No More Foot Patrols

As of midnight tonight, there will be no more foot patrols by British soldiers in Northern Ireland. This effectively puts and end to 35 years of what have become known as "The Troubles".

To some, it was a guerilla war. To others, it was a terrorist campaign. Think abot that for a second, and then ask yourself this question:

What is the difference between a guerilla and a terrorist?

The answer is shocking and simple. A guerilla is an underdog who you agree with his cause. A terrorist is somebody whose cause you do not agree with. This use of words to make you think certain things is one of the main points of George Orwells brilliant 1984. if you haven't read it - do so.

The Troubles have claimed many many lives from all sides involved over the years - 3,466 according to Malcom Sutton.

In 1992 the IRA took up some different tactics - the use of snipers firing .50 caliber rounds. In the words of John L. Plaster - author of The Ultimate Sniper (a military and Police training manual):

"Here's a bullet that even at 1½ miles crashes into a target with more energy than Dirty Harry's famous .44 Magnum at point-blank range"

You may have noticed that I just dont "do" politics in my blog, and this entry is not an exception to that rule. I am not saying anything at all about the rightness, wrongness or otherwise of any of the things that have went on in Northern Ireland.

I just noticed that there will be no more miltary patrols as of midnight tonight and I wanted to remember one incident, back on 17 March 1993.

An Army foot patrol was making its way through Fork Road, Boghill, County Armagh. An IRA sniper was lying in wait. One .50 calibre bullet later, and Lance-Corporal Lawrence Dickson of 1st Battalion Royal Scots was dead. He was the last British Soldier to be killed by the IRA sniper.

He was also my cousin, umpteen times removed. There are many more like him. All of them are remembered by somebody - today's headlines are always somebody's human tragedy.

The Zone

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!"

The Postman Always Brings Twice

Post arrived this morning. Amongst the bills and rainforests of junk mail, were two little unexpected gems:

1. A lovely card from my Uncle Alan, whom I have seen only once in about the last 10 years, with a completely unneccessary (and most gratefully received) cheque to "help with my journey". Many, many thanks;
   
   
2. My race number for the Abbotside enduro on 4th August. I am number 177, and my allocated start time is 14:30;

Scrutineering starts at 12:30, but I don't need to worry about that since Martin from AJP is bringing along a race-prepared little lady for a very reasonable number of groats. By coincidence, it is the same number of groats that my Uncle Alan put on his cheque. This is Providence. If it is OK with you Uncle Alan (assuming you are reading this), I'd like to use this for hiring the bike for my first ever race. That way, when I really enjoy it and go on to other things (and my Ma goes all out of shape about me doing Dakar and getting her all worried) then you can take the blame for it :)

Assuming that the little lady is as good as the AJP I rode a few weeks back, a few more groats will change hands and she will be coming home with me. The groats that change hands will be reduced by the cost of the hire, so my Uncle Alan has also chipped in a significant amount for the bike on which I will be racing. Thank You, but you do realise that you've set yourself up for a fair amount of Ma-delivered grief.

For those of you who do not know my Ma, your life is much quieter because of this. Having an argument with my Ma is an awful lot like trying to drink from a fire hose. There are two opinions in the world - her opinion, and the wrong opinion. That said, you're always glad when she's in your corner - it's just when she's in the opposite corner you need to worry. I can see where I get it from.

At work - on projects - I see an awful lot of people starting with a conclusion and then torturing all of the facts to make it fit. Sort of similar to the way that a girl with a large frame will torture a size 8 dress to get into it because she is adamant that she can wear a size 8.

So today, 31 July, I am going to christen Size 8 Day - it's the day when I torture the facts to fit the conclusion. I spent two days at BMW and, towards the end of the second day, I was starting to feel like an enduro rider - things were starting to flow a little and come together. Fate and Providence have decided to send me a couple of signs that I am ready to race now - my race number, and some of Uncle Alan's groats to provide the bike.

The word I am going to invent for this is SHIPPEE! It's a mixture of "oh shit" and "yippee!". half of me is dead excited at the prospect of racing on Saturday - the other half is fairly daunted by the prospect. Being bipolar, this actually doesn't present too much of a problem - I am fairly used to effectively being split in two.

Regardless, I will give a good account of myself on Saturday. Not just because I want to make sure I don't let down my Uncle Alan, it's also because I will not let myself down. This race is just the another step on a much longer journey - the ultimate finishing line of which is in Dakar.

In the meantime, SHIPPEE!!!

Did Somebody Mention Ruts?

Day two of Level 2 at BMW today. I was a bit stiff when I first got up, but it soon cleared. This is a good sign. A lot of the other guys are complaining about being sore and stiff - I am in pretty good shape, especially considering some of the tumbles I took yesterday.

It turns out that we are two men down this morning - "Mr Motocross" and his riding partner apparently decided that they weren't learning anything and left after day 1. It's not surprising that they didn't learn anything - they didn't listen. Last time I checked, you had to listen to what people were saying, and pay attention to what they were showing you, before you cold learn from then. Of course, a pre-requisite of this is a little bit of turning down the arrogance dial a few notches.

This completely changed the dynamic of our group. Whereas yesterday we were like a bunch of guys on a picnic who kept on being buzzed by a couple of persistent wasps, today we were a cohesive group of guys putting their skills into practice, and helping eachother along. When somebody fell off their bike - and there was a few of us - people immediately jumped off their bike to help.

It's not just altruistic either. You get off your bike to help somebody who's fallen off. He gets his bike upright quicker, gets back on it quicker, you get to move on sooner. Everybody wins. Plus, you know they'll do the same for you when it's your turn.

We spent some time trail riding, and geting settled into the bikes. Plus brake turns. Lots of brake turns. Brake turns like this one:


Yes, that's me power-sliding a 150kg BMW round a corner. The eagle-eyed amongst you will notice that I haven't yet finished the turn and in another few degrees I will be pointing straight at the photographer. Regular readers will know what happened next.

The morning's first lesson was momentum. This invlolves riding towards a steep uphill slope, the pulling in the clutch as you hit to the bottom of it. If you've done it right, you'll have just enough speed to get to the top, where you gracefully stop for a second and have a look around. It's a great defence against riding over cliffs at the top of blind summits but, apart from that, it looks really cool. A bunch of BMW corporate people were flitting to and fro all day, wanting to see "how the course works". Luckily for me, they turned up right at my third attempt at momentum, just in time to witness a perfect coast to the top of the slope - eminently poseable.

Whether or not Simon Pavey, who they were with, told them that I only did my first off road ride six weeks ago or not, I don't know. I hope so - it's the best possible advert he could have got for the brilliant tuition they do at BMW.

Lots more trail riding, much faster now. Lots of brake turns and power slides. Then, after stopping for a brief rest, Gary's face lit up with the same manic glee you see in a Bond villain.

"OK guys, now we're going to do ruts"

There was a collective groan. One of the guys claimed that he had a note from his mum, another one said that he had left his gym kit at home. We looked up the track where Gary was pointing. It looked harmless enough - mud, shale and a bit of gravel. Nice and straight, about quarter of a mile long, with a sharp right-hander at the end. A perfect surface, glistening in the sunlight with the stream that was running down the, em, ruts. Two perfectly formed ruts on either side of the track. Each of them about a foot deep, and about two feet apart.

Just as we thought that things couldn't get any worse, up pulls Simon with the BMW important people in tow.

"Ahh, ruts! Everybody loves ruts!

Brilliant. Not only are we about to be traumatised, we get to do it with an audience. Then up pulls Simon's son, complete with his camera. Even better. An audience, and it gets recorded for posterity. It couldn't get worse.

Except it could. Gary explained that he wanted us to ride up the trail a few times, then back round to do it again, until we got used to it. Then he would block one of the ruts and we'd have to - somehow - get into the other rut. Without stopping, or putting a foot down.

This is my payback for running Simon's son over yesterday. Karma was absolutely beside herself with laughter as it dawned on me.

Gary demonstrated the technique, then explained it. The way to deal with ruts is to:

1. Steer with your feet - weight the pegs to move the bike from side to side
   
   
2. Look ahead - not at the front wheel. Trust the bike to ride the rut
   
   
3. When changing ruts, rock the bike from side to side, ad then pick a point to jump over
   
   
4. Pray
   
   
5. Curse and say rather a lot of swear words

OK, so I knew that (4) and (5) were going to be fairly easy. That's 40% of the problem solved, I tell myself. "Nobody does this without falling off" - my own words are ringing in my ears as I power over the ditch and into the left-hand rut. I can vaguely make out Simon, his son, Gary, Big Al and a couple of BMW people standing at the side of the track watching me. So no pressure then.

"Steer with the feet" I keep telling myself. "Trust the bike". For those of you who have seen Star Wars, this will be a bit familiar. A young Luke Skywalker is blasting through a trench on the death star, with a very echo-ey Alec Guinness telling him to "use the force". I look as far up the track as I dare to, and just treat every wobble of the bike as normal wobble.

To my amazement, I make it up to the right hander at the end of the track without any incidents. Plenty of moments, but no incidents. Even sweeter still, there is a lovely berm round the outside of the turn - perfect for power-sliding a bike round. There's a huge puddle right before the corner, all muddy and nasty - but after what I just rode up then it's no worries. Karma's jaw hit the floor when I railed that berm - she was hoping for a little bit more in the way of payback.

Interestingly enough, this is something I noticed in the last couple of days - today in particular. My basic techniques are sort of there - I am more concerned now with picing the right line, looking for grip, avoiding obstacles. I am no longer paralysed by the sheer shock of being on an off-road bike - I am starting to become consciously competent.

Gary took off up this really mucky path through the trees. About a foot wide, it was just a foot-deep snaking rut all the way up the hill. There was a big ditch to cross before you even got there. One of the guys plain refused to go up it, and was given the alternative directions to the top of the hill. I was third in line. The second guy, ahead of me, gave it a crack and fell off at the ditch - it was that slippery. I got off my bike to help him, and the guy behind me had a go. More trauma. The other guy in our group took the alternative route. I went to do the same, but Big Al stopped me and said "you're going nowhere mate, unless it's up there". he then explained to me the line I should take, and where to apply the power.

I gave it a go. Over the ditch, plenty of power, and let momentum carry me over the nasty bits at the bottom of the hill. Then I snaked and (yes, I am ashamed to say) paddled my way up the hill. The guys at the top gave me a big round of applause - I was the only one who had made it. I was well chuffed. I am getting better. I am now ready to race. I won't win races, but I won't be making a fool of myself either.

Something else I noticed is how much stamina I have. I seem to get better as I get more tired. This will serve me well when enduro racing - other guys will tire themselves out early on, and I will keep on going. Reminds me of Mohammed Ali - I'll say more about this in the future.

On the way home, in the car, I saw the unmistakeable shape of a BMW twin in my rear view mirror. As he passed, I say the name plastered on the back of the helmet - it was Gary Taylor, who had been instructing me for the last few days. We overtook him and, as we did so, he looked over and saw us. I started pointing at him, and then pointing upwards, shouting "STAND UP!". He then proceeded to do this - at 85mph. I can barely stay stood up at 60mph - the wind force is so strong - but he did it for about 10 miles. And that was after two days throwing a bike round a mountain. He is doing Dakar in 2010. He'll need the energy.

We followed Gary for another 40 miles or so, then turned off the motorway. As we did so, he turned round and gave us a big wave. He didn't have to do this, but it was really nice.

Home now, looking forward to racing on Saturday. if the weather holds, it'll be gorgeous. If the weather doesn't hold, it'll be trauma. Either way, I am racing Saturday. Bring on the ruts ...

You're Not Supposed to Hit The Photographer

So level 2 at BMW is no less impressive than level 1 - the quality of the instruction, and the humour with which it is delivered, is right up there where I have come to expect it to be.

My mechanical chaperone is a BMW X-Challenge, whom I have nicknamed "Tabitha". I don't know why I chose that name. 650cc of torque wrapped into 150kg of German precision engineering. The rear suspension is an air-shock, which fully expands when it is unloaded - having a tendency to want to throw you in the air as you dismount.

The Missus dropped me off at the centre, and then went on her merry way fun-hunting round rural Wales with the Wee Yin in tow. The Wee Yin saw Simon Pavey and got all bashful about it. Aww, bless. Anyway, their adventures included caves, waterfalls and adventure parks I am told. The sun came out fairly early on, and it turned into a very pleasant July day.

My morning began with a recap of the Level 1 stuff, but a bit tougher. Slow-speed circling in smaller marked-out squares, having to lock the front wheel longer when skidding, hill recovery on steeper slopes. There was also the added extra of having Simon Pavey's son snapping away merrily and taking photographs.

Unfortunately for him, and for me, he got a bit carried away with one of the "head-on" shots he was taking and I ploughed right into him. He thought I was going to steer around him, I thought he was going to jump out of the way at the last minute. Ouch.

I bumped into Simon later on and said

"I ran over your son. Sorry".

He looked at me.

"You ran over my son, and you're sorry?".

"Yes", I replied.

He shook my hand. "Why are you sorry? Well done! I wish he would stand in front of me long enough for me to do it".

Our instructors in Level 2 were Gary Taylor (Dakar 2010) and a huge Irishman called "Big Al" (Dakar 2004).

Carnage and mayhem did a runner when the sun came out. The ground was damp, and there were puddles, but nothing like as bad as it could have been. No need for heated grips or hand dryers today.

The highlight of the day was brake turns. Brake turns are proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. The lesson started with Gary pointing at the back wheel of his bike.

"Can anybody tell me what this is?"

We looked at eachother like he had gone mad.

"It's a wheel", said one of the guys.

"Not quite", replied Gary. "It's a rudder"

You accelarate the bike to speed, then you slam on the back brake to start a skid. Once the wheel locks, then you give your arse a flick and turn the handlebars sharply - the back end starts to swing out. When it is halfway round the corner, you release the brake and open the throttle. Roost spews everywhere, the bike continues to slide round the corner, and then powers off in the direction you want to go. It's a lot like the way you used to skid a bicycle as a kid, except you've got 650cc of BMW to assist in accelarating away.

I got a bit carried away with this, and high-sided. A high-side is where you skid sideways, then the top of the bike falls over - in the direction you are travelling. It launches you into the air - springboard style - and you fly high enough to have sufficient time to contemplate how much the landing is going to hurt. And it hurt. I landed sort of head-first, but must have been upside down in the air because as soon as I hit the deck I tumbled and somersaulted a few times. I sat up, counted my limbs and digits, and wondered which way was which. The guys in my group assisted me in getting my bearings by helping me realise where they were through some fairly loud clapping and cheering. I stood up and took a bow, then went to inspect the damage to the bike. Snapped clutch lever, which was replaced in under a minute by Gary. I found an iron bar lying around, and straightened the gear lever. Good as new.

Then some trail riding. One thing I noticed is that I am carrying a lot more speed. I very rarely use first gear, whereas on previous BMW visits I very rarely changed out of first gear. This may well be that the grip was a lot better, or it may be that I am more confident or more skilled, or it may be a combination of all of these. In any event, we were getting a bit of a move-on through the trails.

One guy - a big guy called Rich - was riding a GS1200. That's quarter of a metric tonne of bike. We took a wrong turning, up a very narrow and slippery trail, and had to turn around. He was trying to turn the bike, with limited success, and I jumped off my bike to help him. I suggested we drop the bike on its side and just drag the back wheel round. The bike just slid effortessly round in the mud. He was very impressed. I explained that when you are built like I am, you can't rely on brute force - you need to be smart.

One guy in our group - a guy called Alex - rides bikes off road and has a couple of KTMs. It escapes me why he was there. He spent all day saying "Ooh-arr! I is driving my tractor" - referring to the weight of the BMW. He also felt the need to overtake absolutely everybody at every opportunity - giving them a good roosting in the process - even though we were trail riding (which is single-file, nobody is racing nobody). It must have seemed rational to him (blogs passim), but there just didn't seem to be any point other than convincing people that he was a bit of an arse.

We came to a really really steep hill in a quarry - with a 6-foot vertical shelf at the top - and he started banging on about how easy it would be.

"Go on then", I said to him. "I got a tenner says you won't make it".

His demeanour changed a little.

"Why don't you?" he asked.

"Because I don't think I'd make it. But you obviously think you can, so go on then"

To be fair, he gave it a go, but wiped out almost at the bottom of the hill. He had another go, and did the same thing. He didn't do any more overtaking after that.

I gave serious thought to taking on that slope. But, if I had failed to do it and injured myself, then my weekend was over. No lessons in rut-riding. The old bull (blogs passim) would have recommended not giving it a go, and saving my strength for, em, "rutting". My ageing friend's words were ringing in my ears - "do the wrong things, you'll have problems". I came here to learn how to ride rut, not to wipe myself out getting up a steep hill in some silly pissing contest with a guy who gets kicks out of overtaking people who are just not racing eachother.

I had a spill going up a really muddy and slippy slope. The guy in front fell off and I got off my bike to help him. After sending him on his way, I re-mounted and quickly realised that the hill was too slippy to get traction without momentum. The bike went sideways and started to topple - down the hill - and there was no way I could put my leg out to save her. Over she went and ploughed the handlebar into the ground, snapping my second clutch lever of the day. Since we had no more spares, I had to ride the next half-hour with only half a clutch lever. Now that took some doing - my fingers still hurt.

The Missus and Wee Yin picked me up back at the centre and back to Dderi Farm, where it would seem that we have made a real friend of one of the sheepdogs. They are off pony-trekking tomorrow (The Missus and the Wee Yin, not the dogs), so it looks like we all get the chance to do a bit of off-roading.

I got into the car, and went to drive away. As I did so, Gary - my instructor - started shouting at me to "STAND UP!" (a reference to the fact that they want you to do everything on your pegs). It is this sense of humour that makes BMW such an enjoyable experience. Couple this with excellent tuition, and you have all of the ingredients of a great time.

Tomorrow, ruts. Then my skills as a Jedi will be complete. In the words of Yoda, "no more training will I require". Having been shown what are the right things to do, and the right way to do them, it is now all about practice. First race on Saturday, should be a good start.

Plain Common Sense

320,000 cubic metres of concrete. 30,000 tons of steel. 5km of road deck. 2,434 road deck sections. 1,000 men working for four years. Several milion litres of white paint. Tag on a fantastic bit of Plain Common Sense, and you have an beautiful piece of engineering linking two countries across some pretty hostile water with a 50-foot tidal range. You and I know it as the Second Severn Crossing.

The Severn Crossing is very important to me, primarily because it represents the shortest route for me to get to BMW in Wales - where I am travelling to this evening. Last time I went, I went on the bike, but this time I will be going in the car - The Missus and the Wee Yin are going too. We're staying at Dderi Farm, and they are going to love it. The Wee Yin is dead excited at the thought of staying on a working sheep farm. The Missus is looking forward to a bit of piece and quiet.

As bridges go, there are bigger and there are better. There are bridges across more hostile stretches of water - the Golden Gate being the best example - and bridges that dwarf the vital statistics of the Severn Crossing (think Millau).

What makes the Severn Crossing unique, and this is where the common sense comes into play, is its approach to motorcycles. Today, in the car, crossing the bridge will cross me a fiver. Very reasonable too. Last time, on the bike, I was waved through the toll for free.

Blogs passim tells you the fun and games on tolls if you a re a biker, and Severn River Crossing plc have obviously given this some thought. This is not only better for the car drivers, not getting stuck behind a bike, it's also better for the bridge. Let me explain.

The Severn toll booths are right at the end of the Welsh viaduct, on the westbound carriageway. This means that you cross the bridge, then pay the toll. So if there is a big traffic queue waiting for the tolls, then that traffic queue tails back on to the bridge. This puts more weight on the bridge - all that queuing traffic - and means the bridge has to be stronger to handle the weight. Stronger means more steel. More steel means more money. This means higher tolls. Think about it.

So they made the decision to let bikes through for free. This helps keep the traffic flowing at the toll. Less queues, less strain, less steel, less money. Everybody wins, but the greatest winner of all is Common Sense - sat in the corner proudly wearing his victory medal.

Of course, there decision could always have been made to charge people before they crossed the bridge - and traffic queues would then have been on terra firma - but maybe that was just too sensible. It is far more likely that a clever economist calculated that more vehicles would travel from England to Wales than the other way round (so they make more revenue by only charging for that direction). It is equally likely that the money had to be collected in Wales because it would then go into the correct state coffers. You and I will probably never know the details, but they will be along those lines.

This is an insight that not a lot of people seem to take the trouble to develop. A very simple truth which most of us choose to ignore: Nothing happens for no reason. In the world of man, everything happens for a reason. Everything is the process of the rational thought (blogs passim) of somebody. The things that you just accept are how they are - like where the toll booths of the Severn Bridge are placed - are actually the result of somebody making a deliberate decision. Think about that for a second.

When you realise this, you can take things apart to see them for what they are, and you can appreciate some of the thought that went into them (which is not always rational but appeared rational to somebody).

Take the example of a Give Way sign on the road. It's a triangle. It is also the only sign on UK roads that is an upside-down triangle. Doesn't that strike you as odd? Did you ever wonder why this was the case, or did you just accept it? There is a very simple reason why these signs are an upside down triangle: even if the sign is obscured (e.g. by mud or snow) then you can still tell what it is. Stop signs - these are octagonal rather than round for exactly the same reason. Nothing happens for no reason.

So maybe I think too much. In the words of Jarvis Cocker - "... stop asking questions that don't matter anyway". Maybe I should just accept that things are how they are, and stop melting my brain by processing all of this stuff. Perhaps my life would be far more content if I just took for granted that you don't wear hi-viz clothing in Wetherspoon's pubs and not worry about why that would be the case. But I don't have that choice - I am bipolar. I can't stop myself thinking about this stuff any more than I can stop myself blinking or breathing. Depending on where I am in the cycle, this affects the stuff I think about - but the clarity of thinking is always the same.

Back on a bike off-road tomorrow for the BMW Level 2 course. The key lesson that I want to get - and the one I am most afraid of - is "riding ruts and changing lines". I am told by previous participants that this consists of riding along a track with several ruts (normally car tyre ruts) towards Zippy who is standing in the road. He jumps from rut to rut and, as he does so, you need to get your bike into the rut that he is not standing in. Rinse repeat, as you ride towards him. The rule of the exercise is, apparently, "Don't run Zippy over". I am told that nobody makes it without falling off several times. Well, if something is worth doing then it's worth doing badly at first I suppose.

Given the rain that there has been in the West country, I think that Carnage is waiting patiently for his opportunity to have some fun at my expense. That said, the instruction at BMW is brilliant - you are never asked to do anything you have not been shown how to do. More importantly, you are never asked to do anything that you haven't seen the instructors do first. You are only ever asked to do things that you know are possible.

The best thing about BMW is the way they show you the techniques. Start with something that you think is impossible (like changing ruts). Have a six-times Dakar veteran show you how to do it, and explain what the technique is. Your first reaction is "WOW!". Then, when it's explained, you feel exactly how you'd feel if a magician showed you how a trick was done - "but that's just plain common sense ..."

Omnipotence

I've been asked a couple of times what "omnipotence" means (blogs passim).

Here is a brilliant example of omnipotence right here:



That stare towrads the end of the video - I can do that, to perfection, without a mask. I am building me one of those devices for the next time somebody comes up to me and asks me "do you know who I am?"

Education, Education, Education

I said rather a lot last blog about the education I didn't get. I'd like to redress the balance by saying something about the education I did get.

I was taken out of mainstream school at the age of 8. In the un-up to this, I was being visited at school by Very Clever People from the education department of the council and undergoing an IQ test approximately every week. They kept on telling me how they were going to make sure I got the education that was going to allow me to make the best of my abilities, and how my behavioural problems (read "omnipotence and serious questioning of authority") were entirely down to the fact that I was not being challenged enough at school. They would make sure I went somewhere where there was people like me. Remember that - where there was people like me.

I first of all went into hospital - not school - for, em, assessment. More IQ tests. Lessons during the day, going to bed in a ward at night. People with nurses uniforms. One of the girls in the ward - a girl by the name of Gwen - was there because she was anorexic. A couple of orhpans, one lad who's parents were circus performers (a clown and a trapezist). Several very tough 'urchin' types.

One thing I remember as particularly striking was that the doors had a type of lock I had never seen before. Yale locks. On both sides of the door. In other words, it was impossible to get through a door, from either side, without a key. I still don't know if this was to stop us getting out of our own free will, or if it was to stop people taking us out - child protection and all that.

I went from there to a Barnardos school. More orphans and urchins. Lessons were all on site, with proper outside teachers, and then we were handed over to the residential staff for care. We got away with murder - we soon realised that the staff were not allowed to dispense the kind of short, sharp corporal punishment that you would get from your Ma or Da if you gave them too much lip. We all knew that you could curse and swear and totally get away with it. This is a pretty cool thing for a nine-year-old to play with.

I started at Barnardos on 9 December 1980. I remember it, because there was this thing in the news that everybody was talking about - somebody called John Lennon (a singer or something) had been shot.

I made brillant friends there. A young lad by the name of Ricky - an orphan - who was partially Down's Syndrome and whom I will say more about in the future. Michael Gray - another orphan - cheeky as a monkey's arse. Urchins. Misfits. The flotsam and jetsam of life. Hearts of gold - some of the warmest people I have ever met. Kids who had nothing, but who would share it with you. Kids coming back from weekends home black and blue. Abused kids. Starved kids. Abandoned kids. My friends and playmates.

I sat some exam or other and won a scholarship to some really posh fee paying school in Cumbria. I made it known to everybody that I wasn't going - I wanted to stay in the environment I had been in for (what was by now) several years. Nobody listened. Well, actually, they did - then told me point blank that I had no choice in the matter. They told me that I would be beside people of my own ability. That it would be good for me.

I hated the fee-paying school. People of my own ability? I met a couple, but the vast majority of them were just rich. The two are not the same thing, whatever you are brought up to believe. Intelligence does not go hand in hand with money - in either direction. One never guarantees the other.

I saw a sharp contrast to Barnardos. I saw well-to-do kids who wanted for nothing, yet still stealing from eachother and being sneaky. I saw selfishness on a scale that I could not comprehend. I saw bullying to appalling degrees. I saw some of this at Barnardos, but nowhere near as much. It really made me think about what it is that "salt of the eart" actually meant - and I spent a long time associating financial success with the need to behave - and treat people - in that way. Perhaps that's why I've stayed relatively poor - at least I know I haven't had to become like that in order to get ahead.

Promptly getting expelled from fee-paying school, I ended up in a place called Lendrick Muir - near Perth in Scotland. It was pretty much like my first Barnardos school - similar population and setup - and I really did enjoy it most of the time. Unlike my first Barnardos school, the residential staff were also the academic teachers. This meant that you often had weird situations like the guy teaching you English this morning was the guy who you were trading punches with last night because you weren't settling down and going to bed.

To some of the staff, it was a cushy teaching job - small classes - with this really annoying have-to-look-after-the-kids-duty in the evening. To others, it was a brilliant get-to-work-with-these-kids deal, with some annoying teaching duties tagged on to it.

Anyway, there was this great guy called Ron. As well as the residential stuff, he also taught Physics and Chemistry. In addition, he found time to be one of the top five rock climbers in the UK. An awful lot of physics lessons became "fieldwork" - which basically consisted of learning how pulleys worked by climbing up some random cliff in Tayside.

For my third year chemistry exam, he set me a task - I remember it well:

• using suitable ingredients, manufacture 1kg of gunpowder

which I obviously did. 1kg of black powder was duly produced.

My third year physics exam, the following day, consisted of the questions:

1. Calculate the explosive force required to blow through a standard telegraph pole;
   
   
2. Given the explosive force of gunpower in a sealed container is X joules per kg, calculate the amount of gunpower required to blow through a telegraph pole;
   
   
3. Using the anount of gunpowder calculated in (2), blow through a standard telegraph pole

Really. He taught me how to encase the gunpowder in a sealed container (several tobacco tins in this instance) to increase the explosive force - otherwise it's just a fizzle. A sealed tobacco tin full of gunpowder gives a really neat BANG! We then located a telegraph pole in the school grounds and he proceeded to, em, adjudicate in the process of me blowing it up.

I failed to topple the telegraph pole, but it was still a great exam. Come November 5th, I went back with an axe and finished the job - the telegraph pole became the centre pole for the largest bonfire I had ever seen.

"Craft" (or woodwork / metalwork) was completely mental. One of the guys in my class made a real working crossbow. Another one made a canoe out of the aluminim panels from an old caravan. A guy made a working scooter (complete with engine) out of old metal-frame hospital beds and the remains of a Honda C90. If we needed a screwdriver, we would use power grinders to file down and flatten the end of a nail. We had arc welders, and circular saws, with no goggles or safety equipment (or supervision) in sight. The HSE would have had an absolute fit.

We learned to drive cars - on a golf course. In Winter, we'd tie ropes to the back of the car (in said golf course) and one of us would drive the car whilst a half-dozen of us would ski behind it - water ski-ing style. People broke arms and legs, and we'd be back doing it the following day.

My point is a simple one. No degree, or combinations of degrees, could have taught me how to blow up a telegraph pole - nor given me a practical examination in doing so. I would never have learned the subtleties of ski-ing being towed by a car doing 50mph with a 13-year-old at the wheel.

I met people who really had had the odds stacked against them. The attitude of most of the teachers was that most of us were going to come to naught, but they would make damn well sure that we could at least come to something in the time we were there. They bent, mutated and broke all the rules that they could to ensure that every one of us could feel part of something, to find something that we were good at and enjoyed, and - above all - to teach us that life could be fun, regardless of what it threw at you.

I think they failed me though. To this day, I still don't know how much home-made gunpower I would need to blow up a telegraph pole.

Target Fixation

So, this morning, I was careering up the road and I was thinking about target fixation after a near miss with a truck who was coming round a bend on the wrong side of the road. This is probably the number 1 cause of motorcycle accidents. A biker has what bikers refer to as "a moment" - perhaps running into a corner too fast - and panics a little. He sees the carnage that awaits at the side of the road - a ditch or a lamppost perhaps - and looks straight at it thinking "this is gonna hurt".

Target fixation is a universal truth, and it is actually a good thing. The problem is picking the right targets to be fixated on. My perforated best friend (blogs passim) has an incredible target fixation - and goes to some amazing lengths to achieve his objectives. Unfortunately, his objectives always involve scoring heroin. Some of the wheeling-and-dealing talent he has to employ in order to achieve this is impressive indeed.

I once worked on a trading floor up in the City of London, where oil was being traded. People were sitting with two phones - one at each ear - buying something from their left ear and selling it to their right, trying to cram a nice bit of margin into the gap in the middle (am I implying that there was a gap where their brains should have been?). These guys were doing million-dollar trades and were making an absolute fortune for themselves and the company. My job was to make sure that the back-end computer systems were always up, always running every second, and if they were unavailable then I new about it big-time. I was an insect, something to be crushed if I got in the way of their million-dollar trades. These guys would have traded their internal organs if they could have found buyers for them. More specifically, they'd have traded eachothers internal organs - with or without the consent of the 'donor'.

Anyway, it occurred to me that the mentality and the skills were almost exactly the same. Absolute target fixation to the point of being a psychopath, coupled with the wheeling-and-dealing capacity of a room full of Arthur Daleys. One is earning over a million quid a week, the other one trying to accumulate a few quid to score, but it is only the numbers involved that are different. I think that my perforated best friend would do very very well on a trading floor, if given the chance.

Target fixation can be a good thing, if you fix on the right targets. The bike will go wherever you look, so make sure you are looking in the right place.

And that is one thing you can learn from books (blogs passim). You can learn what it is you should be looking for, and therefore what you should be targeting. Once this target is fixed, you will hit it.

Speaking of the parallels between oil traders and perforated friends, it's not always the most talented people who end up doing the jobs needing the most talent. An awful lot of the time, selection is done superficially rather than a thorough investigation of who and who is not the right person.

I get a lot of phone calls from agents, looking to put me into this job or that job. most of them know nothing about what I do, or how I do it, they just look at my job title and see that it is matching a job that they have a vacancy for. A lot of them, once they speak to me, realise that I don't have a university degree and draw the conclusion that I wouldn't be up to doing the job. They have delegated their thinking - hi-viz jacket style (blogs passim) - and do not use their own skill and judgement (assuming they have it). Instead of figuring out for themselves whether or not I have what it takes, they rely on somebody else having made that decision much earlier in my life and 'rubber stamped' me with a university degree.

So, the decisions I took when I was - say - 20 years young than I am now indicate whether or not I am a smart and useful person today. It may well be the case that I didn't get a degree because I am actually quite thick, or that I am lazy, or it may even be the case that I just couldn't afford to go to university and I had to go and earn a living.

It may equally be the case that I was looking at the wrong targets, and I hit exactly what it was I was looking at.

Annoying Tannoying

OK, I may well be developing a bit of a tannoy fetish here (blogs passim), but here is more microphone mischief:



And if anybody can tell me who has time for this, please do enlighten me:



OK, I just counld't resist this one. The soundtrack is naff, but it's a video of the Natterjack Enduro - held in Liss (near Portsmouth). I forsee some playing around in that mud when it comes round again:

Do You Shee The Beasht

Interesting article about the uber-secretive BMW 450 enduro here. BMW are really doing their homework on this one. They have significantly reduced the weight, and placed it all as low as possible, and have put an awful lot of thought into what it is that make KTM so successful in the off-road bike market.

If I were KTM right now, I'd be a bit worried - BMW are signalling that they are going to take them head-on. Given the might - both engineering and financial - of BMW, if it turns into a war of attrition then it will be difficult to compete.

I witnessed a similar war of attrition - from the inside - back in the heady days of dot-com mania. A cheeky young company called Netscape - full of bright ideas from even brighter people - was taking the market by storm. Their products were good, technically innovative and solid, and they were staffed by people who loved what they do.

KTM make excellent bikes, technically innovative and solid, and they are staffed by people who love what they do. Bikes are in KTM's blood.

Unfortunately for Netscape, they were doing a little too well. They caught the eye of a much larger corporate monolith called Microsoft, who enviously eyed the market share and revenue that Netscape was getting. Microsoft launched it's own buggy attempt at a web browser - Internet Explorer - and the browser wars had begun.

Both companies raced like mad to add new features. Javascript, cookies, new ways of positioning and presenting information in the browser. Both of them repeatedly broke - and advanced - the technical specifications of the world wide web. Microsoft took advantage of its financial and market muscle. It not only gave its products away, it tied them so closely to the Windows operating system that users didn't really have a choice about whether to have Internet Explorer or not.

Netscape battled bravely on and put up a hell of a fight but, eventually, an all-out war with a financial bruiser like Microsoft was only ever going to end one way. They, em, "merged" with a much larger computer company and that was effectively the end. Microsoft had beaten them.

The relative market presence, and financial clout, of BMW and KTM closely mirror that of Microsoft and Netscape. The only difference is that, unlike Microsoft at the time, BMW build things of great quality.

I will be watching this one with great interest. My natural sympathies lie with KTM - the underdog in this fight - but I do desperately want BMW to produce lightweight machines (such as a 250cc enduro) that I would have no problems throwing round a track.

This is one "big guy picking on little guy" scenario that part of me actually wants the big guy to win. Not to wipe out KTM in the same way that Microsoft wiped out Netscape, but at least to be producing stuff in the same lightweight bike market. A 100kg BMW enduro bike would truly be a thing of beauty.