I finished work over 150km away (Brisbane's North Side) at 11pm last night & must've made it to bed at around 2am. Having my licence in the palms of a loving magistrate on 17th Jan, I was prompted to "ride as much as possible", so dragged myself out of bed & donned the boots (still dripping from the drenching I got last night). Oh, for those who are imagining otherwise, I also donned a few other things. I shoved a pill down the cat's neck, whacked some food in his bowl & zoomed off to check the plugged rear tyre's pressure before meeting "the gang".
Pulled up at the meeting point with seconds to spare. Bunch of old men with grey hair & a spattering of cruisers. This must be the place... There was a distinct smell of BO in the air, but I guess that could've been because we were in the Macca's car-park... Just waiting for Arthur & Thelma to get back from the toilet, then we're off... Damn. Could've stayed in bed another 20 minutes. Kinda weird listening to stops being organised according to bladders instead of VTR tank size. I heard the word "hospital" quite a few times & thought maybe we were going to visit someone... or two... or three.
But no! 9:30 & we're off... Lead & last riders wearing hi-viz flouro vests... Straight along the highway... for about 45 minutes. Maybe hip replacements click out if you lean your bike or something. Is this an important fact I should've been warning my patients about? Must look that up. Either way, we rode in a straight line for 3/4 hour & then stopped next to a pub. Hmmm... nice cold drink & maybe a game of pool? Nup. After everyone had come back from the toilet, out came the thermoses (thermi? thermes?) & the pre-cut sandwiches (not to mention the indigestion meds) while we discussed Martha's urinary tract infection & Albert's prostate. I looked longingly across at the pub with all its promises, while we sat in the park on picnic blankets, lovingly crocheted around the edges & looked at photos of Harold's 368 great-grandchildren.
Bartie's knee suddenly seized up, indicating rain, so the happy banter was quickly replaced with a frenzied panic as for the next half hour, the blankets were neatly folded & left-over sandwiches wrapped & stored in grease-proof paper before the long, straight ride home. It was easy to tell we were running from that cloud that had appeared way off on the horizon, as we reached mad speeds of up to 105kpm... sorry, 62mph.
Too much excitement for me. I had to go back to bed as soon as I got home.
Here's a shot of Cyril's Ulyssian bling, just to help you feel like you were there. You can tell a man's wife cares when she sends him off with his lunch-box matching his bike. And don't be confused by that black satchel. It's not a laptop or anything. I think it's a heart-monitor, or spare colostomy bags or something. He told me he had to get a "hockey" strap to tie everything on.
Based on a true story.
All names and details have been changed to protect the guilty.
Also we wouldn't have got to hear about it 
