The ride to Chipping is always interesting, as most of the way is along pleasant byways. Especially is it so after Mitton has been passed, when the range of the Bowland Fells, from Whitendale - to Parlick is continually before the eye, and the long mass of Longridge Fell, a constant companion on the left.

It was more so than usual last Sunday when the bright November sunshine — bright for November at least — gladdened the countryside with its radiance and attracted a large gathering of members from the Nelson and Blackburn sections of the C.T.C. to lunch at Chipping before taking part in the event of the afternoon.

After lunch and a lively musical interlude the real fun began. The competitors in the ~vent were timed off at intervals and were instructed to follow a red trail. Naturally, at the first road junction I took the wrong way, but soon righted myself. The trail followed a rough surfaced lane, deep set between two hedges, and then took to the more open country at the foot of Parlick Pike.

If I had not previously travelled this lane I would not have been able to describe it, as the only things I noticed were ruts and potholes. Somehow the rider who started half-a-minute later than I, caught me, and we began to form a kind of affection for each other; neither could leave the other however hard he tried. In this fashion we tore along, passing what seemed to our blurred visions dozens of competitors. Leaving the rough lanes neighbouring Parlick we entered the comparatively smooth road to Bleasdale, still affectionately hugging each other’s wheels. But the easy going was but short lived, and once again we crashed into a rough track winding over Beacon Fell. I have a faint recollection that there were beautiful expansive views of the low lying Fylde district bordering the sea, to be had from here, but the major portion of my senses were occupied in remaining upright. Some day I hope to visit this fell and see if my glimpses were correct. By the time I had reached a good road my partner was lost to sight. Later I found him, and he explained that he had not seen any "spoor" for a while; neither had I when I tried to remember, so off we went to find it. We soon gave it up as useless and decided to potter back to Brock, the tea-place. It was all right saying where we should go, but where were we? Somewhere north of Inglewhite, lost in a labrynth of byways was all we knew. However, we took the direction towards the coast and eventually came to the highway leading from Preston to Lancaster, a little north of Brock. We had hoped to be cheered in, or rather cheered up, at Brock, but we found only one competitor there, he had missed the trail earlier than we.

When all were gathered round the tea tables later, we learnt that we had fortunately missed the muddiest, roughest and toughest part of the course, which finished at Broughton. Nelson provided the winners of the ladies and gent’s prizes; Miss Sharples, the former, and Mr. Nutter the latter, with a Blackburn member a close second.