Jason Randall reporting for blog duty. Now a few posts back I gave you some
instruction about the list, about the greats that have made it and also about
some of the sorry excuses for cyclists who haven’t.
You’ll probably recall a certain Kid Williams right? And if you have anything to do with
cycling you’ll know exactly who I’m talking about. I want to go back now, way back, back to a time before I had
learnt the wolf’s way, before I donned the sacred pelt of Doyle and before I
wielded Wolfs Bane. This was the
era of the Kid, Kid Williams, the original leader of our cycling gang.
It was back in ’78, Chester and I had been in Korea for just a few months, we were throwing back shots of a powerful energy drink called Bacchus D in a famous herbal medicine joint on the Itaewon stretch of Seoul. We were feeling pumped and primed and just about ready to hit the road when all of a sudden there was a loud bang, in a instant the entrance door of the joint whipped open knocking one bystander unconscious and almost simultaneously a black and orange clad warrior straddling a classic Truimph racing bicycle flew into the herbal bar at an electrifying speed, it seemed certain he would careen into the bar but in another instant he pulled the bicycle into a skidding motion and stopped just in time. We were all breathless, Chester was shaking, my heart was pounding. Who was this maniac? He’d certainly caught all of the patron’s attention, least of all Chester and myself. He was out of this world. He was wearing pale coloured snakeskin boots, tight black leather pants, a black leather motorcycle jacket with a cowboy tassel fringe, over the top of the jacket he wore a high visibility reflective orange bib and his pièce de résistance, a British infantry helmet from WWII. This guy was a mind blast, Chester and I were awe struck. As he leaned his bicycle against the bar both Chester and I saw a threatening looking cudgel swinging from his belt. All eyes were on him as his spoke to the bartender.
It was back in ’78, Chester and I had been in Korea for just a few months, we were throwing back shots of a powerful energy drink called Bacchus D in a famous herbal medicine joint on the Itaewon stretch of Seoul. We were feeling pumped and primed and just about ready to hit the road when all of a sudden there was a loud bang, in a instant the entrance door of the joint whipped open knocking one bystander unconscious and almost simultaneously a black and orange clad warrior straddling a classic Truimph racing bicycle flew into the herbal bar at an electrifying speed, it seemed certain he would careen into the bar but in another instant he pulled the bicycle into a skidding motion and stopped just in time. We were all breathless, Chester was shaking, my heart was pounding. Who was this maniac? He’d certainly caught all of the patron’s attention, least of all Chester and myself. He was out of this world. He was wearing pale coloured snakeskin boots, tight black leather pants, a black leather motorcycle jacket with a cowboy tassel fringe, over the top of the jacket he wore a high visibility reflective orange bib and his pièce de résistance, a British infantry helmet from WWII. This guy was a mind blast, Chester and I were awe struck. As he leaned his bicycle against the bar both Chester and I saw a threatening looking cudgel swinging from his belt. All eyes were on him as his spoke to the bartender.
“Give
me a flagon of yer finest Baccus” he rasped in a thick East midlands
accent.
A flock of blonde hair brushed his shoulders from under his helmet, his eyes shone a piercing blue, his faced looked hard and weather-beaten.
A flock of blonde hair brushed his shoulders from under his helmet, his eyes shone a piercing blue, his faced looked hard and weather-beaten.
By
now there was blood streaming out of the ears of the poor gentleman that had
been knocked to the floor just a moment earlier but that didn’t seem to
matter. We were transfixed, I
asked,
“Who
are you?”
He
took a big swig of Baccus, slammed down the flagon and swung his gaze at
Chester and I.
“I’m
the Kid… Kid Williams”.
“w
w w.. where are your from” Chester stammered.
“Huh,
where am I my from? I’m from the home
of the great outlaw Robin Hood, from the home of the great football mastermind Brian
Clough and the home of the great Olympic cycling virtuoso Larry Tarbuck. I’m from the City once famed for it’s
lace-making, I’m from the City famed for the world’s first Football Club, I’m
from the city known the world over as the great champion of the bicycle
industry.”
Nottingham
…. Nottingham. We were awe
struck. Was the Kid for real? Nottingham.. the Mecca of cycling, the
most sacred place on Earth for cyclists of all colors and creeds.
By
this point we could feel some hostility brewing from the locals in the bar,
there was some commotion around the man who had previously been knocked to the
floor by the Kid’s dramatic entrance.
An old lady kneeling at his side was screaming in the local tongue, she
was clawing at her hair as tears streamed down her face. Some unsavory looking characters smashed some bottles and
wielded them like knives as they hurled insults threw their Baccus stained
teeth.
The
Kid, with a customary instinct for safety shouted,
“lets
get the fuck out of here!”
And
just like that Chester and I flew out of the place in a panic, we hadn’t
stopped to think how the Kid would get out having taken the liberty of cycling
into the joint instead of going in on foot like ordinary folk. He would need to get himself back out
of there with his ride intact. As
Chester and I hurriedly mounted our steeds we could see a big crowd gathered
around the entrance of the Baccus sink, the commotion that had been ignited
inside had conflagrated into a full-scale riot. A fire could be seen burning through one of the windows, the
air was rife with screams and the sound of smashing glass, suddenly a gunshot
went off and once more the door swung open,
“yaaaaaaarrrrr,
‘ave it, take that, yaaaaaaarrr! Fuckin ‘ave it”
The
Kid was firmly back in the saddle raining blows from his cudgel in a frenzy
that drove the rioters back. He
had gone utterly berserk, within seconds he broke free from the rabble and drew
up to our position.
“They
gave me a good pasting but I got out, now listen to me!” he shouted.
“We
going to pedal one hundred percent, one hundred FUCKING percent have you got me?
Have you fucking got me?”
We
didn’t need to reply we were peddling like Larry Tarbuck on meth. After a few hours our pace slackened,
we were a long way out of the city.
It hadn’t been all plain sailing, a car had almost slammed into the Kid
but miraculously swerved at the last minute. Later the Kid gave the signal for us to take a
break.
It
was at this moment that we learnt about the two golden rules that the Kid lived
his life by. He dismounted his cycle and ordered us to do the same.
“You
learnt one thing today didn’t you?
DIDN’T YOU?” He shouted
“You
pedaled one hundred percent and now your still alive”
“That’s
the first rule you must always adhere to when on the road, do you understand?”
Chester
and I both nodded.
He
then clutched violently at his orange reflective bib and roared.
“DO
YOU KNOW WHAT THIS, Huh? Do you
know? It’s a high visibility
reflective orange bib”.
“That car would have taken us all out if it wasn’t for this
bit of kit”.
He paused for breath.
Recomposed himself and took a deep breath.
“AND YOU SEE THIS?” He roared once more.
He was pointing at a dent in his WWII helmet.
“Without this I would be dead, one of those brigands took a
shot at me”.
“SAFETY FIRST, SAFETY FUCKING FIRST!” He bellowed.
What
a man, what a rider, a true thoroughbred, a dare devil our idol.
Over
the coming months more tales of the late Kid Williams will be published but for
now I want to leave it here and I want YOU to remember:
Always pedal 100% and safety first.
That was a mantra that Chester and I learned the hard way,
the Kid hardest of all.
Some of the Kid's cycling kit below.
Some of the Kid's cycling kit below.
This was a riviting read Jason. I wish I could have gon back in tme and been a part of this story some how. I can't wait to hear some tales about Brian Barry and Pat Wigan.
ReplyDelete