As A Man Thinketh

Let me tell you about a guy you've probably never heard of. A guy by the name of James Allen.

He is the father and grandfather of the so-called "Self-Help Industry". Without James Allen, there would have been no Louise L. Hay, no Brian Tracey, and none of these books on the shelves containing wisdom and instructions about "The Power Of You" and such like.

He died in 1902 - over a hundred years ago - and was arguably way, way ahead of his time. He wrote nearly 20 books - mostly philosophical and psychological in nature - and did all of this long before the world even had any idea who Freud was.

His most famous book - As a Man Thinketh - isn't a long one, and only runs into about 40 pages. The whole premise of the book can be summed up in a single sentence:

"If you think shit, you will be shit"

OK, so victorian values had him put it a little differently:

"Man is made or unmade by himself. In the armory of thought, he forges the weapons by which he destroys himself. He also fashions the tools with which he builds for himself heavenly mansions of joy and peace".

You can download the entire book here (PDF format).

My point here, if there's one at all, is a simple one. I, and I alone am responsible for how I feel today. I, and I alone, am responsible for my own thoughts. I, and I alone, am the only person who can turn it around. You are what you think about.

This takes a fair amount of getting used to, and a fair amount of effort when you need to do it. But, do it you can.

Focus on the obstacles, you'll have problems. Focus on the objectives, look to the escape, and you'll find a way throught.

When we went up to West Wilts on Sunday, we passed a pub called "The Churchill Arms". There was a big painting of Churchill outside the pub. As we passed, I was doing my greatest impression of the big guy - which is not to say that it was good.

Funnily, what I was saying in my not-so-great impression was:

"Never give in. Never, never, never, never, in nothing great or small, large or petty, never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy. "

I thought that it was to be the mantra on Sunday. I didn't realise that it was the mantra for today.

My enemy is myself. The overwhleming might is my illness. We battle on. Tomorrow is another day. We fill fight tomorrow as vigorously as we have fought today. And we keep fighting until the battle is won.

Og, get a move on with that battling will you? I want to get back to bikes please ... Yes, me too.

When I get like this, I just want to apologise for everything - who I am, what I am, what I have done and not done. It's actually quite pathetic.

But sometimes, a seeming disadvantage can actually work for you (or for somebody else) if you can think in the right way. Reminds me of a story about a bear and a rabbit, having a shit in the woods.

The bear turns to the rabiit and asks:

"Excuse me rabbit, but do you find that shit sticks to your fur?"

The rabbit nodded vigiourously - "oh yes, and then some!"

The bear smiled and nodded in agreement.

Then he wiped his arse with the rabbit.

Doing Battle

I talk a lot about battling and miltary stuff. Not because I like conflict necessarily, I'm just interested in that kind of thing.

You may well not be interested in what I'm about to tell you. If it's bikes you're looking for then you can safely skip this one and not miss a lot.

From the minute I woke up this morning, I knew that today was one of those days when I'd have to battle. Living with mental illness is like that sometimes. Sometimes you just have to grit your teeth and shove as hard as you can.

It feels a lot like the feeling you get when you're terrified of something. Maybe, for you, it's spiders or heights or something like that - but there is something which just causes you to be paralysed with fear. You know that feeling in your stomach? It all goes really really tight? Your heart starts to race, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

It's like being out in the dark and you suddenly get that feeling that you're being followed. You look round, but nobody's there. But you know, you just know, that you're being followed. You've got this heightened sense of awareness, your eyes flit from side to side trying to pick up every bit of movement - any clue which might back up this hunch that you have.

And all the while, you're gripped by fear. Physically paralysed by it. It's taking all of your energy, and all of your concentration. Sometimes, about every five minutes or so, you take this really sharp intake of breath and you wince in pain - it's like you've just been punched in the stomach. There's no reason for it, at least none that you can figure out.

You go out to get a cup of coffee. There's a couple of people walking towards you. Are they going to attack you? It certainly feels like it. They might be. Should you attack them first, to make sure that you keep the advantage? They're looking at you. Are they looking at you because you're looking at them? Or are they looking at you because they mean to do you harm? What's the right thing to do? Do you run away and avoid a fight, or do you march towards them like you're looking for one?

And, as if this lot wasn't enough, you have to get through the day at work in the same way you did last week - when you were feeling better and nothing was a problem. You're on your toes the whole time - afraid, alert, distraught - and just wanting it to please stop.

This is doing battle. This crap, which grips me and paralyses me and tortures me about once a month, is what gives me the balls and the stamina and the determination to make it round an enduro course. Three hours through cowshit is a walk in the park compared to the physical and mental effort it takes to get through a Bad Day In The Life of a Manic Depressive. Even if Martin is hiding behind bushes to pass you twice inside 10 minutes and wind you up.

Today is one of those "break glass" days. One of those days when you reach for the medication since it's the only way you're going to get to sleep. As much as I detest the medication, and am ashamed of having to take it sometimes, the alternative is even worse. The alternative is that you lie in bed savaging yourself with your thoughts - you physically wince and recoil at the pain.

And there is no way out. Well, actually, there is - but it's not a realistic option for me. It is for some people, who get pushed further than they can take.

I went to school with a guy called Chris. Brilliant guy. A lot of people thought he was a bit odd, but he was a great guy. This guy could throw a cricket ball nearly 100 metres. That's 100 metres through the air before it landed metres. And he could climb. He loved climbing. He was a gifted cyclist, and could easily knock out a couple of hundred miles in a day. And he was my friend.

My Physics teacher, one of the best climbers in the UK, used to take us climbing. Sometimes, he'd do this instead of teaching us Physics. When we went out, he'd just let Chris and loose with a couple of harnesses and some rope and a vague instruction about where and when we were to rendezvous. Here's us - couple of 14 year olds - climbing up and down the harsh cliffs of the Cairngorms unsupervised. Not a social worker or Health and Safety guy in sight.

Anyway, Chris suffered from depression. Badly. His elder brother had hung himself when Chris was 8, and this really affected him.

One day, he went up Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh - an extinct volcano - to a place called Salisbury Crags. These are steep and sharp cliffs that run round the side of the hill - couple of hundred feet high. Great climbing. Anyway, he walked to the edge and dived off head first - couple of hundred feet head first into the boulders and scree.

This is what depression can do to you, and - even though you may never be able to get your head around it - it can actually seem like the most sensible thing to do at the time.

This is doing battle. This is my life. For all its trauma, harship, injury, exertion and effort, enduro is nothing compared to this battle that I have to fight every month. They can't do anything for me, any more than they could make me a foot taller. I need to live with it and - more importantly - be able to deal with it.

I will emerge from it in a day or two, and will be stronger for having done it. Please bear with me - we'll get back to bikes shortly.

De-Mobbing

I spoke to my ITM tonight, it seems he's finally coming round to getting back into reality.

I remember speaking to Chris Jones - of Dakar101 - almost a year ago now and him describing the feelings he went through when he came back after finishing the 2007 race as a rookie. He described a vague feeling of accomplishment, then a really empty void that was akin to depression. A real listlessness, a yearning for more but - strangely - not wanting more right now.
All the minor traumas - that seemed so important at the time. All the oil leaks, cable-ties, dodgy lights, no water, the falls, the panicking about time and speed, the navigation errors kind of lose a bit of their edge. A bit like remembering a time when you were unwell. You remember you were unwell, you may even remember the symptoms, but you cant re-feel the feelings.

And on top of this, you're trying to transpose what you've done into the life you left behind in order to do it. It's not easy.

In 1945, at the end of the second world war, all the troops in Europe and the Far East had to be de-mobbed. They all had to come home when the war was over. Since most of them were conscripted, they were all having to come home to the lives they had left behind. Yet they had to do it in a world that had radically changed - munitions factories were staffed largely by women who, until then, hadn't worked. The women, understandably, weren't too keen to just leave the factories and let the men go back to work.

Some of the guys had been away for years, and were returning to a land that was not the land that they had left. Lots of children had been evacuated and had to be found and gotten back home. Friends and family had died. 4 years of Amercian troops based in Britain had changed the culture and the language forever.

Men are better at compartmentalising their worlds than women. This is one of the reasons why it's harder for men to talk intimately like women do. Women are more able to kind of join everything together and think lots of things at once - which is why they are much better at multitasking than men are. Men make better spies for this very reason - he finds it much easier than a woman does to live a double life and keep the two separate. Women find it much easier to just be lots of things at the same time and mix them all up and do them all well.

So, when these guys came home, they started compartmenting away their old military life and tried to fit back into the life they had left. When you've spent days and weeks in harsh and hostile terrain, with the adrenaline flowing and no idea what will happen next, then it's very difficult to settle back into a life where you know exactly what's in the post.

I don't know how I would cope with this. I have my own mechanisms for dealing with stuff like that, not all of them good ones. I reckon that it would take me some time to just deal with it, and nobody could deal with it for me - only I could do it and only in my own time.

One thing I do recognise, and that is perspective. You cannot take on something like Heroes Legend and spend weeks riding through the desert without it changing your perspective. You'd feel torn in some way. You'd hear and see people getting all concerned and passionate about petty little things which, in the grand scheme of stuff, are just so trivial compared to the things you've seen and witnessed and been part of.

I'd hear, for instance, myself banging on about cowshit and phantom laps and annoying 2-strokes and - to some extent - I'd kind of pity me if that was the extent of the things I was worried about.

I'd see a couple of people fighting over a parking space in a supermarket and you'd compare that to the folks I saw in Morocco who travelled hundreds of miles on donkeys to take their palm leaves to market in return for a few dirhams. I'd be kind of wondering how - or if - I could ever get back into a mindset where that would be normality.

I don't know what lays ahead of me beyond Dakar or Beijing. I have no idea. The title of the blog is not "After2009Dakar.com". I've never thought about it.

So, in the mighty Company of my ITM, yes I do feel a little bit inadequate and there would be something wrong if I didn't. I am delighted for him that he made it, we all are, and I wish that I had been able to share it with him. I wasn't, and it was my own lack of skill that put me there. This feeling of inadequate is my problem, not his. In a way, I feel as sad as I feel guilty about not having done Heroes Legend with him.

The good news is that Billy has obviously necked a few Gins and Tonics and is totally up on his feet again - no malaria. Which is nice, because there is apparently going to be a global shortage of chirpy scousers who are quick with a joke - Billy can now save the planet.

We are going over to Ireland this weekend, to deliver Flat Stanley back to the wee ITM-ettes, meet the (hopefully no longer stressed-out ITM-esse) and I really look forward to his tales from the desert. I really look forward to looking ahead to see what may be on the horizon for next year and beyond. I want to see him and learn all the tales.

Goldilocks is going out on the back of a truck, then we get the boat from HolyHead to Dublin. So this means that there will be bike riding involved. Get to see what it's like to ride with a guy who doesn't get phantom laps. Chew the fat. Enjoy doing what we both enjoy doing.

Enduro is not motocross. When you race, you race against yourself. The race is long, but there is nobody else in it but you. It is not what others do that matters, it is what you yourself do. Just like life.

You are the sum total of the impacts that life has had upon you. Life is the sum total of the impacts that you have had upon it.

Learning Lessons

At AJP, one of the lessons that we have to teach the Enduro Africa guys is about choosing lines. You know, where there are several choices of line around or through an obstacle. We need to teach them to take the one that conserves the most energy.

I will not be teaching this lesson. I will be a pupil in this lesson. The reason for this will become clear.

The Hitch-Hikers Guide to the Galaxy has this to say about manure:

"It is better to compost fresh manure for a few months to allow the nitrogen to dissipate and then use it, or obtain well-rotted manure for immediate use.

Well-rotted manure does not smell of anything more pungent than sweet earthiness and it tends to be dark brown, even black. The length of the maturing process depends upon the air temperature, the time of year and the size of the manure heap.

The bigger the heap, the hotter it will get inside and therefore the faster the manure will decompose".

We'll come back to manure in a minute. In the meantime, I was rather proud of my race at West Wilts today. In the trail class, where there was only six of us (including a couple of sandbaggers), there were two AJP PR3s. I was on one of them, a guy called Barry was on the other. Martin was riding a race-prepped Husaberg 450, somebody was on a Yamaha 250, another guy was on a Sherco trials bike, and somebody else was on a Gas-Gas EC300 2-stroke.

The forecasted downpour never arrived. It was dry, dusty and sunny. A little damp in places but great racing conditions. The course was unashamedly Motocross - lots of open going and fast corners - with only two very nasty bits through trees and woods. I got a great start - second out of the gate bearing down on Martin. He had more straight-line speed than I did, but I was cornering better than he was so I was keeping up with him. Until about a mile into the course that is.

We came to a bit at the bottom of a field. There was this huge black-plastic-wrapped round haybale with red tape on it in the middle of the course. I thought that it marked the course boundary and, in a way, it did. Martin, wily old dog, knew what it meant and went left of it. I didn't know what it meant and went right of it.

What I know now, and didn't at the time, was that this big black plastic cylinder with red tape was saying "don't go this way. Whatever you do, don't go this way". As I quickly discovered, the "this way" it was referring to was to the right. Don't go to the right.

I can officially testify - under oath - that the Hitch Hikers Guide has got it absolutely spot-on. A pile of rotting cow manure is, in fact, black. I know this because I ploughed straight into a 3-feet-deep pile of the stuff.

I have complained and bitched and bleated about the different grades of mud. Normal mud, enduro mud, tank-trap mud and even Moroccan mud. I've went into great detail about the suckiness, the stickiness, the oh-my-god-my-feet-are-stuck aspects of the various types of mud. The main reason why I went on about mud so much, and made a big deal about how evil it was, is that I had never encountered rotting cow shit until today. The bike stopped dead from about 30mph, cowshit higher than the footpegs, and future plans for offspring were severely jeapordised by the resulting crotch/handlebar interface.

In a way, I thanked my stars that I was behind Martin at the time. The slagging I would have got for taking such a stupid line would have lasted an awful long time. The remaining 4 guys in our class sailed past - on the left of the bale.

I got off and rocked the bike from side to side to try and break the Dyson-like suction force of the bovine evilness. I laid it on its side,then picked it up and laid it on it's other side. The sucky cowshit held firm. At this point, I still just thought it was mud. Then I took a lungful and realised that this wasn't quite exactly just mud. It was a years worth of Ermintrude's digested dinners, helpfully bulldozed into a little pile at the bottom of the field.

I put the bike on its side and fought back the retching as I stuck my hands in to get the front wheel out. Normally, you'd not even consider sticking your hands elbow-deep into a pile of cowshit for any earthly reason. But this is a race. Different rules apply. Somewhere ahead of me on that track, getting further away, was Martin - whose arse I was sworn to whip today. If that bike didn't come out, then I might as well go home.

I get my hands under the wheel and pull as hard as I can. I feel this almighty tear in the bottom of my back and I fall flat on my arse in agony. I don't know what I've done, but I've really done something to my lower back. Bollocks. I'm not even a mile into the first lap yet, I'm covered in cowshit, and now I've gone and done my back in as well.

I did, at that point, consider just letting it drop for today. I mean, what's the big deal? I was as sick as a dog yesterday and - even as late as 7pm last night - I didn't think I would be well enough to race. I also had to consider that the prospects of The Missus sharing a bed with me tonight were slim - if I stunk like Daisy's arse.

I decided that I might as well get hung for a sheep as a lamb, and that I was finishing this race regardless. I didn't come here to DNF in this most embarassing of ways. all covered in cowshit. I took off my helmet and gloves and got on my knees in the filthiness. I started doing what any self-respecting enduro rider would do. I dug. I dug like a little puppy looking for a bone. Dig dig dig dig dig. Scoop after scoop of prime rotting manure. This bike was coming out - especially now I've went to the lengths of covering myself in cowshit.

A couple of spectators, who had witnessed the carnage from afar, came over to investigate:

"What are you doing in there then?"

"The wrong thing"

"You don't want to be in there!"

You think? I grinned at them:

"This is me putting my 'how bad a line can I take?' plan into action"

Two of them then waded in to give me a hand to drag the bike out. Another four or five minutes of rocking, tipping, pulling and swearing, and out she popped like a champagne cork.

This little fiasco had taken over twenty minutes, and two hours worth of energy - five minutes into a 3-hour race. I was about to jump on the bike and set off, then I remembered what happened in Morocco. When I got stuck in the mud, and got exhausted pulling the bike out (which I could never have done without the help of my ITM), I broke my collar bone about 3 miles later. Not again. No way.

I also had to be mindful that I have injured my back and that if I came off, then there was a good chance that I couldn't pick the bike up.

"Use the gifts God gave you" I tell myself. I am smart. I have lots of stamina. Use your brain. You have enough stamina to deal with 3 hours, and then some more. What's the smart thing to do here? Is it to rocket off on the bike, and start coming off? Or is it to go steady, let your stamina kick in?

So I sat for a few minutes, had a drink, got my breath back. Then I set off slowly. I was telling myself that I had to relax - even though my back was killing me - and that the speed would come. Just take it easy, finish this race. The speed will come all by itself. Whipping Martin's arse will keep for another day. Concentrate on technique - do it right, don't try and do it fast. Fast comes after right.

Oh, and go to the left of that f**king haybale next time.

The Missus, she tells me later, knew that something was wrong for the first 3 or 4 laps. My body language wasn't right, I was slow and tense and hesitant. I was obviously in pain or suffering some other trauma. She knows these things.

Then Martin passed me. Just to make sure that there was no accusations of phantom laps (blogs passim), he held up a finger and shouted "That's number 1!".

Something went click. I don't know if I realised that the ground was more grippy than I thought, or if I was just ready for some other reason, but I just wound up the right hand. I rode a different race from that point on.

The course had more whoops than Track and Trail the other week - there wasn't a single bit of it was flat. It was a constant pound-pound-pound over the bumps, and the little Marzocchis on the front of Goldilocks took them well. the only bit that didn't have whoops was in the trees, and that was polished mud where grip had done a runner. The mud in the trees was so polished and slippery that even the expert riders were crawing through it at 2 miles per hour.

The people who done the course had laid a tree trunk right across the track, and there were two lines over it - no way round it. The right hand line was quicker, but the trunk was higher here. The left hand line was slower, but the trunk was only about 8 inches high. I went for the right-hand line once. The resulting tip-over was painful. The resulting picking up of the bike even more so. My back was reminding me why we don't do these things. It was my first, and only, off of the day. Martin had a completely clean sheet - his first time ever.

My next 5 or 6 laps were faster than my first 3, I was really flowing. I really was concentrating on my cornering - since this is where I lose an awful lot of time. I take corners too slowly. This is a confidence thing, and the speed will come. When you ride a 4-stroke, it is crucial to carry as much speed as possible into corners, because you simply don't have the explosive power on the exit. On a 2-stroke, you can get away with slowing right down because the power of the bike will catapult you out of the exit and along the straight. If I can improve my cornering, then my lap times will improve an awful lot. I think that it may be necessary for me to spend some time up at the motocross track, just practicing corners.

Martin passed me again - "Number 2!". Then, about 20 minutes later, he passed me again - "Number 3!". This didn't add up. It was a 7-mile course, and I was going faster than I had previously, which means that Martin would have had to average something like 100mph in order to pass me in 20 minutes. Even when I got stuck in all that cowshit, it still took him nearly an hour to pass me the first time. Something not quite right here. Martin put it down to all of that course he cut out because he just couldn't be bothered with it, and gave me one of those enigmatic grins of his. He was just winding me up. Still, the lap times will tell - we wait the results.

As I approached the end of my eighth lap, The Missus started jumping up and down and shouting "one more! one more!". I pulled through the time gate with 30 seconds to spare, and got out for a ninth and final lap. I was the last rider out on the course and, strangely enough, this was my fastest lap. It is amazing how much confidence and concentration you get when you only have to worry about what's ahead of you, and not be afraid of what's coming up behind you.

I think that is another one of those great biking metaphors for life - if you worry about what's behind you, then you will have problems - but all of the real problems in your life are in front of you. The past is fixed and cannot be changed, only the future has possibility.

I made a complete mess of getting the bike up on to the trailer - even with Martin's help - because I couldn't do anything with my back. It fell right off the plank. The guys in the truck next to us applauded, then gave us a hand. Couple of Nurofen and a cup of tea later, my back had settled down enough to drive home.

You know that I do a lot of reading about history and stuff. I have never, yet, encountered a situation in History where somebody has got worse because they had a cup of tea. And the cup of tea after an enduro is the finest cup of tea you'll ever taste.

Washing the bike outside the house produced a lovely little pile of cowshit which had to be brushed and shoveled and taken into the woods - about 6 trips in all. It was everywhere. The Missus and I both did it, and she was giving me grief about which direction I was spraying the jetwash in. There then followed a conversation about "you're putting all the shit in the wrong place" and "so where do you want the shit then?". Our new next-door neighbour, overhearing this just as he got out of his car. I wonder what he thought.

So, 9 laps. Martin got 12 - we think - which I reckon would put him winning our class. Barry, on the other AJP, got a DNF. He went over the bars into a ditch and his handlebars came loose. Which, apart from Barry, I reckon that made me last in the class.

Bottom of the class, covered in cowshit, but still very very happy with today's performance. Not just with the 9 laps - the most distance I've covered in a race yet, but also with the way that I am learning lessons. Learning the lesson of Morocco - tired riders get broken bones - for instance.

Only my third time out since being injured, and I am noticing that I am much quicker than previously. Not only that, I am also noticing where I am losing time. Whereas before, I was just concentrating on getting round the course, now I am analysing my riding to figure out where I am losing the seconds and minutes.

Cornering - we know this. I will be working on cornering. Quick cornering is the key to good lap times on a 4-stroke. I need to carry more speed into corners. Couple of trips to the Motocross track I think.

Also, weight. A small 4-stroke bike weighing only 89 kilos will happily pull along quite quickly if all she's pulling is herself and me.

But she's not too happy about pulling herself, me, and enough cowshit to fertilise Hyde Park.

Lesson learned.

The Heroes of The Day, though, were the spectators who waded into the cowshit to help pull me out. Thank You guys.

The Irony of Pylons

I was a little bit nervous about today. Trail riding at AJP, there were 2 level 1 people - booked on a half day - and 3 level 2 people. This meant that Martin and I would be riding in separate groups. I was responsible for navigation, safety and - crucially - mechanics and repairs.

Fate, with that wonderful irony she has, made sure that she laid it on pretty thick as you will discover.

Martin took out Colin and Pete on a couple of PR3s (Jane and Nadia) and I had Mark, Andy and Ray - all on PR4s. I was on Queen Madge II - herself a proud PR4.

Mark was huge. Like tallest-man-in-the-world huge. Stood next to Chief, he'd make Chief look like I look when stood next to Chief. Try and get your head round that one. He was about seven feet tall, with hands the size of shovels. The funniest part of the day was when he was game enough - with enough of a sense of humour - to have a go on a PR3, which he did just for the comedy value. It turned out that he lives less than four miles away from me, where he runs a used car garage. Strangely enough for a used car guy, he had a massive amount of integrity - probably one of the reasons why he's been in business for 25 years.

His mate Andy was a fireman. Not just any fireman either - he was a nuclear fireman working in a nuclear research plant. I spent the day calling him "Atomic Sam" - which he rather enjoyed.

Ray was an ex-Para, ex-SAS, currently employed as a firearms cop in London. Only 715 days to go until he retires - at which point he will be touring America for a year in a motorhome. He spent some time travelling across South America on foot - the highlight of his trip was when his boat capsized in the Amazon due to a freak tidal wave. He spent four hours swimming against the Amazon river before he reached dry land, and this was a holiday.

You're dying to know how the 260cc PR3 worked out. Well, first off, her name is "Godzooky". Remember Godzilla? Well Godzilla had a nephew - a fiery little thing called Godzooky. I wish I had thought of that one, but it was actually Chief.

Godzooky had issues with her gearbox, which seized up a few miles out on the road. Martin had been working through the night - till 6 this morning - trying to get her ready. The gearbox wasn't a happy bunny. Godzooky went back to AJP, and another bike was produced.

But, the day worked well. Having two groups of us out on the Plain worked really really well. For one thing, two groups of three and four are less conspicuous than a group of seven. This avoids any potential Land Warden issues. Which would obviously be an issue if we were winging it anywhere. Which, obviously, we're not. Of course not. I mean, we don't - ever - venture beyond signs that say "No Civilian Vehicles". Of course not.

And there's the etiquette I was banging on about too. If we see somebody, we slow and stop and wait. Some guy was out with his dog, so we stopped and slowed and waited. As we waited, it gave him the opportunity to break out his camera and start taking pictures of us, our bikes and stuff. We were, quite obviously, hooligans intent on rampage and destruction - why else would we be on motorcycles?

As the guy took pictures, he and I "discussed" the legality of this particular route. It occurred to me, and I pointed out to him, that he only has the opportunity to take pictures because we ae being polite and considerate. If we were actually the hooligans he thinks we are, then we'd have sped past him, showering him in roost, and he'd not be able to take any at all.

I don't know what his frame of reference was. Perhaps he had a beloved dog that was run over and killed by a hooligan motorcycle tearing up a footpath. Perhaps he just hates motorcycles. Whatever his thinking, it was clear that we had two completely different ways of looking at the world.

Laws get made in response to behaviour. Laws tend not to get made without making some attempt to solve something that is perceived as a problem. Speed limits on roads for instance - these laws exist to try and cut down the number of accidents and deaths - which are the highest in Europe. Laws about where you can and can't ride a motorcycle - these laws exist to protect walkers, cyclists and horse riders from hooligans tearing around on dirt bikes with no regard for the safety and well-being of anybody else.

And the Laws which get made criminalise people who are not criminals. They may well solve the problem of the small number of people who just don't give a shit about anybody else, but they also criminalise the people who actually try and be responsible.

That said, this guy is the first guy we've met who actually turned out to be a proper dickhead. Most of the people we encounter use their judgement - they see that we are not causing trouble and are grateful to us for stopping and not interfering with their enjoyment of the countryside. They recognise that we can co-exist, all that it takes is a little bit of common sense and a little bit of manners.

In an ironic way, that guys actions have made it less sensible for us to stop and be polite. Much more sensible to just barge him out of the way, since then no pictures get taken. That doesn't make sense. OK, forgive me ranting a little. I'll stop now.

Apart from less issues with the Land Warden, it's quicker in two small groups. The pace is much much quicker, and I'm not really sure why. The best thing of all is that it is just so much slicker, so much more professional. The highlight of my day - believe it or not - was seeing how happy Martin was with his whole "Level 1" / "Level 2" strategy. Seeing it fall into place. Seeing the plans that he had made materialise in front of him. I was proud, very proud, to be part of that.

When the Level 1 guys pull up just behind us at an obstacle we are just leaving, it is slick. When the Level 2 guys see the Level 1 guys going through a lesson that they just skipped - because they're advanced - then it is slick. It was a privilege to have been part of making that happen. It was an honour to have been able to help Martin realise his vision, in the same way that Martin is helping me realise mine - riding the lightest 4-stroke bike in the world to Dakar.

We met up in the farmers woods. We showed the guys the enduro track we had laid out, and then we let them swap bikes and play around for a while. Colin snapped the clutch cable on Jane. Poor Jane. Sat there with no clutch cable. The little PR3 who had so faithfully taken me round Dawn to Dusk, sat there all helpless and forlorn with no clutch cable. Colin thought that he had snapped the clutch cable on the bike he was riding - he didn't realise that it was Jane.

The guys I was with were, at one point, ribbing me about getting paid for doing this. Their jaws dropped when I told them that I didn't get paid for it. How on earth could they possibly understand why I do this - and do it for nothing?

Mark asked the killer question - "so why do you do it then?". Thank You. I'd like to Thank the Academy.

I explained that I do this because Martin and I are working on building an AJP PR3 into the lightest rally bike in the world which, when complete, will ride the Paris-Dakar:

"Are you good enough to do the Dakar?"

"No. Definitely not yet anyway."

"But you're doing it anyway?"

"You've got two choices. You either say 'I could have done that', or you're in the back of a sweeper truck saying 'at least I gave it a go - at least I done that'. Which one would you choose?"

"I'd give it a go"

"Exactly. So the odds are against it. But it's all about having a go. Anything can happen. Maybe, just maybe ...".

And why not? I am not the best rider in the world. I don't aim to be, and I don't claim to be. I have balls, and if I fail to make it then it will be because I am airlifted out - I will absolutely never give up. There is nothing else that I have going for me, other than an insane belief in myself and a refusal to give up. This is not a recipe for success, but it is certainly a recipe for knowing that if failure comes then it won't be because I wimped out.

We caught up with Martin and the others at the big mud hole that I have ended up in the last couple of weeks. As usual when we stop, I break out the maps and start trying to get a position fix - even if I already know where I am. The way to learn how to navigate well is to navigate lots, and I have to get that triangle of error down to something that at least puts me in the right country.

There's a line of electricity pylons almost directly over my head, going in a straight line to the bottom of a steep slope. Perfect. I can take a bearing right along it, then compare it to the one on the map to see where I'm going wrong with this whole magnetic north / grid north thing.

But they pylons were not on the map. None. No pylons. So begun the most almighty hissy fit Salisbury Plain has ever seen. Martin points out that pylons aren't marked on maps, probably just to wind me up.

Out came every map I had and I then went over them. "Look! Pylons! Pylons! Pylons! Look above me - pylons! Look at the map - no pylons!". I don't think that any of the guys had ever seen anybody get quite so passionate about pylons before. I was proper cross about it - especially when the resulting triangle of error put me close to somewhere in rural Wales. Which would have been fine, if I was in rural Wales, but I was in Wiltshire.

More work needed, but a lesson learned. Maps are an approximation, and might not show everything that you can see on the ground.

So we're tramming along all day. Mark was really really good. An ex-trials rider - what the Portugese call a Trialisita - he had no problems at all. Andy, another ex-trials rider hadn't been on a bike in some time and had problems with confidence. At one point, he thought that ot was better if he just took the half day and got Martin to come pick him up.

I got a hold of him and told him that he better not dare. We started this day together and we will finish it together. He was concerned that he was holding the faster guys up. I told him that we are not four individual riders - we are a team of four riders. We will go as slow as we need to - we finish together. Andy became a different rider after that. As his confidence grew, so did his skill. The skill was always there, but he needed confidence to bring it out.

And this is what it's all about at AJP. It's not about being the fastest or the sexiest. It is, for me, about helping people learn what they have inside themselves. Helping them to find that part of themselves which they knew they had, but which never comes out in normal life.

For some people, it's as simple as going through a rut. For others, it's just falling off less times than I do. But, if all I can do is send people home with a sense that they have discovered something new about themselves - pushed themselves to limits that they never thought they had - then that makes it worth it.

It occurred to me that there is a big difference between being able to do something and being able to teach it. Sure, I can ride ruts, but can I teach somebody else to do it? Can I help them find - within themselves - the courage and confidence that it takes? You can teach technique, but you cannot teach confidence. Confidence comes from within. Confidence can only be encouraged, it cannot be taught.

And Andy's confidence grew as the day went on. Remarkably. Well done Andy.

Then it all went a bit wrong. I was riding through a really horrible patch of mud when I just stopped dead. No friction on the clutch. That clutch, which had been slipping all day, was cooked. Two feet of mud, and I grind to a halt. Gentlemen, start your piss taking engines.

Not only that, but we are as far away from help as we can possibly be - we are just about to start heading back again. Nice.

So here I am, in the middle of nowhere, with a cooked clutch and its the first time out by myself. Fate, wonderful sense of irony that she has, was pissing herself. Ray is full of advice about waiting for the clutch to cool down and the like. But I know a cooked clutch when I see one - this needs replacing, it will not fix itself. I did the only thing I could do - call Martin and arrange a rendezvous. Yet the rendezvous leaves us two miles to travel to get off the trail.

I start pushing the bike through horrible mud and deep ruts. Mark, Andy and Ray - absolute troopers - take turns in helping. It is, as I have been saying all day, a team effort.

It's the first cooked clutch I've encountered. And there's no Martin. I am on my own.

We happen across a Pikey - or traveller - and I ask him if he has a rope we can borrow to get this thing towed to the road. He does, but is reluctant to give it to us since he is fearful that he won't get it back. I assure him that I will come back with his rope, but it's a mile and a half to the road and will he please help us?

We set up the tow - footpeg to footpeg - with me riding in front and Mark (the brilliant trials rider) on the broken bike. Through two miles of ruts, mud and shit we tow the bike. Thank You Zippy (blogs passim). I wonder, for a minute, what it must feel like to tow a bike for 100 miles through dunes. I hope I never find out.

We get to the road and wait on Martin. Since we were stopped, I break out the maps and do the whole position fix thing. Over the road there are not one, but two lines of pylons. On the map, there are two lines of electricity pylons. Brilliant. You got to love Fate's sense of humour.

Martin arrives about 20 minutes later with a fresh bike on the trailer. I return the rope to the traveller - it's the right thing to do. Quick piss-take about clutches and cooking and we're off again.

We came back through the woods and down a steep and muddy hill. Mark and I reached the bottom and waited for the others. As we waited, I said to Mark:

"Normally when we go down this hill, the two guys in front make it down nice and slow but the guys behind - for some reason - try and do it much much quicker. When they hit all that shit near the bottom and they're going too quick then it goes a bit wrong."

"They fall off?"

"Yes, exactly like those two did there"

It was like synchronised spillage. Andy and Ray came belting round the corner of this steep hill, both grabbed a front brake at the same time, and both fell over and hit the deck at exactly the same time. Andy's was a little more spectacular though. Falling off wasn't quite enough for him, oh no, so he launched himself through the air and hit a tree. He got up, covered head to toe in mud, grinning.

When we got back to the edge of the Plain, I cleaned everybody's number plates for the road journey back to AJP. We had 3 completely knackered muddy guys, each of whom was grinning from ear to ear.

I couldn't help but feel a little bit proud of myself. These guys have had a ball. I did that.

If you ever see somebody who looks like they need a smile, give them one of yours.

So Martin won't be on a PR3 tomorrow, he'll be on the Husaberg. He's a little disappointed with this, because now we can't have our little feud. The other PR3s have been lent to people who want to try them out - so there will still be 3 of us on PR3s tomorrow.

But, just to be sure that he's got a chance of winning, Martin poisoned me. I don't know what it was, but I was sick as a dog last night and all of today. I mean, there's trying to get an advantage but ...

Shock and Awww

Discussions last night about Martin's need to make sure he's got a little bit more speed for West Wilts on Sunday. Whereas I may have had a chance of beting him on an identical bike, he'll be absolutely gutted if I beat him when he's got more speed.

I got a great voicemail left today. Listening to it, it went like this:

"John, it's 12:30. Listen!"

[sound of shuffling]

[sound of bike trying to start]

[sound of bike still trying to start]

[sound of something likt Muttley cursing]

[sound of bike trying to start]

BRROOOOM!!! BROOOOOM!!!

[sound of shuffling]

"It works!"

[CLICK]. Hang up.

That was, obviously, Martin who wanted to share the moment that the 260cc engine - carefully positioned in the PR3 frame with the help of a hammer - took her first breath. Well, took her first not-set-the-place-on-fire breath.

She goes out on the trail tomorrow, to take her first steps. Her first little faltering and tentative 'anfdul. A bit of gentle riding in the morning - we have 2 Level 1 half-days people, and 3 Level 2 full-day people.

Which means that I am off in the afternoon on my own. I will take the maps this time. I also need to take my spanners in my bum bag - we will try to avoid tatoos this time.

With the lighter nights coming in, I took the dog out for a walk up the hill near us and I also took my map and compass. The best, the most reliable way, to learn how to navigate well is to navigate lots. Take your maps with you on terrain you know well. Study the maps. Study the land. Study the maps some more, it is amazing what you will see that you didn't see before.

I saw a line of pylons. Oh look, they're on the map. I saw a line of telegraph poles. Oh look, they're on the map too. And that bit where they cross over - right there - then that is where I am. Quick check on the GPS, and I was right to within about 2 feet. Superb.

So let's try it again using triangulation. What you do is take three bearings, to three separate things, and draw lttle lines on the map. Where these lines cross, then that's where you are. You end up with a little triangle, the so called "triangle of error":

The ideas is to make this triangle as small as possible.

So, bearing in mind that I am in a field that I know well - and I already know where I am to about two feet - I thought I'd do it with the compass this time. Like, triangulate.

Nice hill over there with a trig point on it - bearing number 1. Get it plotted on the map. House in a gap between the hill and the next hill. Second line drawn. Where the pylons cross the road about a mile away. Third line.

So, em, that put my triangle - all of it - right at the arse end of the next field. I have some work to do here. I think that I didn't adjust properly for magnetic north and grid north. Some more practice needed.

Or, I could always blame it on the dog. The field was full of sheep and lambs. Being a sheepdog breed, she was very interested in the sheep. She was curious, but a little bit nervous. Inched towards them step by step whilst I'm, em, "navigating".

Next minute, she leaps six feet into the air and starts singing. Well, it sounded like singing. I drop the map and turn round to see her landing unceremoniously on her ever-expanding arse.

Ahh. An electric fence. Don't sniff electric fences.

Shock and - one, two, three - aww!

AJP PR3 Dakar

So I've been playing around with doodling little pictures of bikes and - particularly - bikes with extra fuel tanks. In particular, an AJP PR3 with extra fuel tanks. It was a bit difficult, me not being a great drawer and all, but CAD software was just too difficult to use.

I decided to see if I could do it in Google Sketchup. Turned out not too bad at all:



The key thing about realising an ambition is being able to visualise the ambition. If you can see it, smell it and taste it, then you'll get it. So I can now start to visualise it, play around with the images. The Missus will have opinions on the colour, she's good that way.

The bike that we're building to take to Dakar is a prototype. We start with a AJP PR3 MX - complete with golden Marzocchi forks and motocross-sized wheels. We replace the engine with a 260cc engine based on the Honda XR (about 35 horse power). We upgrade the front forks so that we can put a 21" front wheel in there, and we use the swingarm from a AJP PR4 so that we can put a 19" rear wheel in there. We put stronger springs in the clutch - it's easy to cook the clutch on a 4-stroke.

The fuel tanks are posing the biggest problem, since it's not clear if we can get ones off the shelf that will fit exactly. Luckily, the guys next door to AJP - a workshop called Reef Graphics - make carbon fibre moulded panels and parts for customising cars, and they reckon they will be able to help with the fuel tanks. There's no need for extra pumps, since the fuel flows by gravity, and the AJP already has the tank under the seat - nice and low.

We upgrade the stator (spinny thing that produces electricity) to make sure we can power the navigation equipment, and we add a cockpit shield - like the front of an Africa Twin. Again, this is most likely coming from Reef Graphics.

The mandatory 3 litres of water is housed in a fake exhaust on the left-hand side of the bike. This will need guarding in case of crashing, and we're looking on the bike for suitable mounting points for the braces. The toolbox is housed in a little box under the bash plate.

It is very exciting being involved in building a Dakar-capable bike. A lot of the engineering decisions that you just take for granted have to be rethought about and reconsidered. The oil cooler for instance - we think that the existing oil cooler will be meaty enough to cool the 2600 engine, but we may need to add a slightly bigger one.

Every decision is a trade-off. A larger oil-cooler means that the left-hand fuel tank needs to be slightly smaller. If the left-hand tank is smaller, then the right-hand tank also needs to be smaller - otherwise the bike will be unbalanced.

But, like all engineering challenges, there are a couple of over-arching principles that we must stick to:

• The finished bike must not weigh more than 110kg;
  
  
• It must have a minimum range of 200 miles;
  
  
• It must have a minimum of 35 horse power, and a top speed of 85mph

The first of these is obvious, as is the second to an extent. The reason for the top speed requirement is to make sure that I can make up average times on the long liasons of a rally. Strangely enough, it is the liasons that will be the challenge for the little bike - she'll just skip through the special sections.

And then, of course, there's the colour. The Missus will have opinions on this. The colour is ultimately down to her. Watch her send me to Dakar decked out in Penelope-Pitstop-Pink.

A number of years ago, I had to do a spot of jiggery-pokery on piece of new-fangled technology called a web site. A huge mobile phone company - let's call them "Toad-a-Phone" - was going through a spot of re-branding. They had some very very specific requirements about what shade of red their website was to have on it. Me, being useless with colour, brought it home and started working on it in the spare room. The Missus, being brilliant with colour, was the one who actually jigged it into shape and put the site live. Multi-billion-pound mobile phone company, their website was put live from a spare room by a heavily-pregnant Missus with a cup of tea in one hand.

Yesterday, I contacted Tripy about their electronic roadbook - remember the one? Given what AJP are planning about roadbook and navigation training, I wanted to know if we could get a unit to evaluate for a few days. This will allow us to see if they will do the job for helping teach people roadbook navigation. Are they easy to use? Intuitive? That kind of stuff.

I got a response back today from Chris Cook - the Tripy dealer in the UK who also runs The Best Rides website - choc full of brilliant rides to do on a motorbike. It occured to me that typing "Best Rides" into Google would probably produce some interesting results.

Anyway, what Chris is going to do is let us have a Tripy RoadMaster unit - and a laptop - for two weeks to see if they will do what we need them to do. Not only that, he'll be at the other end of a phone any time we need any help or have any questions. Two weeks should be enough for us to figure out whether they're what we need or not.

Martin is out on the trail today with the organiser of Enduro Africa - discussing the training requirements for the people going on this year's event. It's quite a challenge - taking several hundred people through Africa off-road on dirt bikes - and the organisers are keen to make sure that they keep injuries and dramas to a minimum. The purpose of the event is to deliver bikes to health workers in remote parts of Africa, and they will then use the bikes as their means of transport to visit patients in very remote and desolate areas. Part of your entry fee includes the cost of the bike - this is your donation to the charity if you like.

Obviously, if people - or bikes - get damaged then it can turn into a total nightmare for everybody involved, so the organisers have insisted that this years participants get some offroad training in - which is why they contacted AJP.

The training requirements for teaching people to be able to ride long distances for 2 weeks is different from training them in how to ride enduro, and there's been a lot of thought about the best things to teach them and the best way to do it. It will be a thoroughly pleasant experience too - the people who are coming already love bikes, and have already kind of established their "nice" credentials by doing something like Enduro Africa for charity. It will be a lot of fun.

There's an awful lot going on right now. We aim to have the bike out there racing by the end of May, without the additional fuel tanks. Will such a small bike make it through such a long race? We'll find out.

I Hate It When This Happens

So I got no less than two job offers today, in addition to the job I've got. Not interviews, shoo-ins. And, just to add to the confusion, my gangly friend interviewed today with the Company I'm currently working for. Probably another shoo-in.

I've done this to him four times now. Pulled him into a Company and then I walk within a few months. A week in one case. Probably about to do it again.

Anyway, you've heard of Alexander. The great one - Macedonians and Persians and all that stuff. Nobody is quite sure how Alexander died - poisoning and malaria are two theories - but what is clear is that he didn't have an heir. His son, Alexander IV, wasn't yet born when he died, and his Generals - assembled round his deathbed - couldn't get any sense out of him.

After he died, it led to civil war in the ranks. Murder and treachery and people vying for the crown.

I was learning more tonight about the shenanigans at the Global Bank. I am told that my leaving had somewhat of an effect, a la Alexander. I'm not sure if I am flattered by this, or ashamed of it. The words that my gangly friend used were "it's no wonder everything is f**ked. The King died, and nobody knew what to do or who would lead them now. Nobody has a clue what needs to be done, how it should be done, or who should do it".

One guy at the Global Bank, let's call him Mr. Jolly, was always a bit of a handful. Took a lot of work. Supremely intelligent, could type a million words a minute, and a really big an intimidating rugby-playing guy. You needed to be really really robust to stand up to this guy and keep him on track. I somehow managed to achieve this, even though I probably weighed no more than one of his legs.

So he decided that he'd take over. And promptly did. What has ensued is the most appalling situation where people are afraid to do anything that he might disagree with. My gangly friend is in a horrible situation, but not for long - I'm about to pull him into another job.

Discussions with Martin last night about the new training days on offer at AJP. He has been approached by Enduro Africa to provide training for the people going on the ride this year, and also some talk about roadbook training, scouting and how best to achieve this. The usual piss-taking about how I will absolutely whip his ass on Sunday if he has the balls to turn up on an identical AJP PR3. I will be asking the scrutineers to check his cam lift and intake valve volume - he'll be trying to squeeze a few extra horse power I think.

I ordered a bunch of parts from Maplin - bits and pieces to make a roadbook holder. Google Sketchup - a brilliant (and free) CAD tool - has helped me in drawing out this little beastie:

Now I need to add some knobs to it. The big problem I've got is how to add enough tension to the rollers that the vibration of the bike doesn't cause the roadbook to roll back. I'm thinking ratchet, but I'm not sure how. As the Missus says, this is an engineering problem.

When I get a bunch of job offers like this, it makes me jumpy, I'm not sure why. I think it's because I'm not sure which way to go.

Perhaps there's something in this. Perhaps one of the reasons I focus so much on my navigation techniques is that, deep down, I'm not really sure of the direction I need to take. Maybe the answers aren't in the maps - maybe I need to be asking myself some basic questions here. I mean, OK, so I know that I'll be swinging by Dakar at some point - maybe Beijing - but where am I going? What's the ultimate point?

We all get given this little strip of land on which we can build pretty much anything we like. We're constrained by physical limitations, but - other than that - we can build what we like. This little strip of land is your life. You make it how you want it. But what to build? How do you know if you're building the right thing or the wrong thing? You get instant feedback - through how you feel - about whether what you're doing is in line with your basic make-up, but is it the right thing overall?

When I ride the bike, I not only get instant feedback that it's the right thing to do, I just know that it's the right thing to do. I have met some wonderful people through biking and, crucially, every one of them know about my illness yet none of them seem to care. I never experienced that in real life before.

I just hope that my little strip of land is big enough that if I give it 'andful, then I won't drop off the edge of it. That said, I'd rather go by riding off the edge than sat on my arse just waiting for it to happen.

Go Flight

When Nasa launch a rocket, they spend years preparing for it. It's not just a case of one astronaut phoning up another and saying "What are you doing on Sunday? The regs are out for the moon race". Then again, if Carlsberg did enduros ...

Oh my God. I just had to contend with this thought - what would the moon race have been like if it was a Track and Trail?

Anyway, there's this whole procedure they have go through before launch. The whole countdown - which doesn't start counting down until about 43 hours before the launch - is only the tail end of a very long and detailed process which takes years. It focuses everybody's mind on what they are supposed to be doing - by when. It also serves as an indicator of what needs doing - and when.

Prior to the countdown, they've got all these tests and checks and stuff - Launch Pad Systems testing, Flight Readiness Testing - whole bunch of stuff. If you're really geeky, or just plain interested, you can read them all here.

The Flight Director painstakingly goes through a checklist of several thousand things - looking for a Go / No-Go for launch. He calls them out and, somebody somewhere has to respond "Go Flight", or "No-Go Flight".

Takes a lot of patience, and dedication, to go through that list:

"Main Propulsion?"

"Go Flight"

"Gimbal Servoactuators?"

"Go Flight"

and so on. Thousands of times. I just love the phrase "gimbal servoactuators". I have no idea what one is, but it just sounds like a really cool piece of kit. I might get one for my bike because, well, just because.

At 6.6 seconds to go, the engines are fired in the order number 3, number 2, number 1 - 0.12 seconds apart. They take 3 seconds to reach 90% of the thrust powr required to launch the rocket or shuttle 150,000 feet into the air. The rocket itself is held in-place by a bunch of explosive bolts. Surprisingly enough, these are bolts which explode. Before they explode, they hold things in place - 28 inches long, and 3.5 inches in diameter. Big old bolts. After they explode, well, you can figure that part out for yourself - they kind of turn into biscuit crumbs.

At the moment of "We Have Lift Off" these bolts are fired - and the engines have reached 100% of thrust capacity. Up goes the rocket. Whoosh.

The reason why I was thinking about this was mainly because I was thinking about navigation. A lot of navigation - and navigational aids - is done by GPS. This is a network of satellites that kind of whizz round the sky. I got to wondering how they get there in the first place, I mean they didn't just jump up there like some giraffe on steroids.

It was also because of the work I was dong yesterday, and The Missus insisting that I make up some kind of checklist of the stuff I need to do before and after a race:

"Axle grease?"

"Go Flight"

"Chain tension?"

"Go Flight"

"Oil change?"

"Go Flight"

and so on. There is an awful lot to do when preparing a bike for an enduro, and when giving her some TLC afterwards. The bike is the most imporant piece of equipment you have - if she fails then your race is over.

You expect this little lady - this mechanical minx of aliminium and steel - to give you absolutely flat out for three hours solid. To deliver power as soon as you twist the throttle, and to stop you as soon as you pull the brake. To go up hill, down hill, take-off, landing and - in my case - get dropped an awful lot. Yet you still expect her to deliver.

I've done the checking and tightening and greasing and cleaning for Sunday. Goldilocks is prim and proper and ready, sat up all proud like a little puppy who has learned to do the toilet outdoors.

The Missus has started my dietary intake now. Lots of carbohydrates - potatoes, pasta and stuff like that. It's race week, she tells me, and if Martin and I are on the same bike then I have to do well - none of this getting-two-thirds-of-what-he-gets nonsense.

Looking at the map of Malmesbury - grid ref ST974867 - and putting my constantly improving map skills to use (Ordnance Survey Get-a-Map), I am trying to get a feel for what lies in store on Sunday.

I can see a stream - so we'll be crossing (or riding along) this at least twice. I see two sets of woods, and one of them is on the side of a hill. The whole course looks like it's set in a valley where one side is steeper than the other. One of the hills climbs 70 feet over a distance of about 40 on the ground. That's a steep hill. I hope we're going up it rather than down it.

OK, so I won't be stopping to navigate - I just need to follow the 2-strokes - but the more I read maps, the more detail I see. When you learn to read, you start by picking out letters and sounds. Then you put them together to form words. As you get a little better, you start picking out sentences. It takes a lot of practice to get to the point where you're not actually reading the words themselves, you're reading what the words mean.

It's exactly the same with maps. The more I look, and try and imagine what the catrographer is trying to tell me, the more I see. Whereas before I would just see contour lines, now I see hills that get steeper (or less steep) towards the top. I see lines of electricity pylons. I see gullys which I know will get soaking wet if it rains because they're in a bowl with no drainage.

Good navigation is not about reading maps, it's about interpreting them. It's not about figuring out where you are when you're lost, it's about not getting lost in the first place. It's about having an instinctive ability to know which way you are facing - and being able to concentrate on riding the bike.

That whole collar bone thing in Morocco. I put that down to three main things:

1. Being completely exhausted from digging the bike out of that horrible mud;
   
2. Inadequate experience of how quickly things can jump up and bite you in the desert;
   
3. Trying to navigate at the same time as ride a bike, and being a novice at both of them

So I really am working on navigation. The next step in this is knowing my compass heading at all times when I'm on the bike.

Martin has laid his hands on a bunch of digital compasses, which we will be fitting to the bikes at AJP - along with roadbook holders. This is gearing up for roadbook and navigation training over the coming months.

And, tell you what, forget gimbal servoactuators - I want one of these:

It's a Tripy Digital Roadbook. Given that you need to be on acid in order to properly interpret a roadbook, there is something very ironic about a "Trippy Roadbook". Nonetheless, they are things of beauty. Not only do they play roadbooks, they also record them. Download them to your computer, print them off into paper rolls. None of this fishing around in wet bike gear for pencil and paper to figure out the roadbook symbols you're trying to write. Route recording, as you ride, backed up by GPS.

The trauma of the roadbook lies ahead of us. For now, it's maps:

"Navigation?"

"Go Flight"

"Shippee anyone?"

"Go Flight"