Often pigeons are brought to me with absolutely nothing wrong with them. But their owners are convinced that there is! It’s all in the mind. When you are having a bad run, or if you have a genuine problem with a bird or two, it is all too easy to convince yourself that you are seeing what you are not. As an example, take a couple of birds not flying correctly. Over- close scrutiny of the flock will convince you half of them are not flying "right" when in fact they are. You never see your own children growing up on a daily basis, but be a week or two away from them and what a difference there is. You can get too close to your birds to see small differences and can also spot non-existent symptoms. A fresh pair of eyes, those of an experienced fancier, will see the real picture immediately. It is all in the mind. .

My friend took me to task about a previous article in which I had written that if we were not to go further with our birds, we should at least breed birds that would fly the longest races faster. Simply put, he wanted to discuss how. Should we bring sprinters into a long distance family if, and it’s a big if, they are the right size and shape and have "class" as well? Or should we go for the birds which are already beating us at the distance, which are obviously that bit faster than what we have now, or they wouldn’t be beating us! I must admit I feel uneasy about bringing sprinters into my loft, even though my best distance birds come from a loft renowned for sprinting and not distance racing! But there are sprinters and sprinters and management figures largely in this equation. And that includes feeding.

One thing is for sure, any new birds that come in to my loft and fail, do not leave any of their descendants behind them to dilute the competent channel team already there! I do bring new pigeons in every year. If you are satisfied that what you have is the best there is then you are on the way down. Somebody, somewhere has better pigeons and those are the ones you want. Until then you stick with what you have got. Until the newcomers prove better and push them out. "Never take pigeons or advice off a man you can beat!" That saying has it’s merits even if it is a bit simplistic. And remember it’s no good having the fastest pigeon in the world if it’s going the wrong way!

The bird he explained, must have been dangling by it’s metal ring upside down. All night. The leg was a mess. Hanging on by the skin only. With the bone sticking out at an angle. I re-set it the best I could and we shall have to see how it works out. It had snagged on a hook which was part of his trapping system. An almost impossible thing to do but the pigeon had done it. Years ago there was a pigeon in my town known as "The Hangman." It had got it’s head through the only two non-parallel dowels on a dividing door and slid downwards. To be suspended by it’s neck all night. It survived and went on to race well and breed winners. I wish this bird the same luck. Needless to say it is one of the man’s best pigeons!

When we were boys trying to become established in the pigeon world, one of our mentors was a grown man who was down on his luck. His glory days, and he had some, were also the days of the late Colonel Hopas who once lived quite near to me. Originally from Belgium, he flew in the Up North Combine and in the British Berlin Club. Colonel Hopas and my mentor both flew in my home town and I got to know them quite well. Our mentor would settle himself into an armchair in the cabin, pull the box of broken biscuits closer and tea in hand would invariably say one of two things. "Being on a small fixed income"-- which brought groans and a chorus of "how much do you want this time?" Or "when I flew Pau"-- in which case we could relax, money safe in our pockets, and listen to tales of great men and great pigeons.

This man’s method of flying at the distance was sound. And still applies today. Not much work and big jumps. The trouble was he hadn’t raced for years. He bred and sold on the strength of past glories. In consequence the proportion of what later proved to be good distance birds bred by him was tiny, when set against the numbers sold. I learned very early on in life that pigeons have to be tested and tested hard. That pedigrees count for nothing without performance to back them up. And recent performances at that. The ones that did come through from our mentor’s non-racing team to win big-time for others were excellent birds. But they were very few and far between. Which made his loft a bad place to buy birds . To try and form a team from. Five or ten years down the line from his last winning race was five or ten years too many.

This man, at one stage, flew with a Mr. W. Ranson. Owner of the legendary Ranson’s Red Cock, N.E.H.U. 1675 A 26. Winner of nine firsts. Timed in on the day from Melun (500 mls.) seven years in succession. Allegedly homing very late at night, at least once, by the lights of the nearby fairground. It’s record is well worth repeating.1927-12th. Combine (7000 birds), 1928-20th. Combine (8000 birds), 1930-1st. Combine (8456 birds) beating all England velocity on that day, 1931-38th. Combine (7267 birds), and 1932-17th. Combine (7000 birds)! Now was that not some pigeon? Remember too, that these performances were put up in the days when the birds probably went away mid-week and weather forecasting was in it’s infancy.

Colonel Hopas, a legendary figure in these parts, rated the red cock as one of the best 500 milers he had ever seen, if not the best. And the loft of Mr. Ranson, and here I quote him, "as second to none in England." He eventually succeeded in obtaining birds from this loft. At no small cost to himself. To this day I remember some of the advice Colonel Hopas gave me. I wonder what would a pigeon with those performances be worth now? Race memory. Word of mouth. Tales from your elders. Call it what you will but posterity should always ensure, and it generally does, that pigeons like the red cock are never forgotten. Nowadays, when the word champion is too easily bandied about, we should stop and consider what the word really means. Ranson’s Red Cock was a champion!

A fellow club member of mine had pigeon-related sex problems. Now there’s a thing! He approached my best friend and then partner. And asked did the pigeons ever get him down? Really, really down? And was told that at times they got everybody down. This man you see had never won a race. And couldn’t sleep for worrying about his pigeons. Worse than that he could not carry out his "marital duties" in bed. In short, due to the pigeons, he was impotent.

With Rod being a Medical Laboratory Technician, he asked, could he get him something that might help? My partner, tongue in cheek, said he was sure that I could. Rod does all right with the young students you know. I’m certain he’s taking something. And said that he would speak to me. We would see him in the cabin in a weeks time and then, clearly finding the whole thing a huge joke, my friend told me what he had said!

Action was clearly needed. And fast! Remember, this was in the pre-Viagra days, so off to the hospital pharmacy I trotted. For the biggest and most luridly-coloured empty gelatin capsules that I could get my hands on. Red and black. Which I duly filled with milk powder. D-day arrived, as did my clubmate. Who talked about everything other than what he had really come for. Eventually he got around to it. I listened to his tale of woe. Then gave him the bottle of capsules and a complicated system of how and when he should take them. To reassure him of their worth, my partner and I, with conspiratorial nods and winks about how good they worked, downed a couple each. Then forgot about the whole thing.

In the pigeon club that weekend he made a beeline for us. Carrying two pints of best beer. Which he insisted were on him. The capsules were working brilliantly. He was even getting up in the middle of the night and admiring himself, stark naked, in the mirror. Marvelling at how good the capsules were working. He could hardly wait for his wife to return from her holidays! The day she arrived back was the day of the first young bird race. The only race in his life that he should have won. I say should have won because he wasn’t at the loft was he? He was in bed with his wife. And had been there from the second she stepped through the front door!

A week or two later his good lady appeared at the club. Asking for me. Had I been giving her husband some pills or something? I had to say yes because he’d obviously told her so. But before I could explain what was in them she told me, somewhat sharply, not to give him any more because she was getting no sleep! And strode out of the bar. My clubmate eventually ran out of capsules. I told him what had been in them. Explained all about placebos and recommended that he go and see a doctor if the problem persisted. And get some proper medication. Which he did. But guess what? "Rod" he said earnestly " what he’s giving me is rubbish. Could you not get me some more of those capsules?" As I wrote at the beginning of this article, It really is all in the mind!

ROD ADAMS.