More Metaphors For Life

Just necking a welcome cup of coffee, about to set off on the final leg to Barcelona, and I've been reflecting on the last 7 days and all the riding I've done.

Riding a bike on tarmac is all about precision and control. It's about placing the bike exactly to where you want it to be, within a few inches. It's about leaning the bike over to the exact angle you need to get round a bend, and holding that angle with very precise application of the throttle and brakes.

On the road, you say to the bike "I want to go there. Now". Provided you are not trying to do anything that physics would disagree with, the bike will do what you ask.

Riding a bike off-road still involves a high degree of skill and mastery of the controls, but the focus is slightly different. You say to the bike "Look, if it's possible, and if you want to, I'd sort of like to be over there. When you're ready of course".

So I suppose that life is an awful lot like riding a bike off-road. There's only so many things you can control, and you don't always get what you want the instant you ask for it. All you can do is try to nudge your life in a particular direction and fate, when she's ready, will take you in that direction as far as she is prepared to.

All of the warm gear has gone now, and I'm down to just a t-shirt. That was a good call to buy that body armour, even if I look a bit like "Robocop Goes To The Beach" with it on under a t-shirt. I expect to hit Barcelona about midday, giving me time to find the boat I am on.

Given that I have form for dodgy navigation, this should be a laugh. I know that I am looking for a boat, so that means that I should be looking for water. So fate, if you're listening, I'd sort to like to be over there. When you're ready.

Pegging The Pyrenees

Sacha is looking a bit windswept ...

I'm currently stopped at the France / Spain border, and will cross tomorrow.

Since I live on an island, I have little experience of land borders. The first time I crossed a real land border was last year, en route to Malta, when I crossed from France to Switzerland. It was that much of a novelty that I rode back and forward across the border 3 times - the customs guys must've thought I was having a laugh.

I've always wondered just how they decide where to draw a border between two countries. In the case of an island, its easy, but a land border is different. A lot of the time, it's done on physical features - like a big river, and more often than not the border is drawn where two opposing armies met and one couldn't get advantage over the other.

As I approached the France / Spain border, I had no need to wonder how this border was drawn. Nature decided where the line should be, and stuck a couple of thousand feet of mountains in the way as a hint to future cartographers.

If you've never seen the Pyrenees up close, they truly are spectacular. They are even more so because they start at the coast, and rise to several thousand metres over a very short distance. They are absolutely huge. You can picture the wars going on hundreds of years ago, all these troops marching to war, and then they turned a corner and saw these monsters just sitting there saying "tell you what guys, how about you just draw the border right here".

I lost Andorra today, just didn't have enough time to comfortably do it and make sure I got the boat on time tomorrow. My heart sank as the road forked - left hand fork was Barcelona, 155km. Right hand fork was Andorra, 140km. I had to fight the urge to go right, but missing the boat would have made The Missus rather cross with me, and I wated to avoid this.

I had worked out my distances and timings based on looking at my map but there was a fatal flaw in my plan - I hadn't accounted for mountain roads properly, and my average speed was about half what I expected it to be. When you add this to the couple of hours I lost yesterday on the Peripherique, that was my Andorra window.

One good thing about the mountain roads was the relatively slow speeds - 60mph or less - which menat I could do the whole lot on my pegs. Not only was this a hoot, it also alleviated the monkey butt that I was starting to get. For those of you who do not ride a bike, monkey butt is a condition caused by sitting down for a long time, and all of the rubbing and chafing that goes on as you ride. If you picture one of those moneys with the bright red arses then you'll have a good idea of the symptoms.

The Millau Viaduct was spectacular. As I approached from the north, I could see the tops of the piers with the cables hanging down in the distance - they looked like a row of shark teeth, glistening white in the sunshine. I tried to stop on the bridge to take a picture, and loudspeakers started barking something about "ADVANCE LE MOTO!" which I took to be some kind of subtle hint not to stop on the bridge. On hindsight, the big notices instructing vehicles not to stop was also something of a giveaway.

As I wound through the mountains, the people I met became more relaxed. There was an awful lot more "ne rien" (no problem) in the conversations, and even my poor french could detect the changing accents, and the slightly slower way of talking - in the same way that you imagine the slow drawl of a typical country bumpkin compared to the machine-gun rapid fire of somebody in London.

Travelling on a motorcycle is the only way to see a country, to get to know it. When you travel in a car, you're stuck in this hermetically sealed bubble of your own world looking out through windows like it was just more television. When you travel by motorcycle, you share the air, you share the weather - you're there. You are a participant, not an observer. It's not like going on holiday in an aeroplane - a cigar tube blasting through the air at 30,000 feet - where you get off the plane and comment on how warm it is. You feel the air temperature changing as you climb the mountains, getting warmer as you descend into the valleys. You understand why villages and towns are located where they are - this one because it's on a bend in the river (which will flood and irrigate the soil) or another one because it's right on a mountain pass and people would stop there in days gone by to rest their horses after a long climb up the mountain.

I spoke to my ageing friend today (the one whose birthday we are going to Ibiza for) on the telephone. He was at the airport, and I could hear the announcements in the background, an it reminded me of a prank that was played at Heathrow many years ago. You'll need to turn up the sound for this, but it really is worth a listen. It is as ingenious as it is hilarious - a welcome bit of harmless mischief in an increasingly uptight world. Two guys gave the airport announcers some names to call to the information desk. The names were foreign-looking, and harmless enough on paper, but sounded quite different over the tannoy. The link is here.

I now have about 80 miles to ride to get to Barcelona, where I catch the boat. I am still in great shape physically and mentally, but I have highlighted a number of areas where I need work - navigation being the key one. I almost turned to the dark side today and bought a GPS system, but I was put off for a couple of reasons:

1. The GPS for a motorcycle (which has to be waterproof for obvious reasons) cost the same amount as The Missus' shoe budget for a year;
2. I'd have had to cut and splice wires on my bike, at the side of the road, to get the thing powered-up and working. This would have taken time, which was already scarce;
3. I was rather enjoying the adventure of doing it hardcore, instead of just having some computer barking orders at me;

I spent the last 100 miles or so on the motorway. Motorways are ugly. They were designed to be ugly. Their sole purpose on life is to get people from point A to point B as quickly as possible, whilst the people at point C wonder what it is about point B that makes everybody wants to go there.

Shame about Andorra. Still, it gives me a reason to do it again. Trying to get in Andorra and Millau was always going to be pushing it, unless I rode so hard that I wasn't really enjoying it. I ended up passing through some beautiful places, some of which have probably been the same for a thousand years.

My French has improved the further south I got. I started by thinking in English, then translating. After two days in France I am doing it the right way, thinking in French. Actually listening to what people are saying, instead of calculating what my next sentence is going to be. There's a useful lesson for normal life there - how often do you actually listen to what somebody is saying, and how often are you simply waiting on your turn to speak?

In the last 7 days, I have ridden nearly 2,000 miles (300 of those off-road) and driven 400 or so in a car to Wales and back. My body is reminding me that I have done these things, but it's holding up well and my levels of stamina are still high.

I didn't hit all of the waypoints that I wanted to, but that's not really a bad thing I don't think. It's another one of those biking things that are great metaphors for life. If things aren't working out exactly according to the detail of your plan, let it drift for a while and see where it takes you. Even if you don't end up exactly where you wanted to be, you'll at least enjoy the journey.

Looking forward to seeing The Missus and the Wee Yin tomorrow.

Seeing Things That Aren't There

As I said before, asking people "do you see things that aren't there?" (blogs passim) is part of the diagnosis process used by the medical profession when assessing people for mental illness. Apparently, seeing things that aren't there - i.e. seeing things that the doctor doesn't see - is an indicator that you are suffering from mental illness.

In 1975, a British architect by the name of Norman Foster was quite obviously suffering from some kind of mental illness, since he saw things that weren't there. Spanning a valley over the river Tarn in southern France, he saw the tallest bridge in the world - only 30m shorter than the Empire State Building. He saw a way of constructing this bridge that nobody else in the world could see - instead of hanging the road deck from huge columns, he'd build the road deck on one end of the valley, and slowly push the whole thing across to the other side.

The man was, if you follow the flowcharts used by the medical profession, quite obviouly clinically insane.

He is cured now though, and has been cured since 16 December 2004. On that day, the Millau Viaduct was officially opened. It's the tallest bridge in the world, only 30m shorter than the Empire State Building. It was built using a brand-new technique - pushing the road deck out across the valley inch by inch.

Since everybody else can now see what Norman Foster sees, that means it is real and he is no longer suffering from any kind of delusions.

Back in 1921, a young engineer by the name of Joseph Strauss saw something that nobody else could see. Again, quite obviously suffering from mental illness. Joseph Struss saw the longest two-span suspension bridge in the world, stretching over the most hazardous piece of water in the world - the Golden Gate Straits. He even was insane enough to envision this bridge being painted in a color that would have to be invented specially - international orange. Fifteen years of laughter, ridicule, doubt and sheer-bloody-mindedness later, the Golden Gate Bridge was opened to traffic on May 27 1937. It is widely held to be one of the most beautiful examples of bridge engineering in the world.

Since everybody else can now see what only Joeph Strauss could once see, the man was obviously cured.

According to the miedical profession, seeing things that are not there is a sign that you are suffering from mental illness. Consider this though - all human progress can be attributed to human beings inventing new things. The word 'invent' is defined as to produce or contrive (something previously unknown) by the use of ingenuity or imagination (Free Online Dictionary).

Since producing something previously unknown involves seeing something that isn't there, it follows that - according to the diagnostic tools used in the medical profession - all inventors suffer from mental illness.

Could this really be true? Could it really be that the people on whom humanity depends for progress are all mentally ill?

Or isn't it more likely that we need to redefine our attitude to mental illness, and recognise that the ability to think differently is actually not a bad thing?

500 miles today, 100 of them stuck in very heavy traffic around Paris after taking several wrong turns. That's the navigation part of my Dakar screwed then - I really need to work on this. That said, trying to consult a 1:250000 scale map to figure out what the next turn should be is probably always going to end in failure.

I made it as far as Mende - about 100km North of Millau. I could have hit Millau tonight, but it would be dark and I want to see the bridge in the light - it truly is a thing of beauty. This is approximately the halfway point of this particular trip, and I am bearing up pretty well. 12 hours in the saddle today, and my roadcraft was all but done by the time I was finished. It's the trams that do it - 300-tonnes of silent trauma, running along sticky rails used to trap motorcycles the way that a spider traps flies. In fact, tram rails are the road equivalent of ruts - they were invented by somebody who dislikes bikers, I am sure of it.

I see something that isn't there. I see me at Lac Rose (The Pink Lake) in Senegal - the finishing line for the Dakar Rally. I see my finishers medal. I see The Missus breathing a sigh of relief that it's over, and then start to look horrified when she imagines what will be next - like that bull run thing in Spain.

This week was all about testing my stamina and my general level of bike-fitness. by Saturday, I will have done nearly 2,000 miles of riding - with about 300 of those off-road. Not quite up t the same standars as a Dakar week but if I couldnt physically deal with it then I'd have to be questioning whether or not I can be ready for Dakar in 2009.

As it is, I am bearing up very well indeed. 2009 Dakar here we come.

Good Luck Mr Gorsky

I've disciplined myself to stop riding for a half hour to pace myself and I thought I'd share with you some of the thoughts I've been having whilst I was riding.

It's funny, but riding a motorcycle gives you an awful lot of time to think. You think about all sorts of things. At one point, I found myself thinking about Neil Armstrong.

As any fule no, Neil Armstrong was the first man to walk on the moon. Any fule also no that Buzz Aldrin was part of that Apollo 11 mission. Less people know, or care, that Buzz Aldrin was - like me - bipolar.

Neil Armstrong did his famous "one small step for man ..." speech when he stepped on to the moon. Very few people remember any of the other chatter between Neil Armstrong and mission control in Houston, Texas.

I wasn't alive for the moon landings, but I do recall happening across this particualr story a number of years ago. At one point in the conversation, Neil Armstrong was heard to say "Good luck Mr Gorsky", and this caused some confusion down at mission control. It was assumed by everybody that this was some reference to the fact that the Russians were also trying to develop the technology to put a man on the moon, and it was left at that. For many years, Neil Armstrong would not elaborate on the comment.

Many years later, Neil Armstrong is alleged to have explained what he meant, and the story went like this.

As a kid, Neil Armstrong had a dream - that one day he would walk on the moon. He grew up next door to an ageing couple - a Mr and Mrs Gorsky - who had no children of their own. The usual childhood stuff - footballs going over the fence and having to be retrieved, nearly running the dog over with his bicycle and the like, meant that Mr and Mrs Gorsky knew Neil very well, and also knew about his aspirations.

One day, whilst out in the back graden, Neil Armstrong heard Mr and Mrs Gorsky arguing - voices were raised. Mr Gorsky was asking for something or other and his wife was most adamant that he was not getting it. It was this argument that gave rise to the "Good luck Mr Gorsky" comment - Mrs Gorsky was heard shouting "Oral sex? You can have oral sex when the kid next door walks on the moon".

It may well just be another one of those urban legends that trawled the Internet for a while, but it's still amusing.

Now I dont know if my next-door neighbours have had similar arguments that contain the words "... when the guy next door does the Dakar", but be very careful of making such promises - I am getting to Dakar even if I have to crawl there with the motorcycle on my back.

Tough day today. I've covered nearly 300 miles so far, and have another 200 or so to go before I hit Millau. The Missus has been very encouraging, inbetween trying to pack for her and the Wee Yin to leave on Saturday morning. I'll post full details of today's shenanigans when I get to Millau.

Heated Grips Mate!

I have a rather embarassing confession to make, and it involves a little bit of chomping my way through some humble pie.

For many years, I publicly declared that people who had heated grips on their motorcycle were big girl cissies who wore womens underwear at weekends, and liked having their hair put into pigtails. Whilst this may well be true of the ladies who like their heated grips, they are the fairer sex and are allowed to indulge themselves in such comforts.

My heated grips were fixed today. Riding a motorcycle with heated grips is one of life's little luxuries that simply has to be experienced. It was bliss. Quite how I have managed to cope riding a bike in all weathers without them escapes me. I have arrived at work on days when there is frost all around, and spent 15 minutes hugging a radiator sobbing quietly to myself whilst I got the feeling back in my fingers. This was the way that "real" bikers did it.

Which reminds me of a story that I was once told by a maths teacher I had many years ago. Yes, a maths teacher. It was about two bulls - an old bull and a young bull - and they were standing at the top of a hill, looking down into a field of cows. The young bull turned to the old bull, and got all excited:

"Wow! Look at all those cows! Let's run down the hill and have sex with one of them!"

The old bull considered this, and sighed heavily, before replying:

"No. Let's just walk down the hill and have sex with all of them".

There's a lesson in there somewhere about expending your efforts on the important things, not the unimportant things. A friend of mine, who happens to have turned to the dark side and done an MBA, puts it slightly differently and he talks about "if you do the wrong things, and do them very well, then you're going to have problems".

Yes, I know. A maths teacher. He didn't teach me a thing about maths, mostly because I wasn't that interested, but taught me an awful lot about life. He even went so far as to buy me a book on gambling, just to make me interested enough in probability so that I would be bothered to turn up and sit the O-level exam. He once described me as "someone who, depending on mood, will either get 100% right, or won't even try to answer a single question". I had an IQ of 163, and I'd get report cards that said "Zero marks for effort", yet all my grades were 'A'. At that time, we all just thought that I was a bit temperamental. What none of us knew was that I had a bipolar cycle.

So I've been expending energy on riding a bike with cold hands. Why exactly? What was the point? Isn't this the equivalent of running down the hill like the young bull? The old bull wold have recommended heated grips.

When I came home after a hard days riding, The Missus wold give me grief about having cold hands. There are various ways in which she would discover that my hands were cold, not all of them printable. So now, with my heated grips, there will be no more complaints about cold hands - assuming that she still lets me near her now that I am officially a big girl cissy.

I rode to work this morning - 50 miles. Did a day's work, and then rode 200 miles to the Channel Tunnel. Crossed into France and did another 100 miles before calling it a day there. Not quite a Dakar day, but certainly a good effort. I am currently esconced just outside of Arras (about 50 miles north of Paris), and have about 1,200 miles to go to Ibiza.

Rosie was superb. Steady as a rock, even fully laden with about 30 kilos of panniers and top box. Sits on the motorway at, ahem, 70mph (since that is the speed limit) and delivers a tremendous 250 miles on a single tank of fuel. When you figure that that tank of fuel costs £15 to fill, this is pretty good.

I should get to Millau by late tomorrow afternoon. I am really looking forward to seeing Millau - the largest suspension bridge in Europe. Building it was a major feat of engineering - I'll say a little more about it tomorrow.

I also seem to have picked up a passenger. A little Bratz doll by the name of Sacha. She belongs to the Wee Yin, and she is travelling with me so she can have a little adventure. She is securely fastened to the bike (cable ties, but I told the Wee Yin that they were seatbelts) and - get this - she also has her own crash helmet. I'll post some pictures tomorrow.

So not only am I raving about heated grips, I also play with dolls. The humiliation is complete.

Der Gooden Karma Biken Dealershippen

Rosie was back in the garage today getting the heated grips fixed. Apparently my wee spill a few weeks back (blogs passim) had severed the wires on the right hand grip. The left grip wasn't working either, so that meant two new grips.

I was particularly keen to get this job done because I leave for Ibiza tomorrow, and the score is definitely Heated Grips 1, Hot Air Hand Dryer 0 - as testified by Zippy.

Incidentally, it's an interesting word - testify. It is derived from the latin word testis, meaning "witness". Unfortunately, testis is also latin for testicles. This gave rise to a rather amusing urban legend about how, in Roman courts, male witnesses were required to give evidence whilst holding their testicles in their right hand - the penalty for perjury being castration. Even if it's not true, it's a great story - any man will confirm that he would absolutely tell the truth in such a situation.

I was given a BMW X-Country 650 as a loan bike. She has the same engine as Rosie, but she's about 30kg lighter and was therefore a bit more nimble. An absolutely brilliant bike, I couldn't help but get the impression that she is wasted on tarmac and would much rather be sloshing around a muddy hill. Or is it me that would rather be sloshing around a muddy hill, and my evaluation criteria is now coloured? In any event, well worth a test ride. Book one at Bahnstomer. Speak to Alistair, he'll look after you.

The reason I bang on about Bahnstomer (blogs passim) is, quite simply, because they are a pleasure to deal with. I went in to pick Rosie up today and it turned out that they had to replace both of the grips. The right-hand grip they replaced because of the accident - no quibbles there. The left-hand grip, they decided was a warranty repair because the wiring looked a bit dodgy. This saved me 60 quid that they otherwise could have rinsed me for - and I have dealt with garages in the past who would have done exactly that.

But Bahnstomer have a longer view of such things. So they get 60 quid today, but what does that cost in the future? That 60 quid may well be the difference between me buying my next bike from them, or deciding that I'd rather deal with somebody else. They're in it for the longer term - it's a relationship rather than a simple transaction.

Since I had saved 60 quid, I bought some body armour. This wasn't part of any agreed deal, it just happened that way.

What the body armour gives me is the ability to wear a very lightweight top - absolutely crucial when racing or when travelling in the hot sunshine (like I am going to be doing for the next few days). When I rode to Malta last year, I rode down through Southern Italy with just a t-shirt on (breaking my golden rule about dressing for the fall and not for the ride) because it was just too hot to wear a bike jacket. Now I can wear a t-shirt, but I have body armour on underneath.

Speaking of racing, I just got a phone call from Andy Savery at Wheeldon Farm (blogs passim). As you will recall, Andy and his colleagues delivered some absolutely fantastic training, and were also really really nice people into the bargain. They are running a Hare & Hounds enduro event on 21 July, so I had called him and asked if I could enter.

He called me this evening to discuss it. He told me what it would cost, including the hire of a bike, and gave me some recommendations about what bike to use. He advised against using a race-ready KTM bike, since those are a bit fierce, and instead recommended that I use a Honda CRF230F - which weighs in at around 100kg and is quite forgiving.

He explained that I would find it really tough going, and he understood that I wanted to have a crack at it anyway. He was full of respect for this, and wll make sure that the marshalls know it is my first enduro race so there will be people on the track to help me out if I am really screwed.

The Hare and Hounds is a 2-and-a-half hour event, round a 4 mile track. The track covers all kind of terrain - hills, mud, ruts (oh my god), stream crossings, trees, roots (oh my god again), grass, gravel and soil. The object of the event is to get round the track as many times as possible in the 2.5 hours available. The race is split into 3 classes:

• sportsman
• clubman
• expert

The expert class would expect to get about 12-15 laps in during the 2.5 hours. Clubman would expect to get 8-10, and sportsmen will generally get less than 6. I will be in the sportsman class.

At some point, there was always going to be the issue of my first enduro race. Both Andy at Wheldon and Zippy couldn't stress enough how important it was to get out there racing, since it's only by doing this that you learn to push yourself. I wanted to have a crack at Dawn to Dusk - the event on the British enduro calendar. It is a 12-hour event, but sportsmen can only enter as a tag team - riding it solo is reserved for the expert class. I explained this predicament to Zippy, and told him I couldn't get a tag partner for it. Zippy, philosophical as ever, had some great advice:

"Just lie. Enter yourself in the expert class. That's what I did on my first Enduro"
"But surely people will know as soon as the race starts"
"Of course they will, but by then it's too late"
"Did you do Dawn to Dusk?"
"No, I somehow entered the final of the British Championships for my first race"
"Won't I get disqualified or something, if people realise I overstated my class?"
"Nah, everybody will look at you and say 'that kid has got balls'"

First I need to get Ibiza out of the way, then we'll see how I get on with the Hare & Hounds when I get back.

It's The Missus' fault. She's the one who saw the Hare & Hounds advertised on the Wheeldon web site. There was a time when I'd have said that she was just humouring me, waiting on me to fall off the bike and declare that I am never doing it again, but this simply isn't the case. What she is giving me is 100% support and encouragement - she wants to see me get to Dakar just as much as I do.

So, my first race. 21 July, the week after Brecon Beacons. I am looking forward to it, terrified about it, and relishing the chance to have a crack at it all at the same time.

This is an important lesson in obstacles, and another one of those biking metaphors for life. Right now, my first enduro race is an obstacle. If I focus on the obstacle, then I will smack straight into it and end up on my arse in the mud. If I focus on what is beyond the obstacle, then I will barely notice myself clearing it.

So, instead of focusing on the looming race, I am focusing on how great it will feel to have completed my first enduro race - popped my racing cherry so to speak.

I now have to go and start packing for Ibiza, since I leave tomorrow evening. Work during the day, leave after work. Despite the battering I have given myself these past 3 or 4 days, I am in great shape - obviously much fitter than I thought. I have about 1,500 miles to do in the next couple of days and I am ready for it. The Missus has looked out all of the stuff I am going to need and is helping me pack it - she'll make a brilliant support crew in the Dakar. Logistical and moral support. She's a gem is The Missus - I couldn't even consider taking this on without her support.

This Must Be How Hippos Feel

It rained all night from about teatime yesterday. The wettest June on Record, and records go back to the 1830's. Carnage was in the dressing room, putting on his make-up for the grand entrance.

Today was all about putting into practice, gluing together, what we learned yesterday. And boy did we put it into practice. We rode in some of the nuttiest places. Paths less than a foot wide, with 10 inches deep of mud. Up and down streams. Across streams. In streams. Through puddles - lots of puddles - some of them so deep they covered the headlight.

I noticed something when I went through puddles, and this was encouraging. Imagine it - you have several feet of brown, muddy water that you are riding through in the teeming rain. And you just go through it - not a single spill in a puddle. Yet, underneath the water, are ruts. Deep, muddy ruts. But the bike just goes through them. The main reason for this is because you can't see them - you are not looking at them. Zippy's advice seems solid.

We went to a quarry with really really steep sides, and tried to get up the steep bank. Zippy was first. He got halfway up, and then a huge rock hit his sidestand switch causing his bike to cut out and he fell over, to thunderous applause. I was number four in the line. Number 2 was the other 'hardcore' guy. He made it all the way to the top, and then smacked into the banking at the top of the quarry (the path at the top was only about 3 feet wide). Number 3 spilled halfway up, and tumbled back down the hill. I took a crack at it, ripping the throttle open and trying to get enough momentum to take me all the way up.

The I realised the massive advantage I have. What I previously thought was a hindrance, I now realise is a help. The fact that I am 50-odd kilos soaking wet (and boy was I wet) means that the bike isn't trying to pull an 18-stone monster up a hill. Physics glanced in my direction and gave a nod of approval. I roosted all the way up the slope to the top. I enjoyed it so much, I rode back down the hill and then had another (successful) shot at it.

There was a nasty bit of track where we had to ride over two roots, with about a foot of ground between them. Immediately after the second root was a ditch, about 2 feet deep. Each of the roots was about 12 inches of soaking wet wooden trauma. If your back wheel got stuck between them, then you'd spend the next few futile minutes just spinning it in the mud before realising that you had to drag the bike out. I was last in line, which was both good and bad. It was good in as much as I got to see how everybody else was doing it - or not doing it as the case may be. Bad, because now the ground was so churned up and muddy that the roots were sticking up a few inches higher than previously. Not a single person cleared the roots successfully. Zippy had gotten off his bike to help everybody drag themselves over the roots, and he was standing beside them waiting on the next person.

I decided on my strategy. I would accelerate as hard as I could, and attack the first root at speed. One of two things would happen. I would either make it over the roots, or I would fall off. If I fell off, then I would be travelling so fast that the bike would land on the other side of the second root. Either way, I get over the roots. Seemed like a good plan. So I gunned the engine and flew at the first root. My front wheel cleared it, and the back wheel hit it dead on. The bike flew through the air and - miraculously - cleared the second root without touching it. Not only that, but I had hit it a little faster than I thought I should, and I ended up clearing the ditch at the other side too. "Nice one!" shouts Zippy as I sailed past him. I then proceeded to take a bow and, in the process of bending over, promptly fell off my bike. That'll be hubris then.

It rained all day. My gloves were soaking wet within 10 minutes, and I had an inch of water in my boots. I was drenched. Zippy kept holding his hands up - showing how dry the palms were - and saying "heated grips mate!".

We stopped for lunch, and I discovered that the toilets in the lunch venue had one of those warm-air hand dryers. Bliss. I got my gloves, and run them under the dryer for ten minutes or so, whilst everybody else was drinking cups of tea and digesting their lunch. I was the only one after lunch who had dry hands - there are some things which cannot be taught. My ma calls it 'oomph' - a sort of get-up-and-go survival instinct. It can only be learned.

I pulled up alongside Zippy. "Bollocks to your heated grips mate. Look - dry gloves!". When I told him how I did it, he was impressed. Unfortunately, it started raining again after about 15 minutes. Ten minutes later, my gloves were so wet that I had to wring them out every time we stopped. Cue Zippy. He rode up alongside me, showed me his dry palms, and gave me "Bollocks to your hand dryer - heated grips mate!". He won that one hands down.

There was one guy in our group who was a bit of a loudmouth. This guy thought he knew everything there was to know about riding off-road. This being the case, it escapes me why he would want to go on a training course but he obviously had his reasons. Zippy was not impressed with him. Bear in mind, that Zippy is a six-times Dakar veteran, and a service rider at that. He doesn't do glory. He doesn't do grandstanding. He just quietly, efficiently, gets on with the job. He did not take to this guy at all. I overheard him telling somebody "I am going to break this guy", and the nutty trails subsequently followed. Every time we went through a trail, and nobody fell off, the next one got harder.

We used this brilliant system called the "drop-off" system. Whenever the lead rider took a junction, the second one in line would wait at the junction to guide the rest of the group so they didn't go the wrong way. When the last rider passed, the guy waiting at the junction would join the back of the line. Bearing in mind that we could be several hundred yards apart, riding through thick forest with lots of paths, this was important. It also meant that everybody got a chance at following the lead rider.

Zippy was patient. He waited until its was Vernon's turn (that was the loud guy's name) to be second in line. He stopped in some particularly nasty mud - about 12 inches deep, and allowed everybody to catch up. Vernon was about 2 feet behind Zippy and we were at a standstill. Zippy explained where we were going next, and then put his helmet back on. He then opened his throttle and proceeded to give Vernon the biggest roosting I have ever seen. We're talking mud grenade here. The mud was so plentiful that it covered Vernon's headlight. The next two minutes were spent trying to find dry material for Vernon to wipe the mud off his face and visor. Everybody in our group was pissing themselves.

We then rode up a waterfall. Not a vertical one, obviously, but a very steep and wet slope with rocks and mud and lots of nastiness. Vernon got halfway up and then declared himself absolutely knackered and wanting to turn round and go home now thank you very much. Zippy had claimed the scalp he was looking for. Several of the guys came off going up there. I got off my bike to help one guy - a really nice guy called Pete - to get up the slope. I made the fatal mistake of getting behind his bike to push him. A thorough roosting ensued, although I could hear his apologies over the sound of revving engine and splattering mud.

I got back to my bike, and Zippy (who was also helping Pete) was walking past me - down the hill - back to his bike. "Aren't you going to give me a push as well?" I asked him. "No", he said. "But I'll give you some advice - don't stop on the hill. Keep going". Tht's good advice, but sort of like somebody telling you "don't drown" when giving you advice on swimming. I roosted, snaked and paddled my way to the top of the slope. Soaking wet, knackered and covered in mud. But ecstatic. Only two of us had made it up the waterfall, and I was one of them.

We went through a puddle that was about 40 feet long and about 3 feet deep. The bow wave came right up over the top of the bike and seeped into the groin area. Any semblance of manhood shrunk away to nowt in the freezing cold water. There was a nasty nasty left hand turn at the end of the puddle - all rocks and mud - and I took it a little bit too quick. The resulting washout and face-plant in the mud was not pretty, although it was fairly spectacular.

Zippy pulled up his bike beside me. "Oh, did you fall?" he grinned. "No", I replied, "the handlebar end was coming off, so I ploughed it into the ground to ram it back in again". He declared that that was "good work", and rode forward a little. Then he gave me a good roosting because I "wasn't muddy enough".

The instructors have the three key ingredients for teaching. Patience, passion and a brilliant sense of humour. They love what they do, and they are bloody good at it. The course is more pricey than any of the others, but this is quite simply because it's better than all the others. The quality of the instruction is superb, and it is delivered by people who really enjoy passing on their brilliant skills.

I am back at BMW for the Brecon Beacons trail ride - 80 miles of trail riding through the mountains - on 16 July. This will not be the last time I am there either, I'd seriously recommend it. Learning to skid the front wheel was worth the price of the course on its own.

If you go along and you want to learn, then you will learn bucketloads. If you go along to show off how much you already know, be prepared for a bit of a roosting.

Two days in the soaking wet, covered in mud. Now I know what it must feel like to be a hippo.

Those Who Can, Teach

First day at BMW Offroad Skills today. Once again, BMW leave everybody else standing.

First, let me diverge for a second and talk about Roger Banister. As you probably know, he was the first guy to run a mile in less than 4 minutes. On May 6 1954 to be precise. Everybody said that it couldn't be done. Even doctors testified to the fact that the human heart was incapable of sustaining the bloodflow necessary to enable a human being to run a mile in less than 4 minutes. Then Roger Banister did it. As soon as he did, another guy did it 46 days later. In the intervening 50 years, loads of people have done it.

What does this tell us? I'm sure that there is a lesson somewhere in there about how believing that something is impossible will make it exactly that - impossible.

The instructors we had for the day were Simon Pavey, Clive Town and Patsy Quick - all of them Dakar finishers. Sixteen - count em - sixteen Dakars between them. Those who have to demand respect do not command respect - and none of these guys had to demand anything in the way of respect.

So prior to this morning, I had never got on and off a motorcycle without putting the stand down (scared of dropping it). Patsy gave us lesson 1: no side stands. Ever. We had to get on and off the motorcycle without it. Once she showed us how, I came to wonder how on earth I had ever thought it was difficult - I spent the rest of the hopping on and off the bike without the stand as though I had been doing it for years.

My steed for the day was a BMW F650GS similar to Rosie but lowered a little. She was some 190kg of weight, and I was mortified when Clive Town took it off me and threw it on the ground. Time for lesson 2: How to pick up the motorcycle. It wasn't as easy as picking up a bicycle, but it was certainly easier than I had been making it.

Clive Town was Patsy's service rider - aka water carrier - for four years in the Dakar. His job was to ride with Patsy and get her to Dakar. He is called "Zippy", and introduces himself as such. At first I thought that this was to do with his general riding speed, but he told me later that it's because he talks too much.

Lesson number 3 was also a bit of a shock, again delivered by Patsy. No sitting down. Ever. You must be standing up at all times, unless you are stopped or have fallen off (in which case lying down is permitted).

She then went on to demonstrate cornering and bike control on a 250kg bike. Now Patsy Quick is about 5'6" tall and doesn't weigh a lot more than I do. And she is throwing a 250kg bike around like it was made out of cardboard. Out of the 20 or so assembled males in our group, not a single comment was made about 'women drivers'. Not one.

Then we went on to cornering and braking on poor surfaces, and how to handle skidding.

There is a very simple rule on a motorcycle on the road. If your front wheel locks, you are immediately on the ground and there is very little you can do about it. We spent half an hour disproving that theory - accelerating hard and jamming on the front brake until it locked then freeing it up again. Rinse and repeat. I did this without washing out the front wheel, and what absolute confidence it gave me.

Then some trail riding. My clutch lever snapped after a few miles and Simon stopped to look at it, declaring that he had never seen one snap like that before. He produced a new clutch lever and fitted it in about 2 minutes flat. By now, the rest of the group were away ahead, so I got to spend 10 minutes or so riding with Simon Pavey to catch up. Pretty cool.

I am in the advanced group, which consists of 12 people whose average age is 42 (I worked it out). At 36, I am the youngest. I realise fairly quickly that I am also the fittest, certainly the most bike-fit out of our bunch. By lunchtime, most of the guys are complaining about ahces and pains and wondering what there is to eat. I am still flying around like the Duracell bunny.

A lot of the guys are trophy-hunting. They are there to get their photo taken with Simon Pavey and to boats about how many bikes they own, or how much they earn (seriously, I'm not joking). Only one other guy in our group was what I would describe as 'hardcore' - he is there to learn and to soak it up. A man with a mission. His mission is to learn how to ride off-road so that he can, erm, ride more off-road. A typical conversation goes like this:

"I own my own dental practice, and I've got a GS1200, a 850S and a Fireblade"
"Really? I'm bipolar and I'm doing the Dakar in 2009"
"You must be out of your mind"
"Yes, I am. I'm bipolar"

A nice bunch of guys though. A dentist, a couple of airline pilots, a spin-doctor, a softwase consultant (whatever that means) and an accountant. Sounds like the start of a joke.

Steep hill descents was next. And when I say steep, I mean steep. It was more like a cliff than a hill - a treacherous incline of ruts, mud and polished rock all made worse by the wet. I would have had trouble walking down it, never mind trying to guide a 190kg BMW down it. We had to do this exercise several times with different combinations of front and back brakes. The fourth time I did it, I washed out the front wheel and got the handlebar end pile-driven right into my right foot. Ouch, that hurt. Good job I had my new boots on, and I thanked my stars that they were expensive ones.

Simon commented on my boots. Apparently he has an identical pair and they were 'stolen' by some Irishman friend of his. His friend sent Simon a ransom note - "free accommodation for me and the wife or the boots go on Ebay".

More trail riding in the afternoon and by now it was getting really muddy out there. We eventually encountered what I knew we were going to see - my kryptonite. Ruts. Big, ugly, menacing, water-filled muddy ruts. I said to Clive "I am scared of ruts". He shrugged and said "anybody with any sense is scared of ruts. The way to go through them is just keep your head up, dont look at them and trust the bike to take you through". So I did just that. The bike went through the rut uneventfully, with me on my pegs the whole time.

Now I am still scared of ruts, and they still give me the panics when I see them approaching, but I know I will get over this and here's how I know.

When I first got on to gravel - remember back at Yamaha - I was terrified since I have only ridden on tarmac. I was desperately trying to find the grip on the surface. I used to think "Oh My God, its gravel". Now I think "thank God its gravel". I just lean all over the front wheel and let the back wheel do what it likes - it will follow the front one sooner or later. I was just as terrified of gravel as I am of ruts. So, with some practice, I'll get over it.

One guy in our group wasn't so lucky. He got his front wheel caught in one rut, and his back wheel caught in another - ended up flying along sideways with the back wheel spinning and roosting. He caught some traction and flew 10 feet in the air straight into a storm ditch full of boulders. He was, somehow, relatively unscathed and the bike had to be hauled out by four people. One hospital visit later, and he was the proud owner of a plaster cast and a broken hand.

There will be some more trail riding tomorrow and, I am told, an awful lot more ruts. Good. I need the practice. Ruts were once my nemesis, but I will make them my four-minute mile.

Ruts v Roots

Today I spent an absolutely glorious day out on Salisbury Plain and the Ridgeway, with a particularly nice guy by the name of Martin (who is also a pretty good enduro rider).

We started the day "gently" - his words not mine - to allow us to settle into the bikes. I was on a AJP 200, a skippy little lady weighing in at 105kg. Martin was on a slightly less petite Yamaha WR 250 - about 130kg.

We set out on gravel, and I didn't fall off. We'll come back to this in a bit. Then we went across some very slippery fields, and I still didn't fall off. Then we went down some very steep slopes in the slippery fields and - yep, you got it - I still didn't fall off. Since I obviously wasn't coming off, the gloves did. We went into the trees - the kind with trunks and branches - and started following a course marked out for a mountain bike race tomorrow.

It hadn't been a comparison I had done before today, but I reckon that a mountain bike weighs about a tenth of the bike I was on, and is probably a foot narrower. Needless to day, the course was laid out according to the anticipated width and weight of a mountain bike. We were zig-zagging through trees on muddy paths that were barely 9 inches wide. As you may expect, I was constantly on the lookout for the dreaded ruts.

Now it may be my lack of spelling ability, but I was looking out for the wrong thing. What I should have been looking out for was roots - not ruts. Tree roots, my new nemesis. Slippery horrible nasty little things that protrude above the mud, just waiting for a chance to grab a wheel and chuck me off. They didn't have to wait long either. Back wheel crossed over a fairly small root and splosh - I was off. Martin had got the scalp he was looking for. "Oh, I forgot to tell you about roots - they're nasty little buggers". I then made the fatal mistake of also telling him how scared I was of ruts. Apparently he was scared of them once too, but not any more.

We done some more 'woodwork' as he called it, then back across some rutted dirt tracks. Another off, front wheel washout this time. Then we got to the bottom of a fairly steep and long uphill track. "If you don't like roots", says Martin, "then you will absolutely hate this next bit". I looked up the hill and asked what was a fairly obvious question - "cant we just go that way instead?", pointing down a nice gravel track. The answer was most evidently "no".

The photo doesn't do this hill justice. It was so steep you could barely walk on it. It had been raining, and the surface was as slippery as a well-greased eel. All in all, it was like trying to climb up a cliff made out of butter on a very warm day. This had all the ingredients of carnage waiting to happen. the ruts were two feet deep on either side of the track, and the edges of the track were stuffed full of nettles and brambles. This was the first act of a play in which mayhem and bedlam were to have starring roles.

And they didn't have to wait long for their cue. About halfway up the hill there was a bunch of rocky steps, all covered in slimy mud. Grip and traction had both done a runner and decided to wait for me at the top of the hill. It was like ski-ing. Uphill. With 100kg lead skis. The back wheel slid into one of the ruts and that was game over - the bike (and me) followed suit about two ohnoseconds later.

I picked myself out the nettles, and heard the road of Martin's engine further up the hill, round a bend. All I kept thinking was "endurance" - this is what it means to be an enduro rider - these little mishaps are the meat and drink of enduro riding. What separates the men from the boys is the ability to keep plugging away - to just keep going and going and going no matter what mother nature throws at you.

I dragged the bike out of the rut, and back on to the crown. Righted her, got back on, and had another crack. I got about 2 feet up the hill and went straight for the action replay. Rinse, repeat - six times in all. By now, my lungs are bursting and I am sweating like a polar bear in a sauna. I tell myself - again - that I am absolutely getting up this hill (even though the language was slightly more colourful). I tried standing beside the bike, pushing her up the hill whilst I gunned the throttle - spewing out roost behind me in the same way that a rocket spews out flames. Except I wasnt going quite as fast as a rocket. The bike got some traction and I jumped back on, snaking up the hill and desperately trying to avoid the ruts. I made it about another fifty feet and - yee hah! - the ruts flattened out to about 10 inches deep and the soil was dryer. I never thought I'd be so glad as to see a 10-inch rut but, believe me, I rejoiced.

I rejoiced so much that I stopped the bike for a breather. In my euphoria, I forget that I was on the crown of the track - between the ruts - and the ruts were 10 inches deep. This means that my legs would need to be 10 inches longer to reach the ground. I stopped the bike and put a foot down, but caught fresh air. Bike toppled over, sending me into the nettles. I had short-legged the bike, how embarrassing.

Martin came down the hill to see what the fuss was, to see me - again - pushing the bike up the hill cursing and swearing like a sailor on shore leave. There was a terrible smell of burning oil and metal against metal - not good. Further inspection showed that I had completely melted the clutch, and the chain was glowing red-hot. Martin explained that enduro was also about the bike being able to endure, not just me, but had to concede that he was surprised that the bike gave in before I did. Between the two of us, we nursed her to the top of the hill and had a bit of a breather whilst some repairs were done to the clutch as much as possible.

We got to the top of the hill and got back on the Ridgeway. It was shale and gravel. I was so happy to see gravel again, I could have kissed it. Bear in mind, that same gravel wold have had me shaking in my boots a few weeks ago and here was I happy to see it.

Then it started to rain. Not just rain, it was hailstones. Here's me in a motocross top riding across the top of the Ridgeway going around 50mph on gravel getting hail slamming into my face. Not for the first time that day, I was asking myself why I would want to be doing this when there are so many other, warmer, things that I could be doing. At that moment, being tucked up cuddled with The Missus looked like a very nice hobby to take up.

Ruts make me panic when I see them, and this is the basic problem. I tense up, and this makes me all top-heavy on the bike. When I see ruts, I know how Superman feels when he sees Kryptonite. This is a fear I must conquer. As for roots, they are just nuclear powered kryptonite, but ruts first.

We finished up about 4:30 and I got in the car to drive to Wales, arriving here at around 9pm. I have obviously walked right into the Ewe-rovision song contest - all of the sheep are going mental at eachother and t is really noisy, but it's a nice kind of noise. The Missus and the Wee Yin would love it.

Met a couple of bikers staying here who have just finished the course. Tales of carnage then ensued, followed by the obligatory showing off of bruises and injuries (its a biker thing). I asked about ruts, and if they covered them. Yes, several times apparently. The message from the instructors is 'if you see a rut then just panic. Sit down, paddle like crazy and just find a way through it - everybody hates ruts'.

I have this lovely wee room in a working sheep farm doubling up as a B&B. I have the sheep singing me to sleep, and it really is rather peaceful. I miss the Missus though - this is her journey too and she's kind of missing it. In the bin is an empty box of Nurofen, and a bunch of the peel bits from plasters - probably not a good sign.

Apparently the first thing to do tomorrow morning is to throw the bike on the floor, and then pick it up again to learn how to do it. This is before we learn to ride with the front wheel locked. Which is before we learn how to ride up and down a scree cliff.

I did do very well today. I washed out at all the bits where I was expected to wash out, and I really am getting to grips with gravel. I have a lot of confidence to build up about changing line (especially moving across ruts) and I need to be looking further ahead. But the gravel is a big step forward - two weeks ago I would have been gingerly plodding along it, now I pray for it since it means I can get a bit of a move on.

Tomorrow, BMW. And I take more steps into a bigger wider world.

5555

Been trawling around the Dakar Website, looking for as much information as I can get on the various rules and procedures that need to become second nature to me.

As Andy at KTM explained to me (blogs passim), the Dakar is all about navigation. The motorcycles are required, as per regulations, to be fitted with GPS but it does not work. In reality, the GPS system only becomes active when you are within 3km of a checkpoint, upon which it will then show the distance and bearing to that checkpoint. At all other times, it just sits there and shows you your current position.

The GPS can be overridden by punching in a code number, like a pin number. One of these codes is available from Dakar HQ. You contact them using a satellite phone connected to your bike (also required by the rules) and tell them you are lost. They give you the code to punch in to the GPS to activate it and show you the distance and bearing to the next checkpoint. If you resort to this, then you are hit with a 4 hour time penalty - which means that you are regarded as having arrived at the bivouac 4 hours later than you did. When you consider that riders must - again according to the rules - have a minimum of 6 hours rest between race days, then this is actually quite a stiff penalty since it only leaves you 14 hours in the day for everything else needing done: eating, sleeping and the small matter of riding 500km through the desert.

If you invoke this mechanism four times, you are automatically retired from the race.

There is another code that can be typed in to the GPS, and everybody knows it - you do not need to ask Dakar HQ for anything. This code does exactly the same thing - shows the distance and bearing to the next checkpoint, and its number is 5555.

If you enter the number 5555 into your GPS system, then it is your acceptance that you are immediately retired from the race. it is the Dakar equivalent of a white flag. Dakar 1, you 0.

Just imagine for a second. You have spent years training for this. Enduro races. Time in the gym. Weights. Stamina training. Diet. Sand training. You have spent months buikding and tuning your race bike. You have spent something in the region of £50,000 in cash, not to mention the personal and financial sacrifices. You are a year away from being able to attempt it again, even if you were minded and could afford it.

Four numbers entered on a keypad, just the same as if you were at the bank taking cash out. Two seconds worth of effort from your index finger. And that's it - your Dakar is over.

Like most things to do with bikes, this is a great metaphor for life. It only takes a second to destroy something that has taken years to build.

Water In The Wellies

On Tuesday, I get a new pair of Rallye 2 trousers from Bahnstormer. The great thing about these trousers, and the reason why I am forking out for them, is that they fit over the top of my BMW boots.

This isn't a fashion thing. The trousers I currently have will not fit over the top of my boots, and I have to tuck them in. Without getting to whether or not this looks silly, just think about what happens when it rains - the water runs down the waterproof legs and right into the boots.

This is exactly what happened this morning. Here was me hoping to get away with it till Tuesday, but fate had other ideas. She threw the most almighty downpour at me this morning, and I ended up with half an inch of water sloshing about inside my boots. When I upshifted, all the water ran to the heel and when I downshifted it all ran to the toes. I've seen the day when I would have gotten all cross about this, but now I just see it as more training - I figure that I will be riding rather a lot with wet feet over the next 18 months.

Offroad on Salisbury Plain tomorrow with the AJP Experience. Riding a 125cc or a 200cc across Salisbury Plain and/or The Ridgeway. The instructor, a guy called Martin, seemed like a really nice guy when I spoke to him. He does a lot of enduro racing - which is good - and AJP also hire bikes for enduro events. They deliver the bike, you race, they take it home again. It seems like an excellent way to do it until I get a proper event bike. Ultimately, it depends on how big and heavy the AJP bikes are, and I will find that out tomorrow.