THE FLYING SCOT

When I was a teen-ager in High School, my family moved out of the school district. With the principal's permission, I continued to attend Humberside Collegiate Institute in Toronto, even though it was over ten kilometers from my new home. Buses were expensive and inconvenient, so I rode my old CCM bike most days. School was in a ritzy neighborhood; some of my classmates even drove new cars. Beginning to feel ashamed of my rusty transportation, I saved my money until I could afford a Raleigh racer with a Sturmey-Archer three speed.

About this time I joined the Canadian Youth Hostels and started weekend long bicycle rides to nearby hostels., The Raleigh began to look shabby alongside my companions more sophisticated machines.

When I started riding with Olympic hopefuls in the local cycling club, I realized I would have to move up to their class with an even better bike. For months, I inspected carefully every bike I could - studied their geometry and features, asked questions, poured over cycling magazines and wrote away for literature. Then one day, at a Race meeting in Hamilton, a sleek black machine spoke to me. It sang. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen It's owner informed me rather haughtily, that he had it custom made by David Rattray of Glasgow.

It was a "Flying Scot", named after a famous high-speed steam train in Scotland. I fired off a letter to Rattray's that night. They responded with an and a very nice letter informing me that it would cost between 200 and 300 Canadian dollars, depending on what equipment I wanted on it. Since I was working full time by then and only earning $1,500 a year, this was the equivalent of spending $3,000 to $5,000 for a bicycle today. At the time, I could have bought a car for that price, but that thought never entered my head.

Never mind ! I must have one ! My specification took up two pages. The size and length of each tube, angle, and fitting were carefully considered. The frame would be triple chrome-plated, double-butted Reynolds 531 tubing overlaid with robins-egg blue transparent enamel, the paper-thin lugs outlined in gold, with Simplex gears from France, head fittings from Italy, Bayliss-Wiley wide flanged Continental hubs, Brampton pedals, Conloy rims, Bluemel narrow alloy mudguards, Maes bend Gnutti handlebars, Williams chainwheel and crank, double-butted spokes, Dunlop silver sprite tires, removable pannier carrier, "state-of-the-art" everything. There would be a slight reduction in price because I already had a genuine Brooks leather saddle that finally fit my anatomy after years of riding.

It just happened that six months earlier I had made plans to tour Europe with a friend, but since she had broken her arm in a cycling accident, we were going to play "Auto-stop" (hitch-hike) instead of riding our bikes.

We got a ride from Edinburgh to Glasgow in a Rolls-Royce and made our way to Rattray's factory. The company director took us on a tour of the old brick building and bought us tea and cakes in the shop next door. I got to meet and shake hands with the craftsman who was building my wheels. He was stringing them with the care of a violin maker and told me that he would carefully hand file them until they were perfectly balanced and tuned liked a harp. The director explained that the frame was finished, but I couldn't see it because it had been sent out for chroming. He did introduce me to the old gentleman who had hand-made the curlicued lugwork and brazed the frame together.

A month later back in Canada, I got notice that a packing case, the size of a refrigerator was waiting for me in customs. The officer couldn't believe any idiot would pay that kind of money for a bicycle that didn't have a motor on it. He just had to see it, and he shook his head as he signed the release papers.

My "Flying Scot" served me well for many years, carrying me and my tent, stove, sleeping bag and spare clothes all over Southern Ontario, Quebec, New York and Michigan states. It even took me over the Rocky Mountains, not once but twice. Thrown on and off trains and trucks, it never broke a spoke or bent anything. We never won any important races, but that was my fault, not the bikes.

Well, time marches on and stuff happens. I bought a car, bought a house and got married - in that order. The company I was working for transferred me to Sudbury and I left my friend in my parents garage while I set about raising a family and pursuing a career.

One spring, feeling the urge to ride again, I asked for my bike. Pop had given it away to neighbouring boy. Hell!! Bobby wasn't even born when I designed it. He had lost it to a thief. I cried inside.

Even now over forty years later, I like to think somehow, somewhere somebody recognized its value and appreciates a work of art is still riding and maintaining my "Flying Scot", with a smile on his face.

May 1994, Kenneth George Hall