C. W. Bennett, of Australian cycling fame, is back from England, bis birthplace. Ho says ho is sorry he ever visited tho world’s retail shop again: “ It’s the home of drizzle, dreariness and dirt; thank God for tho Australian sunshine.’’ He saw the trio Megson, Payne and Lewis cycle themselves into public ridicule. The climate depressed them to death, says Bennett. "One day when the sun by some strange caprice shone really warm, the three met Michael, tho Welsh wonder, on the road ; and thoy gave Michael all he wanted. Bet when it came to racing on tho track they failed pitifully. I saw them and I prayed for tho earth to open and swallow me. I couldn’t have imagined them showing with such utter feebleness. It’p tho climate, tho English climate; after Amtralia it's a plague. “Compared with the circumstances of English cycling, our racing here is as pure as a lily. The riders are above onr men in social status, but the jobbery and trickery winked at upon tho tracks would make the wiokadist Australian cyclist tremble. Tho big monopolists who run pacing teams can make this or that man win at pleasure. Tho pacing there is tho art of cycling arts. A man well-paced is picked up by quad after quad without a jar, without a tremor, without a suggestion oLvariation in gait, and ho is drawn along at a swiftly uniform pace which will almost pull him to victory in spite of.himself. But if they don’t want a man to win, they’ll pace him atrociously j they’ll slow down, they’ll jump away, they'll, rush in a sprint and leave him broken up and stone-blind with exertion. Given our men hero fit and well, and the Englishmen fib and. well, I think our fellows would come oat of the contest with groat credit.
