MAURICE BARTLE has decided that, on balance, he’d rather not have a bike for Christmas.

The sport’s highspeed resurgence notwithstanding, he has 112 already.

Wheels within wheels, they occupy the full length of the boarded attic at his large detached home, most of them expertly restored and all with a story to tell.

Top gear? “To me a bicycle is a work of art, there’s real craftsmanship there. Look at the detail, you don’t see that on a motor bike. The pity of it is that a lot of that’s lost now, because they make bikes from moulds.

“Every pedal cycle has character.

When you ride a bike it’s part of you, you get a different feeling from each bike, as though you and the bike are synonymous.

“It’s differently entirely from riding a motorbike. A motorbike is in charge of you, with a bicycle you’re in charge. It’s you who is the engine.”

The oldest was made in 1917, Swift by name if not particularly by nature.

Like almost everything else, it can still be ridden.

“You occasionally see a Swift car, but a Swift bike is very rare indeed,” says Maurice, who’s 80 and as enthusiastic as when he got his first trike as a kid. “The Swift was in a barn, I heard about it from a friend.

I told the owners that I’d reduce the weight by half by the time I’d finished with it, just by getting all the crap off.

“It took me six months to restore and we had a little unveiling ceremony for the owner’s wife. Honestly, she couldn’t believe her eyes.”

HE was a Darlington lad, got his first two-wheeler – like many more – for passing the 11+. “It was wartime, I painted it red, white and blue,” he recalls. “My dad said he wasn’t going to buy me any more.”

At grammar school he was a cross country runner – “I’d suffered the outrage of rugby, nearly been killed by a cricket ball” – but for the annual race between harriers and cyclists he was chosen for the wheelers and broke the course record. “I think that’s when I realised I was quite good at cycling,” he reflects.

He trained as a metallurgist, did National Service, cycled for the Army and, demobbed, worked his way up to become one of the top metallurgists at British Steel on Teesside.

He’d also joined Spartan Wheelers, where he met Anne, his wife. “She’s been looking after me ever since,” he says.

He’d been a track cyclist until 1958, took a break from competitive sport – “I had to earn some money” – but can still be seen pedalling the lanes near his home.

“These days it’s no more than 20 miles, the ravages of old age,” says Maurice.

Thirty years ago he designed his own house at Middleton Tyas, near Scotch Corner, originally supposed that the attic might become home to a snooker table. “When I saw the cost of snooker tables, I decided to stick to bikes.”

(Before further freewheeling, and with thanks to several observant readers, it should also be recorded that a Middleton Tyas banner – “Andy and Marie” – was prominent at the fourth cricket test, just finished.

What’s the story there, then?) Maurice became involved with a group called Bygone Bikes – “nice folks” – and ended up as president.

They’re a fraternity, forever mutually card marking. An awful lot, says Maurice, turns up on tips and skips.

“People ask what’s going to happen to all these wonderful machines when I pop my clogs, but almost everything has an invisible ticket on it. People tell me they’re a good investment but I’m not really bothered about that side of it. They’re all spoken for; they’re going to my friends, to people who’ll appreciate them.”

His Christmas card features a photograph of a 1937 Saxon Magna, identified as Bartle’s Bikes No 22. “It was the first fixed-wheel bike I ever rode.

It took the bark off my shins, but I persevered.” He still has 90 years worth of Christmas cards, he reckons.

His business card identifies him as a “Connoisseur and collector of vintage and classic cycles”, but doesn’t tell the half of it.

IT’S an extraordinary place, this life-cycle loft – “it just grew like Mopsy,” says Maurice, and no matter that probably he means Topsy.

Most of the bikes are ready for the road, some in the restoration process. The metallurgy background comes in useful, says Maurice – “it helps to know what you’re doing”.

Most have laminated cards detailing their history – he’s a regular at vintage vehicle rallies – all are regarded with manifest affection.

“TLC,” he supposes.

“Ain’t that pretty?” he says, of a piece of kit that to a less trained eye might simply be a bit of bike.

There are bicycles from around the world – one from Japan, another he brought home from Holland, a third that spent six weeks buried in Alpine snow. There’s the Hercules, the Thanet Silverlight, the Cicli Gasparetto, the Viking SBU, the PT Stallard on which he’s working. “When you’re on a bike like that, you can’t go slowly. You just have to go fast,” he enthuses.

A Hetchins – “really famous name” – came from the municipal dump in Durham.

Many were made in the North-East by men like Jack Taylor, Bill Beattie and Lance Bell – “strong as a lance, sound as a bell,” the publicity claimed.

His favourite is probably a model by Bill Tilston, who had built bikes in his wash house in Thornaby.

Some are bought through what in the circumstances might be supposed wheeler dealing. “I like doing a Greengrass,” he says – Heartbeat fans will understand.

“Looking at all these brings back memories of the days when we would just look in shop windows and not be able to buy anything,” says Maurice. “A lot of enthusiasts want to own a bike shop for some reason.

This is the closest I can get. It became an ambition to have what I couldn’t have as a teenager.”

Still he’s acquiring vintage bikes, still picking up trophies, still up and down to the attic. “People find them and know where to come, but really I’ve got as many as I can possibly handle. I’m 80, what I really want for Christmas is more time.”