A Tuesday evening in the 1970s, dark, and I'm coming back from a gathering, high on good feeling. I've also got a rhythm going, hurtling through the curves, but I'm aware of the car behind me, and I can feel his interest. Fuck it, I'm going so well, he can wait. I'm staying in the middle, holding my pace. Another day I might have slipped in left a bit, necessitating a slight drop in speed, giving him the room to go through. I'm on a good day though, gonna keep that for now. There's a passing space up ahead, near the Three Tuns pub where Bowie used to do his thing, anyway. Sure enough, as I get there and the road widens, the engine revs behind and I can almost feel the foot on the accelerator. I'm waiting, and yes, he comes up and the passenger window opens. Here we go. I'm anticipating the abuse, perhaps flob or ejected object. South London, on a bike at 2200, what else do you expect. I brace. It wouldn't be the first time, for example when I was spat on at the Old Kent Road.

“Hey, you're flying like Alf Engers” he roars in full on approval, and then the car is gone, up the High Street, towards Penge. I shiver, although a warm glow courses around my being, and it's not all sweat from the effort. I've just been paid one of the biggest compliments possible in the bike world in GB at that time. Alf Engers, the King, Time Trial record holder, a being of supernatural strength and stamina, crushing all comers on his drilled out filed down feather light steed. Me in the same sentence?