Kev was our wheelie man; he could wheelie fucking *anything*, as he once proved by lofting my CX500EC across the concrete outside some lockups where he was working ... he could loft anything, anytime, anywhere, for as long as you liked ...

So; we were all out, and having a fine time. We'd been down various Kent back lanes, evaded Plod, and were running back into SE London at some pace, happy as cherubs.

Normally, StevieB led the pack out, with me in 2nd, but whenever we reached urban territory, Kev took over; his wheelieing skills made any journey home a grin, though he wasn't a fast rider by any stretch ...

So we were heading up the dual carriageway into Catford, in traffic, when Kev got one of his loony heads on ... he lofted his 750 Turbo in second, and proceeded to hang on to a near vertical climb for about a quarter of a mile, then a half mile, then three quarters ...

I saw the problem way ahead of him, and flashed him like crazy, but of course his mirrors were currently inspecting hedgehog territory below him, and had no information to impart.

With a sense of horror, I watched him glide past the marked SD1 V8 Plod car ... his head turned in blank fascination as he realised what he'd done ... he target fixated on the smiling faces of the two plod in the car ... and he lost concentration and sailed into the grass divide between the two lanes ...

The Turbo was a write-off, and Plod did him as best they could on the spot, though only for a minor offence as "that was such a nice wheelie ... we saw it coming for about a quarter of a mile ... if he'd dropped it anywhere behind us we'd have ignored it ..."

Kev had a broken arm, a fucked bike, and a story that allowed him to dine out on for a month.