Ralph extends one of his long muscular arms to the coffee table, past a bong made from a chocolate milk bottle and picks up a sweating stubbie of Haagen. He drains the last mouthful.
Half a box of beer down and Ralph could be any ordinary Kiwi bloke right now, enjoying a cold one and talking shit with the boys.
But what if someone told you that this weathered 43-year-old with a beatific smile was a living legend?
What if someone said that this ragged character was a near-phaetonian figure - a man who changed a sport forever?