Most rides begin in much the same way; there is a gathering of single purpose, an unspoken bond renewed, and a hint of something that, for the sake of publication, we’ll call expectation.
And so it was on this fine morning as the world cast aside the Gods’ tirade of yesterday and promised a reward of light, warmth, good coffee and a fauna gaze. Too good to resist.
- New Steve unveiled his sparkling Bianchi
- Gnashing of teeth exemplified our sense of injustice for Larri
- RTG with his seat post fashionably higher snorted and threw back his head as he prepared to unleash his rampant stallion on its first Rhodes crusade
- Not wanting to sound gay, but BT looked a picture of health and virility after sustained conditioning through consecutive days on the bike
- Drastic was....... well, Drastic.
As we descended into The Waterhole a sharp drop on the thermometer suggested that it would be folly to assume that circumstance cannot quickly change; the climb out the other side akin to emerging from the cold womb of Hecate to the warmth of a mother’s embrace. (Too florid, perhaps?)
One could have been forgiven for assuming that this spin would be much like most others until we reached the back of Denistone East (or Denizen East) where rising out of the distance rose a fog worthy of Dickens; thick, foreboding……… and foggy. Fingerless gloves transported us back in time as we plunged into this dank unknown, and the fog wrapped its cloying fingers around the Easy Riders and drew them into its ethereal bosom.
Near panic ensued as instruments failed, compasses span aimlessly and the collective direction relieved itself of its sense. No way out. Trapped through eternity in Meadowbank.
As all contemplated the Backdoor Route to the Afterlife, a plaintive cry was heard in the distance, inaudible to all but one with the highly attuned senses commensurate with his pedigree.
“BT……..BT……..follow my voice. I will lead you to safety…..”
Aghast and agog, incredulous and dumbfounded, BT recognized immediately the timbre of that Angel’s voice, though his mind was in outright revolt over the possibility that such a one could reach out from the Other Side. As Heathcliff was to Kathy, as Tristan was to Isolde, so was BT to his kindred Spirit.
It was Aunty Enid.
“Follow me, Lads! All is not lost!” proclaimed the gallant BT. “I will chart a course through this murky mire in Meadowbank for we are guided and protected by this Guardian Angel, this Patron Saint (proposed) of the Easy Riders. Lead on Aunty Enid!!”
They twisted and turned through the gnarly backstreets unable to discern reality from fiction. Figures ghosted from the verges, trees reached down to scratch the Peloton with their sharp nails, and all prayed in the hope that BT was not in fact just barking mad.
Using prescient focus, BT lasered his aural faculty following the voice of Aunty Enid, holding on with all his resolve so as not to lose the trail or control of key bodily functions.
“Lead on Aunty Enid! Sing us to the Light!” he screamed as he burst through the surface of the fog soup, emerging from the denizens of doubt, leading his brothers to redemption and the prospect of one more bacon and egg sanger.
It was a rag tag but relieved bunch that gathered at Café Bullet to feast and wassail in celebration of Brave BT and their new Patron Saint (proposed) of the Easy Riders.
BT had led the ER’s through the trial unscathed, but somewhat saddened; for there are places that Spirits cannot venture. Aunty Enid had returned to The Other Side, but he was grateful to have felt her presence one more time.
As he once told Humble Scribe. “Enid knew a good bike, and she liked a hard ride”.
God Bless.
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