For 21 miles his visage has been the very picture of effort. Teeth clenched, shoulders slumped, he has been fighting and clawing, trying desperately to hold the wheel in front of him. His calves strain as he forces his compact crankset through yet another revolution. His adversary glances back and flashes a toothless smile. Victory, he knows, is soon at hand. Through sweat-stung eyes the Possum sees the 24” wheels of his opponent’s Magna recede further into the distance. With 1km to go, his opponent attacks, the 50-gallon trash bag lashed to his handlebars straining with a days worth of salvaged tallboy cans. JVA roleur and one-day- Classics specialist, Truman Compote, has lost this day….Or has he?
With a strength borne of the prospect of nubile podium girls and their sweet, non-committal caresses, Truman Compote digs deep into the valaise of virility. 50 meters….40….30…ThePossum harnesses the power of a thousand toy locomotives, and from the eerie calm of his opponent’s slipstream he launches his sprint. Welds creak under the awesome power of the Possum’s meatsticks. He sees his prize, and with a last, desperate throw of the bike, takes the county line sprint.
The Paisley Possum will lull you into complacency, and then ask your wife for her phone number.