The old Johnboy you knew is no more.
No relax, I haven’t been bludgeoned to death by an angry mob of murder victim families and moderated lunatics (yet).
Rather I have been on a Rat Patrol ride, the second and final step in immigrating to rat world. (The first step was building Rodrigo).
So, having completed the ride late last night and of bleary eye, I was initiated in a ritual of staggering complexity and finery. I have been re-born and re-named. My astonishing deftness with a cutting disk has earned me the name of “Roughcut Richard”.
So what’s involved in Rat Rides?
(More and a slideshow below, comic by Panama)
Well there’s a lot of drinking.
Being my first ride I was a little worried that I would be late for the 6pm start.
I need not have fretted.
For two hours we just sat around in the Rat Pad’s palatial gardens drinking beer from the esky tricycle as rats trickled in and pulled up a chair.
Only when the beer and cider ran out did the rats saddle up and hit the road, trekking as far as the Dickson Woolies bottle shop.
With the esky trike filled and with beers clenched in fists, there was happy procession to inspect the Rats’ guerilla garden on the banks of the Blue Sullivan.
Then there was a lot of riding up and down the bike path between Dickson and Lyneham, discovering The Front had closed early, riding to a playground in Lyneham and playing monkey tag on the equipment.
Passers by kept asking me if they could buy my bike.
Another run to the bottle shop was undertaken. (It should be noted that all empty bottles went back in the esky for disposing of in a bin).
Finally the rats returned to their lair for some late night boozing.
Zooming through shopping centres at night in a cavalcade of rats on their amazing array of bikes is akin to riding with the Wild Hunt.
It’s not a boys club either, lots of amazing women zoom around on tall bikes and choppers with the blokes.
I haven’t had as much fun in years.
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