Singletrack Magazine Issue 118 : Last Word

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barney marsh Train, Train Go Away Barney faces up to the inevitable: he’s not magically going to get fitter by doing nothing. It sits against one wall of the cellar, locked in by a barricade of old unused frames. Slowly collecting dust and detritus in the five years it has lain undisturbed, unwanted, and plotting my untimely demise. But it’s rapidly becoming obvious that I need to grasp the nettle and finish what I put…

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Barney Marsh takes the word ‘career’ literally, veering wildly across the road of his life, as thoroughly in control as a goldfish on the dashboard of a motorhome. He’s been, with varying degrees of success, a scientist, teacher, shop assistant, binman and, for one memorable day, a hospital laundry worker. These days, he’s a dad, husband, guitarist, and writer, also with varying degrees of success. He sometimes takes photographs. Some of them are acceptable. Occasionally he rides bikes to cast the rest of his life into sharp relief. Or just to ride through puddles. Sometimes he writes about them. Bikes, not puddles. He is a writer of rongs, a stealer of souls and a polisher of turds. He isn’t nearly as clever or as funny as he thinks he is.

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