The seasons turn and suddenly I'm outside that restaurant again. It's August and sticky. 1:30AM and I'm about to leave. This time on a T250 and offering a rather rotund chap a lift home. No piss heads about.

We carefully stow his radio in my top box and I offer him my spare full face helmet ('cos I only wore an open face one). I start the bike and matey gets on the back. Matey sits well back and leans against the top box. I start to pull away and the engine starts to die; two strokes and choke. I gas it a bit more and the engine picks up, revving away... as the clutch bites. The bike pulls an unexpected minger aided by my rotund acquaintances portly weight leaning on the top box... well OK I could have shut the throttle, or I could have hit the rear brake. Why then did I do nothing as portly chap decides it's time to jump ship.

Of course the transfer of weight does its thing and pulls the whole shooting match onto its side. Which I suppose was good 'cos it stopped the wheelie. I also managed to act as a brake for the bike by using my cheek as the pad and the road as the disk. Several layers of skin later we come to a stop. I get up, blood dripping off my face and bang my head under the taxi the bike's wedged itself.

I spent months avoiding the cunt who owned it and wanted me to pay for a new exhaust...