Jason Reporting for Blog Duty

Have you missed me? Come on, I know you have! I’ve been getting bucket loads of fan messages from all areas of the cycle community.  “What are they saying, Jason?” I hear you ask, well, they’re basically saying,

“Jason… we love you.”  Have a look:

“Jason, where art thou?” - Fred Harley
“Jason, I love you so much!” - Maggie Jones
“On yer blog, Randall” - Victor Davidson
“I can’t handlelize life without being Randalllized” - Clara Truman
“Jason mon petit pois, Où es-tu?” - Chantel Deville
“Herr Randall, Wie geht’s?” Ralph Flick
“Jason you old dog, regale us with more tales from the dusty trails” - Captain Jack

Yeah, I’ve been getting messages from people all over the blogosphere.  I’m quite surprised by my popularity, I know I’m one of the great cyclists but one of the great bloggers?  Hmm..

As usual you’ve been wondering “what’s Jason up to?” that’s why you came here, didn’t you.

Well now, let me give you an update on my life as a cyclist in Korea.

As an athlete I naturally relish a competition and these days I’ve been competing with all the good members of The Gang at a game called Bejeweled.  Bejeweled is a complicated computer game that involves matching different colours of tiles in order to score points.  All of The Gang have recently become seriously addicted.  Even Kid Williams is playing from beyond the grave.  Brian Barry and Pat Wigan have thrown themselves into the game with characteristic energy.  Brian has been taking it to the max.  He is currently scoreboard leader of the classic version of the game, a feat none of The Gang have matched, we haven’t even made it to the scoreboard and quite frankly given Brian’s notorious ill temper I think I’m quite happy to leave him there. 

The real version of the Bejeweled game to play though is the Speed game.  As natural cyclists with instincts for speed, it is this game that has seen The Gang pit their wits against one another in a quest for glory.  First Pat and then Brian registered on the scoreboard, Brian led the way for some time but not for long, Kid Williams somehow put a score on the scoreboard despite having passed away many years ago.  The main man I was waiting for however was none other than my old partner in crime, Chester George. I knew he was as hooked on the game as the rest of us but he wasn’t registering on the scoreboard.  I realised that Chester was deliberately hanging near the back of the pack, waiting for the final lap before registering a score to beat all scores, this is a tactic that Chester has seen me employ on numerous occasions during our cycle trips.  Chester didn’t disappoint he blew the rest of the pack away with a huge score, the way he broke the 470,000 point barrier really shook my confidence but I was determined to trump Chester just like I always do. 

It was now or never, I donned Doyle my sacred wolf’s pelt, I gently laid Wolfs Bane across my loins and slowly I worked myself up into a gaming frenzy, my fingers furiously clicking at the mouse, the pupils of my eyes rapidly searched for the right combinations, beads of sweat rolled from under my brow.  Time seemed to stand still, I had forgotten where I was, who I was, only the top score mattered,    “ding” 40pts, “ding” 25pts, “ding” 30pts, “ding” 50pts.  I passed 400,000, 410,000, 450,000, 460,000, 470,000…. 480,000, 500,000… 516,000!  Amazing! I had done it! I had gone where none had ever gone before, where none could reach, I had piped Chester to the post yet again!

As you can see, this is a game that is very popular with true born cyclists, you will not find any of the new generation of "fauxclists" able to get on the scoreboard, they are trying, they are doing their utmost but I can say with certainty that that reprobate Alistair Crowley will never make it on this scoreboard.

Chester, if you are reading, there can be only one highlander.  

Who is Brian Barry indeed.

Jason Randall reporting for blog duty. WHAT?! WHAT THE HELL?! I hear you shout, STONE THE FUCKING CROWS JASON IS BACK! I hear you shout again. OH MUMMY! I hear you shout a third time as your hands begin to shake, as your vision begins to blur, as the room starts to spin, foam frothing at your mouth. THE BICYCLE MANIAC IS BACK! I know, I know it’s been a while. You’ve missed me pretty bad and I’ve missed you more. But just compose yourself, get a tissue, wipe your mouth and relax. It’s me Jason. Haha

I know that over the last few months you’ve had to put up with a lot of drivel that the COW has been churning out over at his infantile dairy, Sofa on Wheels. These days when I look at it I wonder if it’s just one big joke, if he’s just making fun of serious riders of the road like Chester and myself. In fact when I think of it like that it makes me angry, why does he continue to mock us?

But I don’t want to waste any more words on that birdbrain. At least not for the moment. That’s not the reason Jason Randall has resurrected himself from internet obscurity. I have more important things to waste my precious words on. Jason Randall sits here right now reconnecting with cyberspace, donned in nothing but Doyle his sacred Mongolian wolf’s pelt, Wolf’s Bane resting by his keyboard, a hot cup of Earl Grey tea just to the right of the mouse pad, to fulfill a promise he made just a few months ago.

In this post I will tell you how my cycle path crossed with one of the cycling world’s mightiest warriors. That man’s name is none other than Brian Barry, the Dynamo of Dyfed.

April, 1975, Chester and I were planning a cycle trip to Wales, a mysterious land that lays along the western marches of England. When we were just young lads Chester and I were nourished on dark and terrible tales of a strange land called Wales by Chester’s grandma, Nana George. We knew all about Taffy the Welshman who sneaks over the border into England by night, coming into our homes and stealing our food. The evil Prince Llywelwyn who savagely murdered an English dog called Gelert with a sword. Merlin the Wizard who could turn you into a chicken with a cats head. Guydwyn, an ancient mountain monster who would strangle his enemies with a chain so powerfully their heads would pop off. Nana would explain how he used the skulls as wheels of a flying bicycle. Chester used to piss himself.

But Chester and I weren’t scared little boys that pissed their pants anymore we were older now and Nana George’s xenophobic scaremongering had long since died when she was trampled to death by horses in a freak farm accident.

Chester and I were big boys now with big cajonas. Nothing was going to stop us.

We packed our gear, saddled up our cycles and set off for the the border and the weird wild world of Wales. Our destination was Newport a large port city in the South East of Wales. We had made great progress. With the wind at our backs we cruised into the city by the end of the morning and were presented with an obstacle that would transform the nature of our trip dramatically.

Newport is divided by the river Usk and so the only way to continue our tour was across the Newport bridge (shown below). The road for cars had been closed due to road works but the cycle lane was still open. Chester spotted it first,

“Jason, I can see the cycle entrance onto the bridge but what’s that whirling around in front of it and causing all that commotion?”

I told Chester to rear up and pulled out my trusty spyglass to get a better idea of the situation. Once I found my range and focused I could see a small shape circling around the entrance to the bridge on a bicycle, it was swinging some kind of ball on a string. It seemed to be yelling at our general direction.

“advance with caution Chester, we may have a problem” I warned.

As we approached the entrance the circling cyclist came into full view, he was smaller and stouter than I had first thought, maybe some 5ft and 4 inches, his hair was a thick tangled mess of black curls. He had an equally thick and unruly mass of a black beard. He looked thoroughly disheveled, he was dressed in old military kaki but cycled only barefoot and to our horror he whirled a large flail.

Mallory, Brian's weapon of choice

“Hello boyos. I suppose you want to cross my bridge” He slavered, salvia dripping down his beard as he circled around and around.

“I suppose we do” I snapped back as Chester gave me a disquieted look.

My petulance did not go down well at all, the whirling Welshman became irritated, skidding to a 180 degree halt in front of us.

“Do you want to feel Mallory’s kiss boyo? Is that want you want? Do want to feel her sweet caress all up and down your body? Do you want to feel her spiky fingers rubbing you this way and that? Is that the way it has to be? You bloody English coming here and supposing what you can do. Do you know who I am boyo? Do you fucking well know who I am?” He shouted as he swung his great mace ball.

Chester sensed the danger of the moment and dismounted his stead. He got down on his knees and spoke.

“He didn’t mean any harm, sir. We are embarking on a cycle tour of your famed country. We want to experience all the many wonders of Wales as we traverse its routes, roads and trails. We are true cycling aficionados with pedals of steel and big balls. We mean no disrespect and my friend Jason here will gladly listen to whatever it is you want from us so we can cross your bridge and we would be extremely honoured to know who you are”

The wild man kicked his bike stand down and dismounted. He dropped the flail to the floor and took a step forward. Clutching at his kaki shirt with both hands he suddenly ripped it open, buttons flew though the air as he revealed his bear chest with the words BRIAN BARRY boldly tattooed in blue ink. In smaller italic font underneath were the words Fuck Yeah and below that was a beautiful tattoo of Baron Von Drais’ Laufmaschine, the god father of all bicycles.

“That’s right boyos. Brain Barry. The Brian Barry.. and if you want to cross my bridge you will want to pay Guydwyn’s toll.”

“Guydwyn?” Chester responded, his hands beginning to shake.

“You’re not in England anymore, you’re foreigners now, outlanders, but we have something in common, one sacred link of chain that can never be broken, our love for the bicycle. Guydwyn, the Lord of Cogs and Chains has sent me here to guard this bridge, to not let any pass except for The Two. Many a false cyclist has tried to get past me and they’ve all ended up in the Usk, bike and all. Just yesterday I tossed the bruised and bloody body of some fool from Nottingham into the river, that is, after Mallory had had her wicked way with him.” He chortled.

“But in Guydwyn’s prophecy it is said that The Two would one day come, that they would be mounted upon two pedal driven recreational vehicles, that only they would be honoured to know the gatekeeper’s name, and that only they could pay the toll. You will come with me boyo’s, you will come with Brian on the Vortex route, a treacherous path for only the most adept cyclists. It will be long, hard and dangerous but Guydwyn has summoned you”

To be honest I thought this guy was completely demented, who the hell did he think he was but Chester felt there something about him, some kind of aura, something we should trust and so it was that Brian Barry escorted us across his bridge and into the wild and inhospitable lands that lay beyond.

It turned out that Brian was an absolute fruitcake. A very scary fruitcake. Not long after leaving the bridge an unfortunate motorist got a little to close for Brian’s comfort, in a flash he was whirling and thrashing at the car with his flail Mallory, with one ferocious swing the passenger window of the car was completely shattered and the mace embedded itself into the head of a passenger who was screaming in agony, blood was spraying out of the window all over Brian who was shrieking and yelling in delight, the driver of the car who was also crying and screaming for mercy hit the pedal to the metal in desperation and instantly the car jolted forward, Brian had to quickly yank Mallory free from the passengers head before his balance was compromised thus skillfully averting a dangerous cycle crash. The car sped off and Brian’s bloody head turned back to look us, he gave us smile and quick wink and then pedaled on.

On a rainy night in Swansea a band of men had confronted us after we left a pub. They turned out to be some rowdy locals looking for a fight, they were making fun of Brian’s filthy shoeless feet, calling him a dirty tramp and saying he needed a good kicking. They demanded that Brian get on his knees and promise that he would buy some shoes but Brian wasn’t having any of it. He strode up to the biggest of the group and in a lightening fast motion pulled the man’s head down by his hair and shoved it straight through the pub window with shocking force. Not all of the glass had broken leaving razor sharp shards dangerously surrounding the mans neck. Almost upon impact Brian violently shook the man jolting him up and down, left and right puncturing the man’s neck in multiple areas causing blood to spray all around the window as the man screamed and writhed in agony. Brian was howling and screaming in ecstasy.

“Who’s fucking next? Hey, who wants to go next?” Brian bellowed.

But no one wanted to go next.

Brian was scary but you felt safe with him. No one was going to fuck with you.

Brian led us on a huge circular route of Wales, we took in all the best sights, slept in the best camp grounds and cycled all the greatest trails. After almost doing a complete circle of Wales we stopped at Pontypool where Brian explained that the real nature of the Vortex route would begin. We continued on another circular route but slightly smaller and so on and so on... We peddled for days, weeks, months... years. We had lost track of time, at some point on our journey the road would end, with only mountain and moorland ahead of us, the first time this happened Chester and I thought we had reached our final destination but Brian had other ideas. On such occasions Brian would then provide us with some straps with special cords attached that enabled us to strap our bicycles onto our backs, we would then have to begin grueling treks up and down mountain sides, over the scrub of the moorlands and through stinking bogs. For such a small man Brian would often range far ahead. The further we went into the Vortex the more we depended on Brian for everything. Brian knew the land, he knew the animals, the plants, the trees. He knew where to find water and where to hunt. Over many a merry camp fire we happily gorged ourselves on choice cuts of mountain lamb. Brian would pounce of them from a rock as they grazed upon the hill side, wildly swinging Mallory before landed a crushing blow that would shatter the animals skull on impact. How that man hunted, how he sensed a kill, the skill at which he wielded Mallory, the way he always knew which rock to leap from, he was a legend, a wild warrior, our guardian angel in the dangerous depths of the Vortex route.

Brian often talked of Guydwyn, he told us that Guydwyn was worshipped by trueborn cyclists of Europe.  He wasn't sure of his origin,

"Maybe Germany, maybe France, some say Cornwall but for me he's Welsh through and through" he once said.

He explained that by just coming with him on this journey we were paying the toll that he had asked for. It made sense, we had paid a heavy toll or rather our bodies had paid it, all the hiking, biking, trekking and wading was physically exhausting. Brian was pushing us to to the limit, he was making us feel the burn, he was pushing us to the max.  This mad man was pushing us ever closer to Guydwyn the monster of the mountain or as Brian would call him the God of Cogs and Chains, the God of Cyclists!

It wasn't all hard slog though, sometimes Brian would lighten the mood just when things seemed to get too tough.  Brian would stop in the middle of a bog or the moor,  he would straddle his bicycle with the saddle positioned just in front of his hips and say in a deep husky voice “How much do you love your bike?"  He would then thrust his pelvis back and forth against the back of the saddle in a sexual motion,  "Very max!” he would answer.  Brian took life to the max, he took cycling to the max, he took violence to the max.

There eventually came a point where Chester and I thought we couldn’t go any further, we hadn’t seen a mountain lamb for weeks and our parched mouths longed to quench our thirst, it was getting late, there was a full moon. But suddenly Brian announced that we had made it, deep in the heart of the Welsh mountains we had found the ancient track, we were ordered to mount our steads and ride. At the end of the track we came into a small grove that was lit up by a circle of burning torches and at the centre of which we saw a huge white statue of polished marble, how could I describe such beauty, it was amazing, but picture a naked Peter Crouch wearing a backpack and flipflops sat firmly in the saddle of a Raleigh Chopper, grasping one of the handle bars with his left hand and swinging a bicycle chain with his right, picture the human skulls impaled by the spokes of the wheels. It truly was Guydwyn the God of Cogs and chains, the Gog of Cyclists, our God.

Brian ordered us to mount the chopper, it was so big it was easy to fit both of us to the rear of Guydwyn, Brian began to chant some incantations in Welsh, the wind began to pick up and swirl around us, lightening flashed in front of us and suddenly we were flying.

Guydwyn took us on the sacred flight that all true cyclists must take. On the journey he explained to us that in the future there would be all kinds of bicycles and all kinds of fools riding them. He explained that they would presume to be true born cyclists, he said these people were dangerous to the scene, their inexperience, their assumptions, their fallaciousness would one day put the scene in complete jeopardy. He said there would be strange new technologies that these maligners would use to spread their falsehoods, a great interweb that would one one day hosts cyclelogs where these frauds would mock the entire cycling scene and all it held dear. He said that one day we would forget his warning but that the spirt of a great cyclist, a cyclist who had also ridden with Guydwyn, would come to us and warn us of the danger.

That was many years ago now. Guydwyn was right about everything. We did forget his prophecy. But the spirit of a great cyclist had come to us to warn us of the danger. Kid Williams our old leader our mentor, it was him that warned me about the dangers of COW. He told us we must bring the gang back together.

And that is exactly what we have being doing since. Who would be the first member of the Gang to contact? Chester and I were in no doubt...

Brian Barry.

The Vortex Route

Couch Watch

J.R reporting for blog duty. Bloody hell! A huge breakfast blow out. Was about to make a cup a tea and guess what? Nothing but a snivelling little dribble of milk left at the bottom of the carton. This could only mean one thing, haha, yeah, just another excuse to mount Marlon, my trusty stead and head to the local 7/11. Now I’ve said this before but I never head off on ANY journey without performing the necessary rites and adorning myself in the correct cycling kit. Needless to say I hurriedly put on my tracksuit. Doyle, my sacred wolfs pelt was quickly donned, Wolf’s Bane was clipped into position on the seat tube and incantations were thrice chanted at the suns fiery orb. My vision was somewhat blurred and I had to swerve suddenly almost ploughing straight into a parked car. After this near miss it was plain sailing. I drew up to the 7/11, dismounted Marlon and kicked his cycle stand down. I glanced through the window of the 7/11 and was pleased to see it fully stocked of milky goodness. But then something in the reflection of the window caught my eye, my first impression was of a kind of bone white skeletal looking frame with two haggard rubber tires attached. I looked away to the source of the reflection and saw this:

It was the poor sorry little mount that I had seen only weeks before abandoned by its master to the icy grips of a midwinter’ s blizzard. And there he was, the presumptuous little cycle lord himself Alasdair Couch sauntering down the road with a shopping bag in hand heading towards his sorry little beat up stead. I couldn’t believe it. I had finally got a glimpse of this allusive creature. He strode confidently towards his weak and abused mount. He seemed to notice someone looking at him and slowly turned his wicked crabby face in my direction. For a short instant our eyes met and he flashed an evil shrivelled smile at me.

A sudden bolt of fury struck me in an instant. My ears were ringing my eyes rolling as I tried to compose myself putting a hand on Marlon’s sturdy frame. My legs had turned to jelly and my insides where in knots. I felt myself tumble forward and I crumpled up wrenching into the sidewalk, “arrrrughhhhhh!” I couldn’t move. What the hell was wrong with me, the giant of cycling, the Warrior of the routes, Jason Randall lying pathetic and powerless on the sidewalk in a face full of vomit. I still had my wits my mind was commanding me to take Wolf’s Bane and cross the street to deliver justice to that fell scoundrel but I was paralysed.

I was so ashamed, The Kid would have spat on this contemptuous display in disgust. With all my energy I tried to raise my head and then I saw him, hovering over me.

Through rays of sunlight his spirit looked on.

“Jason, beware! The COW is not all that he seems, he’s not just some annoying little upstart bicycle hobbyist, preaching childish cycle nonsense on an internet blog, he is in possession of dark arts, he is in possession of something very monstrous and powerful. He has knowledge of an arcane school of black magic. Approach him with caution at all times. You must learn more about him before you can truly defeat him. You and Chester must bring back The Gang, you must once more find Pat Wigan, Brian Barry and Sandy Turnpike. Your leadership of the gang has slacked, there are new and dangerous forces on the cycle routes, they seek to destroy everything we hold dear. Do you hear me Jason? Do you understand? Do you fucking understand? And Jason remember… always pedal 100% and safety first.”

I nodded pathetically as a chunk of yesterday’s carrot soup slid down my chin. I could feel my senses returning as The Kid gently evaporated into the blue sky overhead. Instinctively I looked to where that horrible devil had dared smile at me only a moment before. He was gone. There was nothing there, it was if he had never been there at all.

At this point the owner of the 7/11 had come out, he was berating me in the local tongue about the mess I had made. An old lady stared on with disdain. The owner was holding a mop and bucket. Some local school girls were laughing even Marlon seemed to find the whole scene amusing.

After clearing up the mess it was made plain to me that I wouldn’t be welcome again in this particular 7/11 and so Marlon and I had to range further a field for that milky goodness.

Back at the lair I sat musing over a hot cup of tea. The gang must be brought back together and Alasdair Couch must pay. Dearly.

Who is Brian Barry?

"Who is Brian Barry?" I hear you ask, who is he indeed.

For a little summary on our good friend Brian clink on this and you can get to know the little man a little better.  Haha, sorry Bazza.

So, in my next post I'm going to tell you how Chester and I bumped into another cycling legend.  This man hails from the wild and inhospitable mountains of Wales.  This man has become a part of cycling folklore.  He's left his mark on all the routes in more ways than one, he's seen sights that others can only experience through a cocktail of drugs,  he's laid out picnic spreads that would shame 5 star michelin chefs, he's repaired a punctured tyre at just under 30 seconds, he's  rode up mountains in 21st gear, he's done things with bicycle pumps that would make Graham Norton blush.   This man, this monster of the mountains, this Welsh warlock of cogs and chains, this dynamo of Dyfed, this man is none other than Brian Barry.

Check this spot for the story of how our cycle paths crossed.

Poll: how much does www.couchonwheels.com suck?

I want to share this here because it needs sharing.

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RIP The Kid - Part 1

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.

“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.
 

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.

A Scene of Outrage

Jason Randall reporting for blog duty. So my good compadre Chester has been hard at work over at Pester Chester. If you don’t already know about the incident in Mongolia then it’s time to get over at Chester’s and read this little puppy.

Chester tells the story of certain unfortunate wolf that got too close for comfort and had to pay the price in blood. Since that day there are two items that I never fail to leave behind before setting out on any cycling journey and I MEAN any journey. The first is Doyle, that’s what I named the wolf pelt that I took from the brave wolf that dared to threaten Chester and I. Before I mount my saddle I face the sun and stare intensely into its fiery depths, thrice I chant an incantation taught to me by an old shaman in Mongolia and then slowly I don Doyle my sacred wolf pelt. The second is Wolf’s Bane, the flaming log that I used to bludgeon Doyle to death, it’s not it’s only name, Chester has on more than one occasion referred to it as the Randallizer. Now, a lot of moronic cyclists these days like to attach multiple bottle holders to their bike frames. I will show you an example here:

You can see one and two.

Now real men, hardy men, hardy men of the road, real thoroughbred cyclists only need one, placed in the classic position upon the lower bar of the bicycle. Thats how Chester and I not to mention Pat Wigan, Brian Barry and the late Kid Williams all set out on our forays into the wilderness. Sandy had a different set up but she had her reasons and excuses. Instead of a second bottle holder, attached to the back part of my frame below the saddle I keep Wolf’s Bane. It’s always close at hand for any emergency situation that requires it.

Now where do I begin with the next thing that bothers me about this image? Who would disrespect their mount like you see in the picture, just look at the neglect. This bicycle is a picture of abuse and dereliction. Left out in the bitter cold of a raging blizzard, snow covering it’s naked limbs. I know, I know, your probably bubbling up with rage right now, I can tell you that my hands are shaking and It’s not easy hitting the right keys but by Christ I’ll compose myself because this entry needs to be published. What kind of deranged numbskull would do this to their ride? The thing is shaking, it’s pleading for help. What kind of lame brain half wit would do this? Well guess who, none other than the feebleminded COW who dares to preach cycling knowledge from the obscurity of cyber space. COW are you listening to me? Get this poor disheveled thing into a garage, a house, an apartment any kind of shelter damn it! Don’t stand there taking pictures of it knucklehead. And if by chance, by some divine intervention Chester George and Jason Randall were able to cycle down into this scene of outrage you would quickly feel the wrath and fury of Wolfs Bane, raining multiple blows upon your cowardly body until you begged for mercy. And if we felt merciful Chester would have on hand his trusty branding iron which, after a good heating, would sear the words “You’ve been Randallized” on your left buttock.

I will leave it there because I’m angry, I’m upset and I’m disturbed.