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GEORGE BOYD IN LONDON
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sit waiting in a South London hospital, inspecting my crushed helmet and snapped collarbone, protruding beneath the skin, when I receive the news. ‘Randy Taylor – Rest In Peace’, I read from my smashed phone. The source of the news is credible and my injuries from a freak road accident disappear into insignificance. Surprising as it may seem, but my thoughts of sorrow turn immediately to George Boyd – Randy’s closest friend. ‘Poor George’, I think to myself, wondering if he knows yet. I shudder in disbelief as I realise the eerie timing of the sad events. Only the day before, George and I had toasted the end of two weeks working on his interview with a
Words and Photography by GEORGE MARSHALL 92
six-pack of warm beers in a park, surrounded by a sea of tanning Londoners bathing in the sun – the city overcome by a heat wave and Olympic fever. Sat on the grass George had spoken at length of his and Randy’s long and close friendship – a riding partnership that had put their mutual hometown of Dallas Fort Worth, Texas on the map. This article is a tribute to that friendship and is dedicated to Randy, it is not however an insider’s account of his passing. This is the story of George Boyd in a foreign town, a born and bred Texan out of his comfort zone and in the depths of London’s estates at the peak of an Olympic frenzy.