fine crust, his ovaries trembled and he broke into the kind of sweat only a veteran paedophile is comfortable with. His tone paled to a classic English sky-blue grey, he momentarily lost his balance and finally his waters broke. Forty-one minutes and thirty seconds later he gave birth to BMX freestyle.
And here we are, forever and ever later, riding little blue bikes with his name on. How do you feel about that? If Bobby-boy hadn’t given in to temptation that day and traded his cherry for two big pumps of fun, would you be sat on the throne reading this now? Would I have devoted the majority of my ‘pre-mature’ life to these kid-sized bicycles? Would you have ever heard of Ryan Nyquist or Keith Terra? Would Ryan Have ever taken that first fatal sip of Smirnoff Ice? There are some people who’d consider these hard questions to answer. But not me. I don’t have the time to waste on this kind of nonsense, 
so I’ll get straight to the point; If it weren’t for Bobby and his penchant for creation, none of this ‘world’ we consider so important would have come to be. Good old Bobby eh? What has he done to us all? 
Three days, seven guys, four skateparks, too much driving, too many questions, not nearly enough rapping. ‘Have you met my son?’ ‘Yes I have; twelve times.’ ‘On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate my rapping?’ Ah, fond memories of a windy afternoon at the docks. Liverpool is a fine place to be on a cold spring day. Especially when the entertainment comes in the form of MC Ruffrider and his tales of infamy and record deals. Did anyone ever get their hands on a copy of ‘Hassle the Hoff’? The debut hip hop (or possibly hip hof) album from David Hasslehoff, produced by Jay-Z. Probably doesn’t even compare to MC Ruffrider.
Anyway, enough of that. I have to say, Markus Ruffrider absolutely made my trip. His hip-hop renditions were the things legends are made of. And I know for a fact that if you see this guy at a contest near you – and you will – he would love to wax Liverpool, sorry, I mean lyrical. So make sure you ask him. Oh, and offer him a rating on a scale of one to ten. 
In some circles Burnley is considered a beautiful place. Make what you will of that statement. Yes. Anyway, the bowl is a work of art. Truly. That thing flows like the Mississippi, and has a build quality Noah would be proud of. It’s the most solid, well-engineered use of lumber since the Trojan horse. If you get a chance to ride that thing, pull it’s nuts off. If you don’t get a chance, then shame on you… 
Have you ever seen the film ‘The Fly’? Well, that’s exactly what happened to Ryan Nyquist. Except he somewhat jammily managed to come through the process relatively unscathed. Although he only took on one or two of the aesthetic characteristics of the bluebottle, he came away with the ability to see the world in massively reduced motion. This explains a lot. 
For most people, four barspins don’t sit all that comfortably in one three-sixty. Anyhoo… His latest challenge came in the shape of the airline baggage handlers. These minimum wage bastards have been playing games with us for years. Their ability to ruin the holidays of innocent bmxers keeps them tickled during the long false-lit hours of the daily grind, which is a healthy balance in my limited experience. Ultraviolet deficiency plus minimum wage equals maximum possibility for “lost” luggage and unhappy campers. Regardless of this fact, Ryan was, of course, happy to ride a stock ‘Nyquist pro’. Which, coincidentally, had exactly the same geometry as his own bike! And with luck now firmly in his little belly, he rode like a crazed fool on crack.
And so did most of the other guys for that matter. The first day was a bit slow, so we decided to shave our heads in order to facilitate the white power look. Actually, we decided to form the ‘bite the bullet pact’, which was something to do with various members of the team being living the life of a secretly balding ginger. There were at least four people – and it doesn’t take Stephen Hawking to figure out who they are – 
who were dragging themselves through the great treadmill in this manner; they new the follicles had taken part in a mass suicide pact of some kind, so they decided to take the bull by the horns and mow down the survivors, leaving nothing but pure, extremely pale, silky-smooth bonces. I’m pretty sure there survives some photographic evidence of this unwanted rite of passage. Indeed, there comes a time in the life of a male pattern baldness sufferer where he has to make the almighty decision: bite the bullet and shave the lot off, or grow himself a comb-over and be forever damned. And that’s pretty much the long and very short of it; the guys bit the bullet and bic’d the barnet. Except for Bart, who stuck with the comb-over. 
Yes, the white power thing was a complete accident. It never dawned on us that we’d soon look like the main cast of ‘romper stomper’, that’s just the way it worked out. We were raising a glass in a Liverpool bar, the toast was for the Bartman, who’d just turned twenty-two, when I was approached by a nineteen stone German female. 
She looked like Bella Emburg after a heavy night on the Guinness. I couldn’t help but notice her approaching; she knocked down a good thirty people en-route. The floor trembled, or maybe that was just me, I tried to look away but it was no good. ‘Is zat ze vite power logo on your shirt?’ ‘What?’ ‘Vite power, you have ze logo on your shirt’ I had a clenched fist on my shirt and Bella had assumed that it was the white power fist. I knew exactly how to deal with this. ‘Let me introduce you to my friend Stefan…’ He later described her as ‘a good size’. Oh well, horses for courses I suppose, or in this case girt size for vert guys…
Road trips are road trips, some good, some bad, some shit. This one was good for a number of reasons; the main two being that every rider on the trip was a ‘thoroughly bloody nice bloke’ and they all had completely different styles. No one was trying to be like someone else. I’ve read countless road trip stories where everyone involved has the same bike, the same clothes, the same style, the same tricks, the same haircut and a group personality; anything or anyone outside the circle is just not cricket. So to see so many different styles and personalities was a breath of fresh air. Although technically they were all riding the same bike… 
And that just about raps up all I have to say about Haro UK road trip mach two. You’d probably get a much better idea of what happened by looking at the pictures. But going back to our old friend Bob, ask yourself the question: if he hadn’t invented freestyle at that exact time, would anybody else have? Would it have happened a few years later, thereby off setting everything that has happened in freestyle? Would Mat(t) Hoffman have missed the window? If so, what would freestyle be like today? Would it be ten years behind? Would we still be riding four piece bars and fourteen pound frames? Would freestyle motocross have come about yet? These are the sort of questions that can send a grown man sideways. But you should ponder on them for a while. Bob Haro invented freestyle bmx, and Haro was the first ‘rider-owned’ company. Could it get anymore hardcore than that? I’ll leave you with that in mind. Bonjour…Anthony Pill
After doing a BMX 'zine for ten years (1987 - 1996) FATBMX made it on the internet. The year was 1998. Here to stay.