Ginty was a short, thickset 69-year-old. His wrinkled, sun-darkened face had a cluster of tiny warts round one eye, and a discoloured patch. His hair was unfeasibly bright for his age, and from time to time over the next few days I'd look at it and speculate, until we later had a haircut together at the Intercontinental Hotel and seeing it shampooed convinced me the colour was all his own. That day, after a 120-mile ride out to greet me, he was instantly friendly, but impatient. He had already been bitten on the boot by a blue heeler dog, and slipped on a mat on a veranda, bruising his knees and badly grazing his right hand, which would give him grief the following week as he took the spanners to Jerry. He claimed to be slowing down. He still had three or four British bikes, but had sold his Norton twin cafe racers after a series of get-offs - in favour of the 600 Ducati. We set off down the track. I was still new at dirt roads, though I would find that well-graded ones held few terrors. I was leading, and mercifully doing OK, when the red Monster twin, which was hardly a trail bike, came by and disappeared ahead, with Ginty riding smoothly and as fast as on tarmac.
Short Way Up Steve Wilson pp197-8