One Saturday when I was in my mid 50s, I'd been over to Mike Perry's shop at Bognor (these days you probably know him better as "Wielersport").
On my way back East a couple of L-plated Hell's Cherubs on trail bikes barged out of a side turning in front of me.
I managed to chip on to the wheel of the rearmost rider, and settled down to rolling my 52 x 13 (didn't often get onto the big ring during pleasure rides!) while the cherub's nuts rattled away on his fuel tank.
On the way my tow-man kept taking renewed fistfuls of throttle, looking for power that just wasn't there.
Worryingly, these kids had no mirrors, and they were so poorly trained that neither took a safety look behind him for the next 7 or so miles. They slowed slightly as we hit the slight rise towards the bridge over the river Arun: that was my cue - I sprinted past my mini-Derny, grinned at him, and shouted "This wind makes it a bit tough, doesn't it!"
The kid's face was a picture.
I expect these days he tools around on a big Kawasaki and has kids of his own, but I bet he never tells them of the day when this old fart bombed past him on a push-bike.
Nostalgia just ain't what it used to be.