Its been an oil and grease caked morning with the aromatic smell of thick glupy hydrocarbon and WD40 lubricants pervading the lounge where I go about my new trade of bikie quietly and efficiently. There's only a few spots of oil on the carpet. Still, early days. I haven't got half the tools I need and some of the new fangled fittings are headscratchingly devious for an old skool lad like me.
I am the new vicar of Ridley; Ridley in the Alien, the lead singer in the Boo Ridleys and Vin D. in the Chronicles of Ridley. With needing a few new parts, its dawning on me just how cheap a sport running is. I think I'll end up blowing 1 or 2 years worth of trainer money on various pieces of shiny aluminium, only to take them into soft, mud splattered bogs and fields.
Meanwhile, as I recall passing a couple of the lads in the car as they tore through the streets yesterday in the pouring rain, I see the gnarled wraith of guilt leaning against the door, dangling the Salomons by their laces and pointing with her scrawy finger toward the front door. Best get out for some miles.