On the front mudguard of the quad bike was a warning label. 

As far as I could be sure, the only prohibition we were heeding was the one about alcohol - and only then because I had not (yet) had a drink that day and was already confident that the driver was a man of sober habits.

Otherwise, we were definitely on a public road.

And there was definitely an impermissible passenger: me.  My skinny 6 foot frame was perched awkwardly behind Paco, a diminutive 75 year old Spaniard.  Fearful of unbecoming physical contact, I had my legs spread as far apart as possible and was firmly grasping the metal frame behind me.

It was also clear enough that neither my floppy wide-brimmed hat, nor Paco's little black cap, were likely to qualify as an 'approved helmet'. Perhaps my steel toed-work boots passed muster as protective gear, but that could not be said of his (once) bright green soft-rubber 'Croc' gumboots.

The label said nothing about what the quad was not allowed to tow. So it was at least arguable that the trailer behind us was permissible - except that it was a contraption Paco had cobbled together from scrap metal and wood in the workshop.

If the quad had rear-view mirrors (Paco had removed them to make way for a heavy duty plastic storage tub), a green and yellow ride-on mower would have loomed large in them.

The mower was bigger and heavier than the quad.  We'd driven it up onto Paco's trailer back at the shack. Loading was an interesting process; the trailer was barely the width (or length) of the mower and the makeshift ramps were actually much narrower - so that the mower's (larger) rear wheels were half in mid-air as Paco deftly drove it up the incline.

The mower was securely held in place by ratchet straps attached to various anchor points on the trailer (or, if you want to be particular, salvaged ceiling fan brackets).

It was about a year ago to the day and we were headed for what I now know as corner 4 for my first class in paddock mowing 101.