a central base for the first time in six years.

Yet I don’t blame the boys and girls in blue for not providing that once-reassuring sight of an avuncular police officer strolling along. Policing in the 21st century is undoubtedly a difficult – and very often dangerous – job, and how they are being deployed isn’t up to them.

When I did once complain to a senior police officer about pavement cyclists, all he could say was: “Have you ever tried to arrest someone when they’re riding a bike?” I had to admit that I’d never attempted to arrest anybody, so my point was left hanging in the air.

In my younger days, it was difficult to avoid the police. Twice I was cautioned for playing football in the street. On the second occasion, local shopkeeper Ernie Craven went so far as to dial 999. Within five minutes two bobbies arrived. Nowadays, you’d be hard pushed to get that quick a response if you said that you were sitting on a burglar.

Later that month, my particulars were taken down when a bobby spotted me getting a lift to school on the crossbar of a pal’s bike (you see, you can arrest cyclists, or at least their passengers).

Then, on the way home from school one misty November teatime, I was in the vicinity – but totally uninvolved – when someone ahead of me let off a banger. A constable rounded us all up and became suspicious because I was by now familiar with the routine, giving him my name, address, age, father’s name, father’s occupation before he had time to ask.

Nothing came of any of the above, but there was one more incident. A stop-and-search on Normanton Road. It was in 1964, a Saturday evening, about midnight, and I was walking home from Depot Street, where the future Mrs R then lived. I was lugging a suitcase full of freshly washed football kit. My lovely mum-in-law was the official laundress of Redfern Athletic FC.

The officer asked me to open the case, which I managed to do after balancing it on the handlebars of his bike. Finding no silver candlesticks, he was most apologetic, explaining that he was acting “out of the best of intentions”. At that we wished each other a cheery good night. Thereafter, I’ve managed to avoid involvement with the police, which is not difficult when you rarely see one.

Not much else to report this week. I mowed the lawn, cut the hedges, dug out some weeds and then stood at the foot of the stairs, wondering if I had any energy left to climb them and take a shower. I managed it but realised, for the first time, that the years really are taking their toll. It’s quite a shock.

But we mustn’t dwell on that. Or on nuisance youths nearly taking one out in St Peter’s Street. Life is too short. And getting shorter, so it’s best to look on the bright side.

While I was cutting a hedge, a gentleman stopped to chat. He was, I guess, maybe 10 years my senior (if he’s younger than me, then I hope he’s not reading this). He was on his afternoon constitutional. We yarned about where we’d grown up in Derby, pubs that we’d enjoyed in our youth, football, cricket, how comedians aren’t as funny as they were in our day, all the usual subjects that old codgers find so comforting.

Then he asked: “Have you been in town lately?” I said I was sorry, but I really had to get back to cutting the hedge.

In my younger days, it was difficult to avoid the police. Twice I was cautioned for playing football in the street.