The 10-year-old boy was being teased unmercifully by adults and children alike. It was an impossible eight-to-one contest. Tears were close. Not even his mother came to his rescue.

She was firmly among the tormentors, as was his older sister, who seemed to be using her brother's discomfort to show off before two boys of about her age.

A leper couldn't have felt more cut off. He could only pretend to enjoy his hamburger, chips and milk shake, while those around generated more cruel jibes with each bite of their own meals.

'Softy', 'Cry baby' and 'Wimp' were words thrown in his direction — these nouns accompanied all too often by that over-used foul adjective beginning with the letter F.

It was not friendly banter — it was vicious.

Others in the city centre eatery listened.

There was an air of sympathy, albeit silent sympathy, until… His 'champion' was a tall, grey-haired woman sitting a couple of tables away, accompanied by a younger person whose features marked her out as a daughter.

She rose and walked over.

"I'm interested to know what he has done to deserve such cruelty,” she said in tones saturated with authority, recalling a long-dead school ma'am who had often scared me witless.

“He's a big baby,” said the sister. “He cried to come home — and he's 10.”

Mother butted in, her mouth full of food which she revealed to all — and spat over some.

The boy had gone on an eight-day field trip.

On the third day, his teachers had phoned — the parent had been forced to drive miles to collect him.

“I missed home,” pleaded the boy, speaking for the first time. “I missed my dog and my toys — and my sister,” he added somehow as an afterthought.

The woman made to return to her table, but stopped and slowly scanned the faces of the tormentors.

“You are despicable bullies,” she announced coldly, then paused to great effect before addressing the sister. “And you should be grateful he missed you — I'm sure the dog was.”

After a short yet uneasy silence, everyone at the table began to fuss over the boy. But if his expression was anything to go by, it was several f***ing barbs too late.

There were four of 'em, knobbly kneed, legs no thicker than sticks of celery encased in black Lycra, multi-coloured shirts that showed every rib, pace stinger cycling caps — and not one under the age of 75.

They were taking on refreshments at the A40 layby café near Forest Hill.

But as we know, appearances can be deceptive.

With 318 years between them, these ancient cyclists were proving to themselves, if no-one else, that there were a few pedalling miles left in those legs.

I couldn't argue.

They had ridden from High Wycombe (along back roads, of course; they were making this conspicuous stop in memory of the days when it was safe to cycle along the A40) and were heading for Burford before returning home, putting their summer bikes to bed and turning to more sturdy winter machines.

It was a steady ride out, claimed Winston, the oldest at 83.

Their bikes were ultra-lightweight, the sort seen burning up the miles in the recent Tour of Britain.

It seemed inappropriate to mention age, but this was brought up by Eric, a defensive 78-year-old, with a moustache that challenged the width of his handlebars.

He suggested I thought they were risking life and limb (partly true), but why should they give up a lifetime's pleasure simply because 'anno had domini-ed' (his delightful phrase)?

Age was only in the mind, put in Norman, 81. You were as young as you felt, he twin-clichéd.

Which seemed to be the case with the quartet's tearaway 'youngster', Alf, 76.

He piled on the charm while holding the attention of a pretty woman young enough to be his granddaughter as he explained the principle of the double clanger.