I’m going to talk about a pigeon race this week, the biggest one I ever won in my time in the sport.
I’ve been fortunate to score four tries in a rugby match, four goals in a football game and a couple of cricket fifties. It felt brilliant.
But honestly none of those compares to the feeling of clocking your pigeon when it returns from a long race.
The sight of a lone bird approaching, a circle and then folding wings to dive for your loft. You dive in after it and with trembling hands dislodge the rubber ring from its leg and pop into the clock. The elation is something special.
The only thing is I didn’t experience that back in June 1970 when the Derwent Valley Federation was racing from Avranches.
It was only my third season in the sport and I was racing in partnership with work colleague John Callion, his dad and Albert Ostle as Walsh and co.
John, Jack and I had been at the loft from early afternoon, but back then there were no mobile messages coming through about birds being clocked in other parts of the county.
It had got to 6pm and everyone was feeling peckish. Jack was never going to be asked so John and I spun up to see who would go and get the fish and chips – I lost.
So quick as I could, I raced up to Brow Top and then down to William Street and Croskerry’s Chip Shop. I collected the order in double quick time and sprinted off down the loft on the Cloffocks.
The Callions were sat quietly at the loft when I got back, accepted their chips without comment and we all started eating.
I actually was carrying a few chips when I just wandered into the loft, looked around and to my surprise saw a red chequer cock sitting tightly on his eggs!
He was one of our birds sent to France. Hey, have you missed him, he’s back was the startled cry.
To peels of laughter I turned and saw them with thumbs up – he had landed when I had gone for the chips.
Nothing else had arrived back on the Cloffocks and it subsequently turned out that he had topped the Federation and also the Cumbria Combine.
He was an interesting pigeon – a red black-splashed chequer cock who had been raced and lost by Bob McCarron.
I bought Bob’s loft and some time the following season he dropped back in.
He was given a few races when I moved into a different loft and came up trumps from Avranches.
I’ve had a number of second places in the Federation since then, so never been able to emulate that success 53 years ago.
Missing the actual moment of elation through a trip to the chip shop has long been a cause of great regret.
