On the last short sleeve ride of the year the pootle crew’s ranks was swelled by a ghost of Bad Brains past.Memories in my possession of early club days shine brightly through the nostalgia, and most of them contain Technical Pusher in some frame of reference or another. Back when the Kona was all but stock he gave me valuable and real advice on the right kit. He was always there to push me forward on the climbs and to cajole me down the drops.
So as we were descending and twisting through the copse at bat’s arse fast speed, the red blinking cyclopean lights disappearing into the black; I was fired back through time a very familiar sight of Gezz and Technical Pusher rocketing away into the cloudless night.
Time cannot diminish the ties of friendship and as the laughs and daft conversations drifted into the cold night air the miles were eaten up by hungry knobblies.
The ride finished, a travesty of a decidedly un-British nature befell us and the post pootle pondering would have to wait for another time as the closed doors of the pub turned us away to our homes.
Fat Lad