Divine Comedy

So this guy Dante wrote a book about the afterlife called The Divine Comedy. It was a poem, and described his journey through Hell (Inferno), Purgatory and Paradise - all the while led by the poet Virgil.

It was written in the early 14th Century and, despite what you may think, it's actually a story about depression, going through depression, and coming out the other side.

Dante's Inferno - aka Hell - had nine circles or layers. If Dante was alive today, he'd have written 10 circles - the 10th one would have been Those Woods at Upper Tinhoe Farm, which we'll come back to in a minute or two.

So, this marshalling thing. Up to now, the only experience I had of marshalling was being helped out of ditches by somebody in a hi-viz coat or a few lines in TBM where they say stuff like "Travelling Marshalls: Why don't you just pay the entry fees like everyone else?". A coloured view perhaps, but funny in the context it was given - alongside advice for course-cutting and sandbagging trophies by entering the novice class when you're an expert.

The day started out well enough. En route to Salisbury I saw a couple of smartly dressed lads walking along the road. Since I knew that there was nothing except 10 miles of country roads between here and Salisbury, I figured that they were walking home after a particularly late night out. I had two spare seats in the van, I was going that way, so I stopped and offered them a lift. You'd think they had just won the lottery - they were so pleased. A couple of still-spaced-out students, I dropped them in Waitrose car park - oh the irony.

They had been to an all night party in Whiteparish. Now, Whiteparish is hardly the party Mecca of the world - it is such a tiny place that you could carpet the whole lot of it for about 50 quid. Couple of massive speakers in a field, about 500 people apparently.

They had just finished their A-levels. One of them was off to the US for a year to coach tennis.

"Tennis?", I said. "Are you any good?"

"I'm brilliant"

"So, you're the next Tim Henman then?"

"No, he's shit. I'm the next Roger Federer"

This guy will go far.

His mate had been accepted into Wiltshire Police as a cadet. I told him that if he only remembered two things when he joined the force, remember these two:

1. Red Bull is not a mobile phone
   
   
2. Red Bull is not beer
   

Someday, he'll understand.

I got Jago's bike through scrutineering and sorted out his fuel. As ever, Jago was not as early as he could be, and he had also had a rather heavy night last night - he did not look well at all. He said that he was training for the Dakar, and wanted to soo what it felt like to ride with only 3 hours sleep. We'd soon see.

I signed on as a travelling marshall, and became the proud (albeit temporary) owner of a rather fetching hi-viz jacket:


The 'M' on the back stands for 'Marshall'. Just thought I'd mention it.

I spent all day fighting off young ladies who wanted to throw their underwear at me. For future events, I will be considering restraining orders. That's how sexy I looked.

The standing instructions for marshalls were fairly simple - even I could understand them. I was assigned a station - a muddy bog in my case - and was to stay there for at least half an hour until the riders had accustomed themselves to the course. Once things were starting to flow, I was to hop on my bike and then seek and destroy carnage and mayhem. Keep it flowing, keep it moving, keep it safe.

My companion down at the bog was a guy called Phil, who hailed from the Rhondda Valley in Wales. Rode an XR400, and marvelled at the little AJP and how light she was. He was full of tales of woe about how South Wales Police have just declared offroad riding more illegal than murder, and regularly bring out helicopters and dogs to apprehend these dangerous criminals who are, em, riding courteously and minding their own business.

He had a bit of a point. He's got a lad - age of 6. The lad has demonstrated a bit of a talent for trials riding. His point was that this little lad could be the next David Knight, but he's treated like a criminal for having a passion and a talent. Kids who are forced off the mountain because of Police helicopters then decide to wheelie their way down the High Street in Abergavenny instead. There's less cops there - they're all on the mountain.

It doesn't make any sense. Surely kids being involved in a sport - any sport - which requires a degree of commitment and skill and focus is better than those same kids wheelieing down the high street because, in their view, they are criminals anyway so might as well get hung for a sheep as a lamb? Sport brings out the best in people, although sometimes it brings out the worst, as you'll see.

Anyway, forgive the rant.

Ka-ching. Phil and I, waiting at our bog, realised that we had half an our until the race started so we could go and have a wee bit of an explore round the course. See where the ambulances were, look for bottlenecks that might be a problem later. Or, if you wanted to take another view, we were taking full advantage of our status just so that we could have a free ride on our own round a championship enduro track. The truth, as ever, is probably somewhere between the two.

Golidlocks, the little PR3, is an excellent bike for marshalling. She's very very light, which means that you can put her down anywhere whilst you help somebody, and she pretty much gets up anything - which comes in very handy for saving the ego on a slippery hill. My new-found level of riding is also starting to bring out the best in her. She loved being a marshall's bike today:


Just look how proud she is. Like an obedient collie on the podium at Crufts.

As I rode into the woods, my amazing gift of foresight saw carnage and destruction ahead. The four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were sharpening their spurs.

The track was barely a foot wide through the trees, running across and up and down this mother of a hill. Even though no bikes had gone through the woods yet, roots were already starting to appear. "Please don't let it rain" I thought.

We made out way back to the muddy bog and stood and waited. We could hear the thunder of four hundred engines being started and warmed up somewhere in the distance. Then everything went quiet and we could hear the birds again. Thirty seconds later, there was this explosion of noise over the other side of the hill - the Howitzer-like rumbling of the four-strokes and the amplified wasp noises of the 2-strokes. The race had started.

As the experts thundered down the hill towards us, I was looking for who was who - I've never watched a race from this vantage point before. Predictably, Darren Wheeler was at the head of the pack. Keith Jones and Dave Nuttal were only a second or two behind him.

Two things occured to me in that instant. Perhaps I should have realised them before, I don't think I ever thought about it that much. The first thing was that Darren Wheeler is not a big guy. Probably a bit bigger than me, but not by much. I don't expect you to understand just how much of a revelation that was for me. I've never met Darren Wheller, but I've had visions of him being ten feet tall and shooting bolts of lightning from his arse. Yet, there he is - right there - and he's not much bigger than I am.

So then I wondered to myself. What is it that makes Darren Wheeler so good? And I saw it with my own eyes today. What makes Darren Wheeler so good is that he's either in front of you, or he's just about to be. When Darren Wheeler gets in front of you, he stays in front of you. Perhaps if I make that my mantra, I will get to the next level.

I watched those three for the first half hour, and Darren Wheeler was always in front - with the others not too far behind. Then, all of a sudden, I didn't see Darren anymore. His bike had broken down. Apparently, the mechanical failure it suffered was nothing compared to the, em, "percussive maintenance" that he was giving it after it did so - he was not a happy man.

Wave after wave of classes came through our bog, and then everything started to jumble - it was impossible to tell who was who. The race was on proper.

I saw Jago, and he wasn't looking as quick and aggressive as he normally does. It is entirely possible hat his 2-hours sleep strategy wasn't the ideal one.

Everything flowing nicely, I set off on Goldilocks in search of carnage. It was nice being able to cut the course in a way. If I particularly liked a corner, or obstacle, or if I didn't particularly like it and thought I need a bit of practice, then I'd just turn the bike round and have another go at it.

But all the time, I was watching out for people who needed help and - crucially - staying out of everybody's way. There is absolutely no excuse for a marshall getting in the way. If I saw anybody struggling, I was off in a flash. If there was a narrow bit of track, I waited till it was clear before I went into it - nobody was getting held up because of me today.

There were five travelling marshalls on the course. All volunteers. All people who could have chosen to race this race but who chose to marshall instead. Travelling marshalls on bikes are crucial to keeping the race flowing, since they can go into the woods and parts of the course where the quads can't get to.

I rode into the woods and stopped at the top of a very steep hill with a turn at the bottom of it. In months gone by, these hills and turns had me shitting myself. Today, I was waiting for a gap in the traffic so I could go down it. I saw somebody fly down the hill and somersault off into the trees. Ahh! My first customer.

I rode down the hill to help the guy out, and realised that it was Jago. We had a good laugh about this bit of role reversal going on. He was completely knackered, and we hadn't even been going an hour yet. His seat had come off, but this is why God invented cable ties and he was soon on his way. We have Martin to thank for this - running repairs are just part of normal life for me now. I find myself saying "it'll be fine" an awful lot and - for the first time in my life - I believe it.

Halfway up a steep hill, a spectator shouted at me - "OI YOU!". I stopped the bike to see who it was. It was Robert, the farmer. He was here to watch hi son-in-law - young chap by the name of Dave Nuttall. We spoke about when I next out with AJP and could he come along? And could he bring his mate Keith? "Keith, this is John. John, meet Keith". It's the first time he's used my name. It's the first time he's not referred to me as "the guy who works for Martin".

Of course you can bring a mate. Without you, and your permission to ride on your land, we've got a bit of a problem. Bring Keith. We'll even spring for lunch.

Vain or not, I actually took it as a bit of a compliment that this guy has got thousands of acres to ride on, but waits until he knows that I am going out before hopping on his bike.

I came to this really muddy boggy bit and saw the official Midwest cameraman filming as I rounded a tight left-hand bend. I did what any self-respecting testosterone-fuelled male would do in these circumstances - I showed off. I rounded that bend with a perfect-10, flawlessly executed, motocross-style technique. Awesome. Physics glanced sharply in my direction and shouted "OI!".

The cameraman kept filming as I shot past him, overcooked the bog, got my brake lever stuck in a rut and somersaulted down the hill. I landed at the feet of the two marshalls and the ambulance crew who gave me a round of applause. I stood up and took a bow, then had to go through the whole incident blow-by-blow in an ad-hoc camera interview.

If you ever wondered what hubris was, then read the above two paragraphs again. That's Hubris.

I made it into the woods where I had expected carnage, and it was all around me. There was an uphill section - not overly steep, but roots criss-crossed it the way that pastry criss-crosses an apple strudel. There were 20 or 30 bikes in varying states of struggling, lying down, revving, roosting and toiling. There was shouting, swearing, and lots of "give us a hand mate!".

The carnage will be there in a minute when we come back to it, but here's something that crossed my mind today and I think I've spoken about similar before. I don't just do what I do, identify with what I do. One of the features of being mentally ill is that you don't do things by halves - you don't do anything half-heartedly. You either do it with everything you've got, or you fight tooth and nail to not do it - regardless of the consequences.

Writing my blog is not something that I do - I am a writer. It is my duty, my mission, to help you see what the world looks like from the perspective of a mentally-ill person. This is not a job, it is a calling. Enduro is not something that I do, I am an enduro rider. Teaching offroad riding is not something that I do - I am a teacher. Marshalling is not something that I do - today, I am a marshall. You get the point.

Getting these guys up this hill. Keeping the race flowing. Keeping it safe. That was my duty today, my mission. That is why I was there. I got off my bike and started dragging people up the hill.

Now, up to this point, I had seen a travelling marshall every 5 or 10 minutes. I was in those woods for nearly two hours and didn't see a single other marshall - not one. Were they smart nd wily and avoided the woods because of the carnage? Or were they busy elsewhere on the course? I will never know. What I do know is that I didn't see another travelling marshall in nearly 2 hours in those woods.

And this is where Dante would have put his tenth circle of Hell.

For two hours, I pushed and pulled and somehow or other got people up that hill. As I was pulling one bike, somebody started giving me a hand - Jago. He had had enough and was knackered. He decided to stop in the woods and help me, em, for a rest. We pulled at least 100 bikes up that hill.

A queue had formed at the bottom of the hill. The smart riders knew that the only thing that would get them up there was momentum - if they had to stop on the hill then they were finished. They waited their turn, and Jago and I pulled them up the hill.

Humour was everywhere. I'd walk up to people lying upside-down underneath their bikes and ask them "now why would you want to be doing that then?". Grins. People who were knackered, out for a good day's racing, and who were glad of the help.

And then rider 155 came along. The poster boy for Track and Trail. I'm struggling to pull some guy up a hill, and I hear the roar of a 2-stroke, accompanied by shouts of "GET OUT THE FUCKING WAY! GET OUT THE FUCKING WAY!".

I looked up and saw this 2-stroke careering up the hill at an incredible speed - faster than he could control. He slammed into me and sent me flying into the trees. I have the most almighty bruise on my arm where he hit me - and he hit me on my body armour.

Now, I want you to imagine something for me. Imagine this conversation between me and The Missus:

"How was the race?"

"I ran over a Marshall"

"What happened?"

"I went up a hill far too fast, and the marshall was helping somebody. I couldn't stop in time, so I shoulted for him to get the fuck out of the way and I hit him"

"Was he OK?"

"I don't know - I didn't stop"

Now please tell me that if such a conversation happened then I wouldn't be getting divorced.

I jumped up off the deck and eyeballed this guy. I was ready to put his lights out there and then on the spot. In a very rare display of restraint, I realised that I was a marshall and the luxury of punching his teeth so far down his throat that he'd need to stick a toothbursh up his arse to clean them was not one I could indulge in today.

To be fair, I did call him a few names that my Ma would slap me if she heard me saying.

Instead, I raised a hand and pointed at my eyes. Then I pointed the same two fingers at him - "I see you". He and I both knew, in that moment, that he'd never ride at Midwest again.

After the race I spoke to the organiser:

"Listen, is there any chance you could have a quiet word with rider 155?"

"What about?"

I told him what happened.

He pulled back his glove:

"This guy?"

He had the number 155 written on the back of his hand. It wasn't the first complaint they'd had about him.

Midwest is a championship race. They have riders there for whom riding is their living. Enduro is dangerous enough, without having a total hooligan careering round the place shouting at everybody to get the fuck out of the way. The guy won't be welcome there in the future.

Until I saw the number "155" written on the back of the guys hand, I had my doubts. Was I in the way? Was it my fault? First time out and all that, you know. As soon as I saw that they already had the guy clocked, I kind of felt vindicated and, more importantly, felt like I was vindicating them.

The Missus is very very proud of me. Firstly for doing the whole marshalling thing but, more importantly, for not banjo-ing the guy on the spot. It wasn't so long ago that I'd not have even stopped to think. When you're built like me, your only chance of winning a fight is to hit first, hit hard, and make it count. And, as Young Sky always reminds me, never - ever - stop to admire your handiwork.

Either I'm getting older, or I'm getting wiser, or my penis is getting larger, or I have bigger fish to fry, or some combination of the above.

But let me say that rider 155 was the exception. I dug, pulled and pushed an awful lot of grinning and grateful riders today. I have been invited back to marshall the next race, which I take as a vote of confidence.

The next race will have a rider in it on a Husaberg, name of Martin. He is known to be trouble that one - I'll be keeping an eye on him.

Imagine though. Imagine pulling him out of a ditch or up a hill. Imagine the "your powers are weak old man" slagging he'd get. Imagine him realising that I am coming of age, that Transorientale is no longer just an idle fancy - it is a realistic possibility. And Martin would be proud. He would not be envious, or jealous or any of that nonsense. He would be proud. He, and me, have made me what I have become.

One day, Martin will point to me and say "I remember when that guy couldn't keep a bike upright, and asked me if I could get him to the start line of Dakar. I helped him. Look at him now". And, as if you needed to be told, I will point to Martin and say "I couldn't have done this without him". I have never been shown belief and kindness like I have been shown by Martin. And if you think I will ever forget that, then you don't know me at all.

One of the features of being mentally ill, as I've said, is that you don't do things by halves. I am going to Transorientale. Everything I have done for the last year has been geared towards it. I have never, in my life, set out on a path which did not bring me quick results - another feature of being mentally ill. I have just under a year to make myself totally ready.

Incidentally, I was going through the image gallery, and I came across this one. It is my all-time favourite enduro photo ever. If you can't figure out why, just look at the eyes:



I am going to Transorientale. Look at those eyes and tell me I'm not. I dare you.

Transorientale is not an easy race. It is entirely possible that we'll be adding an eleventh circle to Dante's vision of Hell next year.