Beautiful ride up to work this morning - July has finally got her skates on and arrived. Glorious sunshine, and a beautiful azure sky from horizon to horizon. It's a shame that some bikers only ever take their bikes out on days like this - they really do miss out on the contrast with the days when it is freezing and teeming with rain.

Which is sort of, in a way, related to being bipolar. If I didn't have days when I was absolutely on my knees, then how on earth would I be able to appreciate the contrast with the days when I am on top of the world? As my physics teacher used to say to me - "there is no such thing as hot and cold, there is only temperature". If every day was the same temperature - emotionally - then what exactly would be the point? I need the bad days, if only to make the good days that much better.

It occurred to me this morning that being bipolar was a lot like The Matrix. You see random green characters floating down the screen. I see what they represent. When you are driving along the road, you see a road taking ou where you are going. I see camber, grip, obstacles, undulations in the tarmac, the bends up ahead, gaps in the trees where I can spot oncoming vehicles, shady areas where it is likely to be damp and slippy - all sorts of things.

For example. This morning I saw branches with leaves still on them lying in the road. Some were big, some were small. They looked fresh. This was a clue. If you know what is coming next, then that is well and good. If you don't, buy yourself a copy of Motorcycle Roadcraft- being able to read clues like this is what the book is all about. I eased off the gas a little but I still made good progress.

About a mile up the road (a twisty B-road), I came across what I knew I was going to find - an articulated lorry hiding behind a bend, ripping the branches off the trees overhanging the road as it made its way up it with only a few inches to spare on either side. OK, I was pretty chuffed with myself for being able to predict its presence like that, it was all adding to the feelgood pot of this particular day.

And this is why riding a bike is such good catharsis. It's not just about twisting the throttle and seeing how fast you can rocket along the road. It's not just about polishing off our best leathers for a good pose on a sunny Sunday. It's about experiencing life. About taking things to the limits of what Physics allows you to. If you're doing it right, it's about having so many things to think about that there is no room for anything else.

Above all, and this is important to me, it's about the anonymity of wearing a helmet. I'm just another guy on a bike, completely anonymous. I am wearing my armour and my face-mask - protected from the outside world by this artificial shell which conceals my vulnerability and my true identity. Just like life. Perhaps, in some weird Freudian way, this explains why I am so taken with Darth Vader - I empathise with the fact that the guy is wearing a protective suit to cover up what is an otherwise very fragile body. Supremely intelligent, although flawed, with a bit of a dark side. Hmm ....

A guy at work, one of my team, came up to me today and said he had a bit of a problem. Apparently, my gangly friend (who is a cross between Neil from the Young Ones and Jar-Jar Binks) had told him that I know a thing or two about the Law and that I get rather upset when I hear about Big People pcking on little people. The guy is from India, has poor English, and is a thoroughly nice guy - hates confrontation and will help anybody. He's just had a baby (well his Missus has) a few months ago and, luckily for me and the Bank I Work For, has just been given residential status in the UK.

It turns out that the Council made a mistake a few years back about some Council Tax and had him on computer as owing money that he didn't actually owe. It ended up in the hands of Bailiffs who have been coming to his house and intimidating his Missus. She was so terrified that she handed over several barrowfuls of groats just to make them stop shouting at her.

Quick couple of snooty letters later (and boy, can I write snooty letters) coupled with a phone call to the credit card company, and the groats have been returned to their rightful owner. The Postman will deliver the good news to the antagonists tomorrow, and we should hopefully hear no more about it. If we do, then they have me to deal with. Unlike my Indian friend, I know what they can and cannot do and I am not afraid of fighting battles. It makes me absolutely furious to see things like this - it is tantamount to mugging.

Now don't get me wrong - I am no saint. I am no Mother Theresa, reaching out to help the poor and needy. But I recall the words of a survivor of the Nazi concentration camps, a guy called Pastor Martin Niemöller:

First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.

It is the duty of those who can advocate to do so on behalf of those who cannot advocate for themselves. I have always wanted to study a Law degree, but was unable to do primarily because I couldn't afford it. When I could afford to do it part-time, I was so busy pulling rabbits out of hats on projects (paying my bills) that I had no time to study. I will do it one day - after Dakar - and will then be able to do what I've always wanted to do. Advocate on behalf of people who cannot advocate for themselves.

This is a really funny paradox in the world of Mental Health. If you are capable of advocating for yourself, questioning the treatments and the drugs and the doses, then the collective attitude of the professionals is that you "obviously don't need the help". This like-it-or-lump-it attitude is absolutely pervasive. It doesn't matter how unwell you are, or how much you are on your knees, if you are not completely submissive and compliant then you're not unwell enough to need helped. hey give you drugs to "make things manageable", and I have always wondered "manageable for whom?". I am at my most "manageable" when I am catatonic, drooling at the mouth, unable to string a sentence together, unable to question my treatment. This requires no effort from anybody - a chemical cosh. A bludgeon of barbiturates. This is manageable.

Mental illness is not cancer. It's not heart disease. It's not a "sexy" illness. There is little sympathy available (and I am not looking for yours). The logic behind the argument is absolutely brilliant - real Orwellian stuff: "If you can speak out, you don't need the help. If you needed the help, you would just shut up and take whatever we give you without the slightest question whatsoever". And it's diagnosed with such absolutely superb techniques as asking questions like "do you see things that aren't there?".

I've just learned (from the TV in the background) that the "sex industry" is worth $57 billion per year in the US. I remember a guy called Brian Tracey - a salesman - who used to do seminars and stuff for wannabe top sellers. He would say:

"Sales is the oldest profession in the world. you may well think that prostitution is the oldest profession in the world, but that's just a subset of sales".

Today is the kind of day that I live for. The kind of day that makes it worth being bipolar. The kind of day where my superb clarity of thought is clearer than normal. When the air is cleaner, the sky brighter, the sun warmer and the birds singing more sweetly than you could ever imagine. Colours are vivid. Ideas and creativity abound. I am unstoppable, unshakeable. I am what I call "in The Zone". This will not last. By next week, I will feel as useless and unloved as yesterdays turd that won't flush down the toilet. I wish I could bottle it. This is the upside of being bi-polar. The downside is already in the post.

To give you an idea, it has taken me about 15 minutes to write this little lot. When I am like this, my typing goes up to 150-200 words per minute. My ideas come faster. It is a lot like having a runaway roller-coaster inside your head. Remember the whole thing about momentum and intertia (blogs passim)?

Some people need to take drugs in order to feel like this. Me, I get to feel like this by deliberately not taking drugs. How cool is that?

Some people live their lives according to the maxim "Ready. Aim. Fire!".

When I am in The Zone, my maxim becomes "Ready. Fire. Steer!"

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