"I have no idea what a bummel is and I'm not particularly sure I want to go on one with you anyway," said Graham the Gasman to Exeter Montgomery Cashew, the ebullient owner of the Boilermaker's Arms.

"Stop being such an unreconstructed Northern Neanderthal," sniffed EMC, who had grown used to such comments from his down-to-earth regulars after returning to Bradford following several years managing bath-houses in San Francisco. "A bummel is simply a jolly bike ride for the boys, as you would know if you were not such a Philistine and had read Jerome K Jerome's criminally overlooked follow-up to his comic classic Three Men on a Boat, to wit, Three Men on the Bummel."

Even your humble columnist The Scribbler, who liked to think himself a fairly cultured man of letters, could barely suppress a smirk at EMC's suggestion that himself, Graham, Boris the Landlord and resting actor Barrington Thrope join him on a bummel on Sunday afternoon.

"It will be tremendous fun," insisted EMC, clad in his customary cravat and smoking jacket. "The five of us on the open road, some sandwiches and a couple of bottles of wine in our hamper, free as the wind. What larks!"

"I agree with Exeter," intoned Barrington imperiously. "A good bummel is precisely what we need."

"I suppose I'm in," said Boris. "Be good to get a bit of fresh air."

"Me too, then," said Graham. "But I'll just tell the missus I'm going for a pint at a country pub rather than going on a bummel, if you don't mind."

"Scribs?" said EMC, and the clientele looked in the direction of The Scribbler.

"Oh, why not?" said your scribe. "It sounds like fun."

So the five intrepid adventurers assembled outside the Boilermaker's early the following Sunday. The pub was not officially open for business at that hour but the venerable barmaid Daphne had taken the trouble to prepare a tray of good, old-fashioned cloudy lemonade to see them on their way in the unseasonably warm autumn temperatures.

As a man, the five took a sip and spat a spray of the noxious liquid on to the pavement.

"Put a shot of vodka in it," gasped Boris, holding his throat. Quite understandably miffed, Daphne presented them with an Agincourt salute and disappeared indoors.

The Scribbler had been the last to arrive, having spent the morning oiling, greasing, tightening and kicking his old Claud Butler into some kind of road-worthy shape. He cast an eye over the assembled steeds of his compatriots. Graham had acquired a rusting purple Raleigh Chopper from somewhere, Boris was astride a juddery black push-iron with a butcher's-boy basket on the front, Barrington was adjusting the sprung seat of a 1925 Schwinn Excelsior and EMC... EMC was posing resplendently beside a pristine antique penny farthing.

EMC caught The Scribbler's open-mouthed gaze and said: "What? One must have a sense of decorum about these things, Scribs. A bummel is a serious business."

At EMC's command, Boris obediently crouched forward and allowed his boss to clamber up his back and throw himself aboard the fearsome bicycle. With a wobble he got the contraption moving and roared: "Saddle up, boys! Our bummel is underway!"

Checking that the wine and sandwiches were safely stowed in the basket of his bike, Boris mounted up and followed, with Graham peddling furiously behind, Barrington sedately coasting along and The Scribbler self-consciously bringing up the rear as a volley of horns sounded from a convoy of passing boy racers.

"Where are we going?" shouted The Scribbler.

"Where the open road takes us!" called EMC, his old college scarf trailing behind him as he led the charge.

To be continued...