My sweetest moment was about 17 years ago - I was 55 at the time.
I'd been over to Mike Perry's "Wielersport" lightweight shop at Bognor (Sussex, U.K.) for a coffee, a training doughnut and a new saddle, and was going back to Worthing - about 16 miles.
As I was going East out of Bognor, two Hell's Cherubs on "trail bikes" (look like scrambling machines, nobbly tyres, big clearances, make a lot of noise but totally gutless) barged out of a side turning in front of me.
I easily chipped onto the back wheel of the second one, and once out of the urban area, they opened it up to about 38 m.p.h., flat out, sitting well forward with their nuts rattling on the fuel tank.
For the next 5 miles or so, I had a comfortable and effortless ride on 52 x 13 and neither lad knew I was there - they didn't look behind once!
Eventually, where the road rises slightly to bridge the river Arun, they slowed, and my pacemaker started to turn to look behind him.
This was my cue. I moved out of the tow and swept past, beaming at him and calling out out "this wind makes it a bit hard, doesn't it?"
His face was a picture. Imagine, you and your mate have been hammering along on your Noddy bikes, grabbing another big handful of throttle every 100 yards or so, then some old fart comes swishing past on a push bike.
Only happens once in a lifetime, sadly.
John