Bauer FX3 Roller Blades

It’s been a bit of a quiet week in the world of Chauffeur Monkey. Last night I did the same job for the same people in the same cars as my last post, so there’s not much to say that I’ve not already said (except I got back later because the Dartford Crossing was closed at 2 in the morning – riveting stuff no?).

However, seeing as I’ve been well and truly savaged by the ‘writing bug’, I thought I’d have a little meander off the beaten track and talk about my roller blades while I’m waiting for another posh car to dribble over.

Now, pray excuse my impending self deprecation……

I don’t think I’m actually very good at anything. That’s not to say I can’t do anything, I can do loads of stuff. I can juggle, play the guitar, do card tricks, converse with old people, make daisy chains, put up shelves, do a Scottish accent, you know, all the essential stuff. But I’m not very good at any of it.

It’s quite a depressing train of thought to get bogged down in, and it happens more often than I’d like to admit. However, every now and again I chance to recall that there is one thing I can do that may be an exception to the rule….. I’m actually very good at roller-blading.

I’m not world class or anything like that, but I reckon I’m better than you.

I’ve been skating since I was 13, but unlike most grown ups, I have a real problem with letting teenage pastimes go (I’m also still well into computer games and not talking to my parents).

More to the point, I’ve been skating in the same skates since I was 13. My beloved Bauer FX3’s were purchased in 1993 and remain one of my most treasured possessions. To put that into perspective, I’ve been skating in these bad boys since the days of Boom! Shake the Room, Spliffy Jeans and Mrs Doubtfire.

The wheels have undergone numerous changes and I have long since removed the brakes – brakes are for losers (and people who like to stop), but aside from that they’ve never let me down and - at the time of writing - I’ve only fallen over in them twice since I bought them, once in 1994, and the other in 2011. Both times were in front of an unnecessarily large group of obnoxious piss-taking teenagers. I managed not to cry on one of these occasions. I’m not saying which.  

At 13 years old I was convinced that girls loved guys with wheels on their feet. 19 years later I’m starting to think I may have been barking up the wrong tree.

Many a summer’s evening would find me at the local Travis Perkins speeding up and down in the car park whilst wondering what made me look cooler, my skates, my Spliffy Jeans or my new haircut – short at the back, curtains at the front, with tramlines shaved in the sides.

Well, the hair and trousers may have changed – I was going to have to have sex eventually – but the skates, battered and bruised as they most definitely are, have stayed with me and despite my comical age for such activities, I can’t quite let them go.

I know I look ridiculous in them. I know that other parents in the park aren’t looking at me with quiet awe, wishing in their hearts that they were as cool as me. I know they’re making sure they can see their own children and estimating my immediate proximity to them

I know this, but I just can’t let them go yet.

Why? Who knows, but I reckon I should probably set some sort of deadline for when I finally yield to adulthood. I know… When I’ve got more hair on my back than I have on my head, I’ll stop.

……… Hmm, looks like I’m nearly due for my last ride.

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