Recovering, Remission or Coping?

I've said a few times now, and say in my profile, that I am recovering from mental illness.

Thing is, I don't know if I'm recovering until I've recovered and then look back on this period. There's an argument that says if I tell myself I'm recovering, then I am recovering. There's an argument that says I focus on where I want to be and will be there.

There's also an argument which says I am only in remission. That this will be back. I am expecting vistors, I don't know when they will arrive, how many there will be, how long they will stay, or what they'll get up to whilst they're here. This is the reality of mental ilness - you're grateful for every illness-free day.

An alcoholic will talk about his illness "resting" - he won't talk about it being cured. I've met a lot of alcoholics in hospital - alcoholism seems to be reated in the same way as mental illness. I've never figured out why.

I can't walk today - my back is completely knackered. The Missus is spitting blood over the whole "Nutcase / Dakar" thing, but I'm finding it difficult to do the same. I was upset, obviously, and I was a little bit angry, but - most of all - I was embarrassed. I was not embarrassed for me, I was embarrassed for Martin. In an instant, in the eyes of these guys, he went from being "provider of training" to being "so much of an amateur idiot that he has to employ spastics".

I was upset, and I was embarrassed. This guy was a paying customer, I could not speak out. It killed my confidence. It sowed the seeds of what happened later in the day. Whether you think you can, or think you can't, you're probably right. My confidence was shot. I thought I couldn't and, guess what? I couldn't.

There is a massive difference between being ignorant and being stupid. Being ignorant means, quite simply, that you don't know something. This is forgiveable. Being stupid means that you are ignorant, know you are ignorant, and choose not to learn the things you don't know. Ignorance is not knowing something, stupidity is choosing to remain ignorant.

Read. Watch. Listen. Learn things that are imortant and things that are completely trivial. Accept that you are ignorant, but never - ever - be stupid.

These guys actually done me a favour. Last week, my 2009dakar.com domain came up for renewal. Should I renew it? Why? What's the point? Who, really, gives a fuck whether or not an ex-mental patient who is not that good on a bike is going to go to Dakar or not? In the grand scheme of things, what does it matter?

So, after Friday, I know why it matters. It matters because there is a lot of prejudice in the world. It matters because people like Martin and Cockle and my ITM - good people - take me as they find me and have hope that I will achieve my dream. It matters to me. It matters to me that nobody - ever - write me off because I have a particular label.

As anybody who knows me will tell you, there is an absolutely guaranteed way to get me to succeed at something - tell me I can't.

So, Mr "nutcase is doing the Dakar", fuck you. I'm going. I'm finishing it. You, my friend, can laugh on whichever side of your prejudiced face you choose.

I am not brilliant at riding a bike and have never claimed to be. So what? At least I am willing to try.

And I've figured out why my lower back is so sore. It is so sore because my buttocks are transforming into Cyril Despres buttocks. The re-chiselling is causing a bit of discomfort. That's what it is.

3:03

That was when it happened. That was the moment when it started to go a bit wrong today.

It started out well enough. Jasper - ex-Army Sergeant, his mate Harry - who recently sold the electrical wholesale business he's spent 37 years building up, and Dan - just turned 21 and an electrical engineer whose Missus had bought him an AJP gift voucher.

It was a Level 2 day - so we need things to be tricky and tough. Harry had been riding trials for about 30 years, and Jasper was a veteran of the British Enduro Championship. They were there to test out the AJP bikes and see if they fancied one. Dan, coming from Motocross, was also a bit capable on a bike.

As for tricky, Nature did that on her own. The downpours of the last few days had blessed us with deep puddles and slimy, slippery clay. Within 5 minutes, Martin was off - Harry and Jasper right on his heels, and I hung back with Dan who was a little bit slower since trees and horribleness was a bit new to him.

We got through the first waypoint - a place called Tinehead Wood. At the end of the slimy and slippery track, there is a sharp off-camber right hand bend - I nearly hit the Police Car there last week. I use it as a gauge of who we have out with us. Normally, we get at least one person falling off at this corner - it really is that nasty there. Today, everybody sailed through it. This was a marker that we had some pretty capable guys out with us.

I had been quite chuffed these past few weeks, commenting to Martin that I'm not falling off the bike. He kicked by confidence in the nuts and told me that it's just because it's been nice and grippy and dry - when the rains come then it'll be a different story. He was right.

When we got into the woods, it was so slippery that I wasn't sure whether it was my front wheel or my back wheel that needed the attention - the bike was all over the place. Everybody's bike was all over the place - it was proper carnage. It didn't look that slippery, but that was deceptive.

With Martin well ahead along with Harry and Jasper, and me bringing up the rear with Dan, we made our way across an open field. It's somewhere that we were always winging a bit - there's no path there. As I crested the brow, and could see the valley open before me, I started scanning the treeline and the tracks for Martin to get a feel for how far ahead he was. As I did so, I saw a Land Rover approaching us. It skidded to a halt and I started to take the helmet off - expecting a bit of a telling off from the Land Warden.

It wasn't the Land Warden, it was Robert the farmer. Not only that, but this was his field. So it was now absolutely pucker for us to be there - no problems anymore from the land warden then. It turns out that he's riding as a marshall at the World Enduro Championships in Wales in July. Darren Wheeler is racing, courtesy of MidWest racing, and Robert is well in with MidWest so he got a gig as a travelling marshall - in the world championships. Nice.

I spotted Martin down at that bit of horrible mud where I end up every week and I pointed him out to Robert. Robert told me that an Army Land Rover got stuck in there on Wednesday, and he charged them a hundred quid to drag them out with his tractor. We rode ahead and caught up with Martin.

Now, Harry and Jasper were there to evaluate the 200cc bikes, but Jasper was riding a bike that I call "The Baby". It's Martin's baby - he's assembled it from various bits and pieces over the years. It's a PR4, with a 125cc engine that has been bored out to 150cc. Which means that it is big, heavy, and doesn't have a massive amount of power. Martin likes it though, calls it his fat girlfriend - "a bit of fun to ride, but you don't brag to your mates about it".

So, Martin's great idea was that I would swap Madge (a 200cc PR4) and take the baby. The swap being done, I realised that I now had a bike with a slick rear tyre - not good on a muddy and slippery and slimy day.

Dan got stuck in the mud and, as is now customary, I ended up knee-deep in the soft clay to help him get out. Martin, having a ball, was riding as quick as he could and was well ahead with Jasper and Harry. We caught up with them again in the little woods where we've set up the enduro course.

The thing about woods is that the ground doesn't get sunlight because of the tree cover. If the soil is clay, then it stays wet and slimy for weeks after even the slightest shower. The water sits just below the topsoil, evaporates, hits the leaves and tree canopy, condenses, then falls back to the ground again.

There are two hills in our woods, and a little loop - we go up one hill and down the other. Today, nobody was getting up the hill - and it's not even that steep. I got halfway up on The Baby, before being dumped on my arse. I took Jane, who Dan had been riding, and gave it a crack - sailing right up. Martin made it up on the PR3 he was riding, and I threw the gauntlet down: "OK, so how about you get up it on the baby?".

Martin, always game, too the baby and set off up the hill. It took two attempts, and much swearing and roosting, but he crested the brow of the hill. Not with any style, but he did it. He rode down the other hill and dismounted. "Your turn".

It stopped being funny on my 5th attempt. The problem was that the hill has a double bump on it. Normally, when it's dry, you can use this to get a good jump and it actually looks quite stylish. When it's wet, you can't get any speed up and the mud robs you of all momentum. When you get on to the hill itself, you have no speed and no forward movement so you're relying on grip. But there is no grip - especially with a slick back tyre. I roosted, I fell, I slipped, I slid, I u-turned, I did everything except get up the hill.

I rode back down the the bottom - again - and took off my helmet. At least that's a good thing - my descents are improving, even in slippery mud. The technique for going down a slippery hill is actually rather straightforward - you get to the top and analyse the hill. Then you ask yourself this question:

If I was a football, starting from here, where would I roll to?

Because when you start down the hill, you are at the mercy of gravity in exactly the same way as though you were a football. You also need to stay off the brakes, since this just puts gravity in control. Bizarreley enough, you have more chance of controlling the descent if you speed up since it keeps the wheels turning and able to steer. This new-found knowledge of mine needs a bit of balls to be developed to exploit it properly, but the first time I came down the hill I realised the secret. And I have a failed front brake at Tea til Dusk to thank for it.

Martin said "OK, let's go. We'll call that one-nil to me then". The guys looked at me. I said "No no no. No way. No way you're going to bang on about that one all day" and turned the bike round for another shot. Martin, watching me set off up the hill - again - turned to Jasper:

"You better hope he pulls this off, otherwise we're stuck here till this time tomorrow until he does it. The blue touch paper is lit, make sure you retire to a safe distance".

Fate smiled on me, and gave me some grip. It wasn't a lot of grip, but it was enough to get me to the top in a not particularly stylish or visually pleasing way.

We stopped for lunch in the usual place and started chewing the fat. I was soaking with sweat and took off all my gear, hanging it over the tables to dry out a bit. I kept my t-shirt on. It is a white t-shirt, and has the Dakar logo on the front of it.

Jasper saw the logo, and turned to Martin:

"Do you know that there is some nutcase planning on doing the Dakar on an AJP? Apparently he knows you"

Martin looked at Jasper, then looked at me, then back at Jasper.

"Yes". He nodded towards me. "It's John".

Nothing more was said. The topic of conversation changed quicker than if you had been talking about bra sizes and your mother-in-law walked in the room. It may just have been me, but I could feel an air of awkwardness settle.

We made it as far South as we can get - right down to Tilshead - and what a speed we were going at. The puddles are deep down there and Dan took one a bit quick. What was Dan a few seconds ago, was now a huge tidal wave. He bounced out of the puddle and onto his arse. I knew what had happened - his engine had sucked in a bunch of water, stalled, and that's what threw him over the bars.

Martin was miles ahead, and this gave me the opportunity to un-drown my first bike. On my own.

I opened the bumbag and pulled out the allen keys. Off with the seat, off with the air filter - it was soaked. I wrung it out, gave it a big squirt with WD-40, and put it aside to dry. I took the spark plug out, more WD-40, and put it aside to dry. Tipped the bike upside down and turned the engine to remove the water. Unscrewed the float bowl of the carburettor to drain the water, and put everything back together.

A few seconds of turning the starter, and the bike roared into life. My first drowning, dealt with in less than 2 minutes. My Jedi skills are improving.

As we approached Tilshead, I knew where we were going next. It is the most horrible track full of deep and narrow ruts. What makes itparticularly evil is that the grass has grown over the top of the ruts so you can't see them and this makes things a bit exciting. At any given moment, you don't know if you're in a rut or not - until you try to turn. Occasionally, you'll get a glimpse of a rut through the wrong grass, and you'll try and turn towards it - you go where you look. If you're already in the rut, then you are fine. If you're not in the rut, then you'll have a bit of a problem.

I "had a bit of a problem" at about 40 mph. I saw the rut, turned towards it and was already in a different one. The bike slipped sideways and high-sided me through the air. I flew about 10 feet and landed right on my left shoulder. The guys behind me declared that it was "spectacular". My shoulder thought so too. The time was 3:03.

The human body is designed to take shock progressively. The bones towards the outside are actually weaker than the bones nearer the vital organs - natural crumple zones if you like. This is so that the outside bones brak and shatter to absorb impact and protect the vital organs. The thing is, that I don't have a collar bone in my left shoulder - I have a steel plate running between my shoulder and my sternum. So I took the full impact of this fall right in my sternum and it hurt. The pins started poking through the skin, and they hurt too. Not good.

We only had a few miles left to ride, so I pressed on. We got to the end of the trail, and I saw Martin looking at this very steep and slippery climb up on to the mountain bike course. I thought "no, not today, please no", but Martin was in miss-cheef mode and suggested that we all might like to go up there.

There was a fallen tree over the track at the bottom and we had to drag the bikes over it. The ruts on this hill were nearly a foot deep, and filled with slimy clay. There would be no grip at the best of times, and even less when you have a slick tyre. I made it halfway up the hill and fell off after the back end just flew sideways. Already knackered and hurting, I picked the bike up. As I did so, I lost my footing on the slippery clay and sort of fell over as I tried to hold the bike up. I done my back again, bringing the cowshit injury back to life. THAT hurt.

Looking up the hill, I realised that I was going to have some more picking up to do if I tried to get the rest of the way up, and I had to have respect for the fact that I probably couldn't pick my bike up anymore - my back is fucked. I turned the bike and set off back down the hill.

I rounded the corner at the bottom and realised my mistake. I forgot about the tree. I don't have to pick my bike up, I have to get it over that tree. It took me fifteen minutes to pull and push it inch by agonising inch. I was sweating, knackered and hurting. No Martin. Nobody else. Just me. The bike fairies weren't going to get it over the tree, it was down to me and me alone. The PR3 would not have been so much of a problem, but the baby was 15 kilos heavier and it was slippery and horrible.

It was about this time that I started to consider the merits of setting fire to my enduro gear. I got back on the bike and started riding up the hill and I caught up with Martin and the others. Martin asked me if I was OK, his face looked concerned, and I asked him if he had petrol and matches. He understood, and didn't push it.

When we got back, Harry and Jasper didn't even stay for a cup of tea. They got changed, said their goodbyes and left. I've never seen that happen before. I don't know if it was the "nutter / Dakar" comment or something else, but something wasn't right.

Martin, seeing that I was totally miserable, gave me some words of encouragement. He pointed out the drowned bike, the slippery downhills and the getting up the hill on the baby - all of which were beyond me less than a year ago. He notices a huge difference in my riding, and we all have days like that.

Matches still in the wings.

Privateers

Treasure Island is a great book. This time last week, I couldn't have told you that because I had never read it. Then I found this site - http://www.online-literature.com/ - and there's a lot of great old books published there for free since their copyright has expired.

I was put onto it because I saw something on the TV about BlackBeard - arguably the most famous pirate ever. What caught my attention is that pirates, and piracy, gave us the origin of the word "privateer".

Now, you and I both understand "privateer" to be somebody who enters a race like Dakar and funds it all themselves - not part of any works or factory team. That's a privateer.

Originally though, the word was coined back in the early 18th Century by Queen Anne. Since England was at war with France and Spain - just for a change - Queen Anne put a bounty on all French and Spanish merchant shipping. If a ship's captain could board a French or Spanish ship and nick it's cargo, then they got to keep 10% of the bounty. These "gentlemen of fortune" (as they called themselves) were called "privateers" by the British crown, and were called "pirates" by everybody else.

So I read Treasure Island the other night. Took me a couple of hours to get through it since it's about 30 chapters or so. But that wasn't the point.

The point was Long John Silver. I've always had this vision of Long John Silver - one-legged pirate - with a parrot on his shoulder, one eye and saying "Ooh-arr, Jim lad". Except I was dead wrong. I don't know where I picked up this image, but it was completely wrong. OK, so he had one leg, and he also had a parrot - but the parrot never sat on his shoulder. And he had two eyes. And he never, once, said "Ooh arr, Jim lad". Never even came close.

It's funny how you can get to believing things, having no basis for that belief, but you still believe it very strongly indeed without ever knowing why. Funny, you know what is the biggest dogma in the world? The biggest and most popular thing in the world that people believe and have absolutely no reason for doing so? They believe it simply because, well, simply because it's what they believe?

No, it's not religion. It's simpler than that. The biggest dogma in the world is what date it is today.

We use a calendar that was designed, implemented and instigated by Pope Gregory XIII back in the late 16th Century. The reason for the calendar is simple - everybody knows when bills fall due and everybody knows when to pay their taxes. The Calendar is nothing more than a means of regulation - it serves no other purpose.

But that blew me away, that Long John Silver thing. And, another thing, Captain Kirk never ever said "Beam me up Scotty". He always said "Beam me up Mr Scott". How many more are there. How do you know what you think you know?

I've been a bit quiet these past few days. It comes from being a technical person, an engineer if you will, who cannot help himself but follow a problem wherever it goes. Reminds me of a story I once heard about a Priest, a Thief and a Computer Engineer who were shipwrecked on a deser island.

The natives of this island, since it was a French colony, had the guillotine. They sentenced the maroonees to death by guillotine. The Priest was brought forward and asked whether he wanted to be guillotined face-up or face-down.

"Face up", he replied. "I want to face God when I die".

They laid him on his back, hoisted the huge blade to the top of the pillars, and then let go the rope. The guillotine hurtled downwards towards the ground, and the Priests neck. There was a loud THUD! And the guillotine stopped dead about half an inch above the Priests waiting throat.

The natives, being a very religious people, declared that this was divine intervention and that they should spare the Priests life. They untied him and let him go.

They manhandled the Thief up onto the scaffold and gave him the same choice - face up or face down? The Thief considered this and replied:

"Face up. Worked for the Priest".

They laid him on his back and again hoisted the huge weighted blade into the air before letting go of the rope. Down it thundered, 100 miles per hour of razor sharp steel. This time, there was no thud. The blade whistled straight down and stopped dead - about half an inch above the Thief's throat.

Since the Gods clearly did not want the Thief to die either, the natives were forced to spare his life and let him go. They rounded on the Computer Engineer, tied him up and up onto the scaffold. Again, the face-up or face-down dilemma was posed.

"Face up, obviously", replied the Computer Engineer, "this looks like a cool piece of kit and I want to see how it works".

The natives laid him face up on the scaffold, positioning his neck right where the blade would fall, and started their heaving of the rope to lift up the blade. They took it all the way to the top, Computer Engineer watchin every inch of it rising, and were just about to let it go.

The Computer Engineer piped up:

"NO! WAIT! I SEE YOUR PROBLEM!"

It's sort of like that.

Bringing Balance To The Force

Life, like bikes, is all about balance. Not just keeping your balance and not falling over, but keeping everything in balance. Every up must have a down, every left must have a right (unless you're a speedway rider), and every 'andful must have a brake. If you overcook any one of these at the expense of its pair, then you'll have problems.

AJP was a family affair today. There was Steve, his son James, his brother Dave and Dave's son Alex. Steve was the instigator for it all - "one of those things to do before you die", he told me. They all hailed from Wembley, and all had real Guy Ritchie style London accents. Steve and James both worked as electrical engineers on the National Grid - James had just started an apprenticeship a few months ago. Dave was an auto electrician, and his son Alex spray painted Mercedes and Porches in an accident repair shop.

We set out, fuelled up , and headed onto the Plain. I did my throw-the-bike-on-the-floor with a bit too much energy and snapped the front brake lever. This did impress me a bit, since I've never snapped the brake lever before - it's always the clutch. I've even been throwing the bike on her right side for this very reason. A possible rethink may be needed here.

I explained to the guys why we ride on our pegs, lower centre of gravity stuff, and off we set in search of ruts and mud and mayhem. Normally, we hit them in that order, but it was a bit different today.

We done the ruts right where we always find them, then we run along this narrow track at the side of a wood - more ruts. At the end of this track is a nasty off-camber right turn before we set off down the field. As we came to the woods, I saw a brand new sign - "NO TIPPING. Site Under Surveillance". I always look for signs, since they tell us of impending byway closures, but this was just tipping so no problem.

Well, sort of. I turned the corner at the end of the wood into the field and nearly smashed right into the front of the waiting Police car. Oops. I did the only thing that can be done at signs of trouble - give it 'andful. Of course, I waved as I roosted past. I mean, I'm not rude.

James, right behind me, followed my example. Done the corner-police-oh-shit-andful-wave thing. Alex, right behind dave, got as far as the corner-police-oh-shit part. The shock of nearly hitting a Police car made him snatch a brake and fall over.

So the two policemen in the car, thinking that they wer eonly seeing one or two bikes, were now confronted with half a dozen of them, and the Gods had rather helpfully dropped one of them on his arse about a foot away. This was just asking for a tug, and the tug duly arrived.

Martin hopped of his bike and spoke with them. We were legal where we were, and were planning on staying legal, and all the bikes were taxed and insured so no problem. It turned out that they weren't there to catch bikers, they were there to evict somebody who had camped in the wood in a campervan.

Or at least they would have evicted him, if he could drive. Inside the campervan was one seriously stoned hippy who - apparently - had over-indulged on some mushrooms or something and wasn't going to be driving anywhere until the grass had changed from pink back to green or whatever.

We showed the guys how to get over logs and tree-trunks, then how to cope with whoops and ditches, and set off into the trees. Alex was a bit of a motocrosser, and wasn't too keen on the trees - which made me wonder why he wanted to hug them so often.

Into the woods and we let the guys loose on the enduro track. This is where they start stitching tihngs together and develop their skills and their confidence. Those woods always bring big big grins out of people - especially when they realise that they are doing things which would have terrified them only a few hours before.

When we stopped for lunch, for some reason the conversation got onto films. Then it got onto Lord of the Rings. Then it got onto "if you were a character in Lord of the Rings, what character would you be?".

We decided that Martin would be Gandalf - wily and grumpy - and that I would be Gimli - short arse livewire. Well, the Gimli thing was hotly disputed - some people thought it should be Gollum since I look so much like him.

Since it was Saturday, we had a bit of a Heineken day - and were able to get onto the parts of the Plain where other beers don't reach. This normally means getting lost, but we did check that Martin and I both had maps this time.

Martin was leading and, as he took another one of those "where does this go then?" right turns of his, I stopped to get a position fix. The last time he did this, I ended up having to climb up the roof of an artillery observation tower to try and figure out where we were, so I wasn't getting caught out this time. My map and compass at least put me on the right map, and the other stuff I could see told me where we were. So now I had to catch the guys up, and they were at least a mile ahead.

I tore off down the track, which undulated up and down - it was obviously for tank training. Normally, I'd roll over the bumps but I was getting a bit of a move on so Physics had other ideas. I saw the series of bumps coming up and realised that I was going a bit too quick. I also realised that trying to grab the front brake would result in a bit of carnage. So I did the sensible thing.

I squeezed the front brake lightly to shed a bit of speed. Squeezing the brake compresses the forks. This causes a problem if you hit a bump whilst braking, because the forks have no squeezing left and you can end up over the bars. So, what you do just before you hit the bump is - you guessed it - give it 'andful. When you give it 'andful, you force all the weight to the back of the bike, and this uncompressed the forks - giving them plenty of scope for absorbing the bumps.

So as I approach the face of the bump, I realise that I am committed - there is no going back now. It's either going to go very very right, or its going to go very very wrong, and I'll find out which in less than two seconds from now. I hit the bump and fly into the air. I land right at the bottom of the next bump, and I give it another 'andful to make sure that the front suspension can do its work. Whee. And the same with the third one. I was well-chuffed.

Not only was I chuffed because it was such a cool thing, I was particularly chuffed that I hadn't panicked and grabbed the brakes. I had figured out the options, done some quick maths on the physics, and fate smiled on me.

I caught up with Martin, who asked what kept me. I grinned at him, told him that I had a few ups and downs.

James was starting to get really tired by now. Or perhaps he was just hungry - and that's why he jumped off his bike head first into a field full of barley. I stopped to help him dig himself and the bike out, and Madge fell over on her side stand. Fell over on the left side. I'll leave you to guess what snapped. I'll give you a clue - it wasn't the brake.

But, after two weeks of not being on the bike, I realised how much I missed it. Being somebody else for those few blissful hours, searching for grip, traction and balance. It does for my emotional state what the jet wash does for the mud at the end of the day's riding.

Today, Sunday, was clutch day. Today was the day when I decided that I was going to upgrade the clutch in Goldilocks. The Wee Yin helped - she undid all the bolts on the clutch cover for me, and declared that she can't make her mind up whether to like motorbikes or ballet. You know, "boy" things or "girl" things. Quite a dilemma.

Replacing the clutch with an EBC uprated clutch and springs was always going to be on the cards if I want this little bike to be able to do long races. These springs are so tough that if you put the Titanic on them, she'd bounce like Zebedee. I needed a claw hammer and a screwdriver to manouvre things to the point where I could reconnect the cable. Got everything back together, no bits left over, and did the whole lot with the engine in the frame.

In fact, as long as I had spare clutch plates, I could do the whole lot in less than half an hour using only the tools in my bum-bag. A year ago, I was traumatised at changing the oil and now I change clutches for fun. This is progress.

But, it's all about balance. The clutch was the weakest point on the bike. We always knew this, and it failed. It's been replaced with a clutch strong enough to shift an articulated lorry. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Replace the weak link, and what was previously the second-weakest link is now the weak point of the chain.

And it may well be the chain that is next. The stock chain on the PR3 is lightweight and it won't do any harm to uprate it with a heavy duty chain - especially when the engine gets more power.

But my new Husaberg-ass-whipping clutch is a good start.

I Wanted To Share This Moment

I wanted to share this moment with you. You may well think "yes, and?", so please bear with me.

About 5 years ago now, I had an idea. It was a great idea. I'm always having great ideas. OK, so I've had a couple of bad ones too - custard-filled speed bumps was one such bad one - but ideas have friends and should be nurtured.

Anyway, I had this idea. I saw, time and time again, that money was just being thrown down the toilet on the same old things. And, when I say time and time again, I mean it. In case you hadn't guessed, this is a computer thing. Specifically, it's a software thing. If you've ever wondered why there are so many fiascos in the newspapers - Passports, the Health Service - it mostly comes down to two things.

One of these things you've heard me bleat about before - the Plan. Once the Plan is made, it never gets un-made. The logic of "one woman, one baby, takes 9 months. Let's get two women and do it in 4 and a half months". That one.

The other one is, quite simply, being able to check that things are plugged in. Nobody does it, and I don't know why. They spend millions of pounds on doing stuff, and nobody bothers to check whether or not it's plugged in.

So, I had this idea. This idea for a little thing which my Da calls a "gizmo", that will tell people whether or not stuff is plugged in. It's sort of like a light bulb - if it lights up, then obviously it's plugged in. If it doesn't light up, check the switch on the plug.

This idea was elusive, and I kept on chasing it. She didn't want to be caught though. Time after time, just when I thought I had her, she skipped off into the mist. I became obsessed with this idea - and hunted her even harder than before. I found a couple of companies who wanted to pay money for this idea. I took the money, and hunted her all the harder. I hunted so hard that I was working day and night and everything inbetween. But still she eluded me. Still the companies paid up, since halfway was good enough for them. But not for me. I kept hunting.

I didn't notice me becoming unwell, it crept up on me and took me by surprise in the same way as sleep does - you don't know you've fallen asleep until you wake up. It was a long way down, and I didn't feel myself falling. It was only when I realised I was in a mental hospital - completely out of my face on whatever medication they had given me - that I thought that perhaps things weren't quite going to plan.

So, I've been in a bit of a dark place recently. You know this. What you didn't know is that this dark place has taken me away from the world and into my computer. It's part therapy, part mission. The therapy side is that I can make computers do anything I want them to do. The mission side is that this little will-o-the-wisp, this idea, is still dancing around just beyond my fingertips.

Until today. Today, I nailed her. Got her bang between the eyes. Five years of hunting, searching, frantically typing away, and I have finally created the thing of great beauty that had always eluded me. If I had had this 6 months ago, then the Global Bank would have been a complete walkover. Apart from Phil, whose mind was made up.

And, speaking of Phil, I am going to lobby my MP. I think that a law should be passed which makes it mandatory for sports cars to have big numbers on the side stating the driver's penis size.

And, speaking of the Global Bank, the call came - of sorts. It was half of the call I was expecting - the "we need help" part, but it was lacking in the "this is how much we'll pay" part. So I was half-right.

If I can do this right, if I can figure out the right steps, then I won't need to worry about how to fund my Dakar. Normally, that is where Chief would come in but he's got other fish to fry at the moment so this one falls down to me and my gangly friend.

But I wanted to share this moment with you. Today was the day that I caught that little minx.

I am out tomorrow with Martin and, tell you what, I am so looking forward to it. I don't know if it's the riding, the fact that Martin is a nice guy, the meeting new people, the having a laugh or if it's just the fact that I get to escape from everything for a few blissful hours. I don't know and I don't much want to analyse it too much. It is my time to be me, warts and all, and be in the company of people who take me as they find me. It is my chance to laugh at myself, and not take myself too seriously.

My ITM is off to Scotland this weekend, on a "business trip" on his bike doing a grand tour. Gentleman that he is, he did invite me, but I do not have a road bike and couldn't go. Apparently, he went to look at a KTM 250 4-stroke and "thought about it". For about 4 seconds, before he bought it and rode the orange monster home. Cockle is going to have a bit of a problem keeping up with that little beast.

I have a funny feeling that tomorrow will involve hills. Don't ask me why.

Getting Shafted

25th of May, that's this Sunday, is Towel Day. This is in memory of the late and great Douglas Adams who gave us the Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy. He also gave us Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency, which is a complete hoot.

Anyway, towels feature very prominently in the Guide, so much so that a switched-on and streetwise individual is referred to as somebody who "knows where his towel is". So, Sunday, make sure you carry your towel. It's the way Douglas would have wanted it.

I am so looking forward to Saturday - this is the longest I've been off a bike since being injured. An I'll tell you what, you don't half miss it.

I've been eyeing up the Africa Twin. I don't know why, I just really like the look of them. It's not the kind of bike you'd use for enduro, but they really are lovely bikes. Can't buy another bike right now though, since every spare groat is going into the Dakar pot.

I remember one of the guys at BMW - "Big Al". Took on Dakar as a privateer back in 2005. As of summer 2007, he was still paying for it. It's a very expensive thing to be doing, and who knows what's going to happen now that oil passed $135 a barrel?

But, somehow, I just know. When you want something this much, this badly, then the universe works in mysterious ways.

For example, a guy in Germany fell down a lift shaft. The doors were open, and it was dark, and for some strange reason he poked his head into the shaft. Lost his footing and fell all the way down.

Now, normally, you'd think that this was a spot of bad luck. And, for him, it probably was.

However, a spot of good luck for him is that he'd have died if he hadn't landed on something soft at the bottom of the shaft. The "something soft" he landed on was an unconscious woman - who had fallen down the lift shaft the day before and had been lying there with internal bleeding.

Now, if he hadn't fallen down the shaft then she'd never have been found and she'd have died. If she hadn't broken his fall, then he'd have died. Watch them end up getting married or something when she regains consciousness. By the way, if you don't believe me, you can read the whole lift-shaft thing here.

Seriously though, the chances of that are astronomical. But the universe will bring about whatever it is that universes want to bring about. It'll bring about my Dakar. Dakar will return to Africa and, when it does, I'll be there. Anything can happen.

To mis-quote Janis Joplin:

"Oh Lord, won't you buy me, a Dakar entry?
Or send me a voucher, that gets me in for free?
Worked hard on my riding, through cowshit and trees,
Oh Lord, won't you buy me,
a Dakar entry?"

Apologies to Mercedes Benz and Miss Joplin.

Distraction and Attraction

There's two fundamental Laws at work in the world - distraction and attraction. Whether you believe it or not, like it or not, they're there.

The Law of Attraction is a simple one - you attract whatever it is you concentrate on most. If people are hostile towards you, it's because you're radiating hostility. If people smile at you, it's because you're smiling.

The Law of Distraction is more subtle, and is a technique I've learned to cope with the bad times. We all do it - you do it too probably without realising. It, too, is deceptively simply - you find something to distract your attention away from whatever it is you want to avoid.

But here's the difficulty. If you distract yourself by saying "don't attract X", then you're thinking about X and you will attract it. My old favourite - don't think of a blue elephant - is a good example of this. Distraction is not denial.

Douglas Adams had a great take on this. He declared that it was possible for human beings to fly. All they had to do was throw themselves really hard at the ground, and then miss it. They key to missing it was to be distracted by something at the very second you would have hit the ground. You'd forget all about hitting the ground, and find yourself floating in the air.

It sounds impossible, but distraction actually works. When you're in the pit of despair, and everything is just churning and frothing horribleness, then the only way out of it is distraction. Sometimes, I distract myself with quantum physics, but that takes a lot of concentration. I distract myself with bikes, but that needs Sundays and Fridays. When I'm riding an enduro, I am blissfully unaware of anything that may - or may not - be wrong with me. OK, I'm completely shagged, probably smelling of cowshit, and I'm looking behind every bush for Martin lurking to wind me up with phanton laps, but these are distractions and they take my eye off the unpleasantness.

Have a look at this. Watch the whole video - it's only 30 seconds - and you'll see a wonderful piece of distraction in action:



The human brain can only hold 11 pieces of information in concious memory at any given time. As soon as you get another piece, something has to give. For men, the number is slightly less - because one of the slots is constantly being occupied by thinking about sex.

And, speaking of which, if you find yourself lonely of an evening, you might want to have a look at (apparently) the number 1 dating site in New Zealand. Trust me, it's not what you think. You'll be forwarding it to your friends two minutes from now, when you stop pissing yourself.

I am not out with AJP on Friday, since I can not have this Friday off due to having to cover for somebody who is on holiday, but we've got 5 people out on Saturday. Martin, after speaking to him last night, is in a bit of a mischievous mood and has apparently found another - "better" - hill for us to play on. So we're going to be spending some time going up it. I've not to worry about my speed, he tells me, since gravity will take care of that all by herself. Three words spring to mind - "after you, Martin".

The Tripy roadbook has also arrived, so will be getting fitted and tested. It has to withstand impact from falls (no problem there, I can easily put that one to the test) and being submerged in water (which happens in the tank tracks). This means that I will be starting navigation training proper in the next week or so.

Which got me thinking about speed. There's no point in being able to carry lots of speed if you're carrying it in the wrong direction. The Dakar, and races like the Dakar, is all about navigation. If you can't navigate, then you're going nowhere. If you can't navigate but you can carry a lot of speed, then you're going nowhere fast.

I'm impatient. I want to be better. Much better. But a year's experience takes a year to get. Every day, people shell out bushel after bushel of groats on training courses and all sorts of stuff that claim things like "Be A Rocket Scientist in 7 Days!!!" and stuff like that. It takes as long as it takes and can't be rushed. Patience is needed but, strangely enough, impatience is needed too.

You see, impatience is the motivator. It's the driver. It's the engine that pushes this whole thing along. If I wasn't impatient, then there would be impetus - no energy driving it forward. It is my impatience, and my desire to get better, that motivates me through the slackness of these plateaus I'll hit from time to time.

And, in the process of being impatient, I've killed two birds with one stone - attraction and distraction. I have distracted myself from the very bad place I was in, by focusing on my speed and how I can get more of it. By doing this, I am going to attract it.

As I've constantly banged on about, bikes are great metaphors for life and they will go exactly where you look.

But, the Hero of the Day is definitely Cockle. Been up in the Dublin mountains on his new Yamaha, doing his best to follow the "tracks" that my ITM wanted to ride down. Mud, bogs, stumps, roots, hills - he did them all. Next time out, he'll do them all again - a little bit better than this time.

Cockle, welcome to the family.

Turkeys Dont Vote For Christmas

Every year in Europe, there's this event called the EuroVision Song Contest. Basically, it's a competition amongst all the countries in Europe to write and sing a song.

Every country gets 12 votes, each with a number of points. The highest vote is 12 points, the lowest vote is 1 point. They vote for other countries and the country with the most points wins. Simple.

Well, sort of simple. It gives rise to all kinds of funnies. The French never give 12 points to the British, who themselves never give 12 points to the French. Most of the time, they just completely ignore eachother and vote their 12 points for Ireland instead. Which, apart from Johnny Logan, is one of the reasons why Ireland has won it a record-breaking 8 times.

The votes are announced first in English, then in French. Sort of like "Germany, 12 points. Allemagne, douze pwah".

So, this year, somebody thought that it would be a good idea for Ireland to continue her record breaking trend. They did this by being the first ever country to enter a non-human artist (but, judging by some of the entries I've seen over the years you do have to wonder).

Anyway, his name is Dustin and he is a turkey glove puppet. Reminds me an awful lot of Roland Rat in the 80's, except a lot more Irish and a lot cheekier. His song was called "Ireland a Douze pwah" (12 points for Ireland).

It caused a bit of an uproar in Ireland as well. I mean, this is the country where Johnny Logan hailed from and it was firmly into two camps. There was the folks who thought that it was a proper laugh, a real satirical piss-take on how the Eurovision is only a bit of fun. Then there were the "What? you've entered a fucking turkey?" crowd. And never the twain shall meet.

As it turned out, Dustin didn't get the douze pwah has was hoping for which is a bit of a shame - if only for the cheek. That said, it put Eurovision back on the news and in the headlines and, whatever some people think about a puppet entry, that's got to be a good thing.

Speaking of dodgy entries, I got a Dakar entry pack through the post this week complete with application forms and all that good stuff. The world is very firmly split into two camps on this one too. On the one hand, there are the people who think "definitely, a small bike with excellent fuel consumption - smart idea". Then there are the people who think that "it doesn't matter what colour the bike is, as log as it's orange. With lots of power". The "who says it can't be done?" approach versus the "it's always been done this way" approach.

Spoke with Martin tonight about cornering, and what we're going to do to get my speed up. Ideas varied from replacing the front sprocket with a larger one all the way to the approach used in the film "Speed" - set a bomb to explode if the bike drops below 50mph - and some various bits of silliness inbetween. The idea of tying a hungry rottweiler to the back of the bike as, em, "motivation" was also suggested at one point.

It's a tough one to be sure but, apparently, it's something that is very common in racing. You notice this gradual improvement over time until, one day, you hit this plateau and nothing gets much better and it's all kind of flat. This lasts weeks or months and then - bang - you suddenly find an extra 2 laps from somewhere and you're at the next level. It is a magic thing, weirdly instantaneous when it happens. Apparently.

In the meantime, we just keep getting ths bike time in. Oh, and despite my brimming confidence and puffy chest, I am reliably assured by Martin that my whole "not falling off" thing is nothing to be proud of - it's just the better weather making things more grippy. By September, I'll be back on my arse again. Hopefully though, I'll be doing it quicker by then.

And speaking of very quick on the ball - Dustin's WikiPedia entry has already been updated to say that he lost in the semi-finals on 20th May. And it was only a few hours ago.

Dustin is no stranger to getting beaten in the polls. In Irish elections, there is no entry on the ballot paper for "None of the Above". So a lot of people would write "Dustin The Turkey" on their ballot paper and put a cross next to it. Dustin has ran a couple of election campaigns himself - his most notable election promise was that every Irish boy would be allowed to go on a date with the Spice Girl of their choice.

I think that the guy who had the last laugh on all this lot though was the pupeteer who can claim to have entered the Eurovision song contest by sticking his hand up the arse of a stuffed bird and waving it around in time to the music. What a great way to earn a living.

Ouch, Ouch, Ouch

First, apologies for the interruption in transmission. I'd like to say that it was circumstances beyond my control. I'd really like to say that. In fact, I could easily say that, but it wouldn't be the truth.

The truth is that it is entirely in my control, or at least it feels like it now. There can be no "up" without "down", no "day" without "night", and we're hitting a bit of twilight now. There is light at the end of the tunnel. Whether it is in oncoming train or not, time will tell.

So, what's been going on this last week?

Well for one thing, it's hard to be all light-hearted about stuff when hundreds of thousands of people are being killed in cyclones and earthquakes, and the world is going into financial meltdown. It's hard not to feel that collective pain, and absorb it like some crazy emotional lightning rod.

Then there's the flip-side. I should laugh and make jokes. I should do this because I can - because Fate has decided not to involve me in the cyclone and earthquake and (for now) financial meltdown. I should do this to thank Fate for giving me a break.

But would you be the one who jumped up at a funeral and shouted "I say, I say, I say ..."? It's tough.

Anyway, first of all, Martin did a rather annoying 6 laps on that technical terror (which he did nont construct) at Tea Till Dusk, and I only managed a rather pathetic 4. I could, if I wanted, blame it on Keith's daughters, or I could blame it on my front brake.

Keith, a self-made very-wealthy individual, is doing Enduro Africa this year along with his two daughters. He did the Red Kite rally a couple of months ago. He was doing Tea till dusk, and so were his girls.

It was a tough tough course. It was an Army enduro course, full of Army enduro riders who were not there to muck about. I was steady, but not quick. Martin was quick, but not steady. The first lap consisted of an awful lot of "Martin screams past, I pootle-pootle-pootle, pass Martin lying on his arse ... rinse and repeat". There were drop-offs 5 feet high, and the mother of all hill climbs.

Every time I passed one of Keith's daughters (who were predominately lying down or trying to pick their bikes up), I stopped to help. Sir LapsALot, helping the damsels in distress and also helping the young ladies who were riding them. I didn't stop to help the girls, oh no, I stopped to make sure that Jane and Nadia were all right (since those were the bikes they were on). This caused some amusement - and probably offence - to the young ladies since I'd pick the bike up and give it a check over and say something like "take it easy lass, it'll be over soon".

Then the young ladies would realise that I was talking to the bikes and not them. Hmm. Probably not an ideal pulling technique, I have to admit.

Right into the beginning of lap two, my front brake decided it had had enough. No front brake. None. Steep downhills - very steep - and no front brake. Which made the descents quite exciting. At the end of the second lap I asked The Missus to fetch the tools from the van which she did, bless her) and I had to ride the entire 3rd lap with no front brake.

The technique for going down a steep hill with no front brake is actually rather simple. All you need to do is totally shit yourself and hang on, making sure that you steer out of the way of trees and stuff like that. I managed the first one very well indeed, and did a reasonable job of the second one.

Now, this created an interesting side-effect. Since I had no front brake, I was going down these hills a lot quicker than I would like. Fate, with that wonderful way of nudging you on that she has, is trying to tell me that I can get down hills a lot quicker. In order to convince me of this, she nicked my front brake.

My cornering is shit, this we know, and there were a lot of corners. I need to work on my cornering since it is here that I am losing all of my time.

But let me ask you this, it's giving me a bit of a dilemma. I am not coming off the bike when I am riding. Does this mean that I am getting better, and the speed will come, or does it mean that I am not pushing myself enough? It's a tough one. What's the right thing to do here? Is it to allow the speed to build gradually, or do I ride a bit quicker than I feel safe with?

Interestingly enough, it's a dilemma I've been facing this last week or so. Enduro is a great metaphor for life. There comes a time in the cycle when it's time to grit my teeth and shove. Before this time, shoving is pointless - I may as well try to stop a runaway train by throwing a baked bean at it. If I shove too soon, then I make myself feel worse - there is no more despairing feeling in the world than not being able to make yourself feel better. If I shove too late, then I wallow in my misery and risk it lasting a bit longer than it should - possibly even tipping into a longer-scale bout of depression.

The gift is not being able to shove, that's the easy part. The gift is knowing when to shove. And that was today.

I got a lovely email from Cockle (THANK YOU), and from Brendan in Australia who suffers from a similar affliction to me. It's time to shove.

Tell you what though, if you ever think that nobody cares whether you live or die - try missing two mortgage payments.

I've been spinning the wheels a lot these past few days, storing up a lot of stuff. I can forsee some interesting topics ahead.

Speaking of spinning the wheels, there were two photographers atTea Till Dusk (no photos yet). One of them was halfway upa hill, and the other one just over the top. How appropriate - "over the top". I saw the first photographer and, well, you know, put on a bit of a show. Gave it proper 'andful up the hill. Cleared the top of the hill with my front wheel in the air, and nearly put myself on my arse - right in front of the second photographer, who got me square on close-up shitting myself as I nearly ploughed into a tree.

But, still, it looks an awful lot better than the browning-of-the-trousers moment it actually was at the time. Ten out of ten for style, even if it was minus several million for good thinking:





Now I know what you're thinking. You're thking that "surely you need finely-chiselled buttocks to pull of a stunt like that". I know, I know.



Hubris, anyone?

Two For Tea

First, let me say something about Blind Pew.

In Robert Louis Stevenson's book, Treasure Island, there was a character called Blind Pew. Now, Treasure Island is the most dramatised novel ever and is the one which all causes us to think of pirates as having one eye, one leg and a parrot on their shoulder.

Blind Pew was somebody you just did not want to meet. He was blind, funnily enough, and was an ex-pirate. His main job was to bestow the Black Spot onto people. When Pew gave you the blind spot, then that was it - you'd had it.

So, anyway, I had a great time in Dublin. Met some lovely people. Rode some lovely bikes. Including my ITM's Yamaha WR 250. It had such a wonderful clutch on it. So strong it was. At least, that's before Blind Pew here put the black spot on it. After only a few hours of my, em, "technique", the clutch decided to commit a bit of clutch suicide at the TORC enduro on Sunday - complete with my ITM on board halfway through a race.

There's some debate going about whether I actually did put the black spot on his clutch, or whather it was Fate herself who did it after the great bit of ITM hubris that was going on about my clutch packing in. We will probably never know.

Tomorrow evening, there is what we will call the Cowshit Rematch. Up at Deepcut Barracks in Surrey, there's a little race being run called Tea Till Dusk. It's put on by the Army, and attracts a lot of good riders to it. It starts at 6, finishes around 8:30, and all proceeds go to charity.

The guy who set up the course - a guy called Darren - is an Army PT instructor. When I spoke to him today, he described the course as "hard". Me made it that way to stop any motocross hooligans from getting too much speed up. Oh, and it's got the biggest hill climb you ever saw in your life.

I considered the hill climb:

"Do we have to go down it as well?" (please say no, please say no, please say no)

"No, that was last year. Too many injuries, so we're going up it this year"

So then it occurred to me. A very technically difficult course with no MX sections and no cowshit. And Army timekeepers - so no phantom laps. There was only 1 thing to do - get right on the phone to Martin and start winding him up:

"Your feeble Husaberg Jedi skills are no match for the power of the PR3 Dark Side"

Much chuckling and "we'll see". My start time is one minute before him. He sends me an email later in the afternoon:

"if you're in front, then you'd be better be sure to get outta the way, cos i'll be coming"

I am fine-tuning my cowshit avoidance radar, since the technical nature of this race may well give me an advantage over the Husaberg juggernaut that Martin is riding.

Which gave me a problem for work. Since the race is ony a few miles away from where I work, then I'll take the bike with me. But where to park? I don't want to leave a bike outside all day. Quick phone call to the security guys, and it turns out that there is an underground car park with 6 spaces in it for Very Important People. Tomorrow, I can be one of those Very Important People so my bike doesn't get nicked they tell me.

Me and my uprated clutch are number 133, which Wikipedia tells me is a happy number.

I got another email from Martin not very long ago:

"Before we start, I'd better get some excuses in right away, I have a terrible cold, and quite bad buttock and arm brusing from Sunday, also I have water loss problem (from the bike, that is).

These are to be used in the unlikely event that you beat me.

Also, you'll have a minutes head start."

He knows. It's only a matter of time. Maybe I'll finally get to deliver my favourite ever Star Wars line ever:

"Your powers are weak old man"

Response from the council about that Byway they shut. Apparently, it's a "voluntary closure" but they can't explain to me what that means. Nor can they explain to me when it will be open again. Going to do some digging into this one because my understanding of CRoW (Countryside and Rights of Way Act) is that if they can't tell you when it's open again then it shouldn't be closed - closure for indefinite periods of time are illegal. Will keep you posted.

ITM-ess and Cockle went to see my ITM at the TORC enduro on Sunday. The hooliganism of the experts has still not waned Cockle's enthusiasm, and he still wants to be an enduro nut. ITM-ess loved the atmosphere and the friendliness and they both had an absolute ball. They're too polite to mention that I am Chief Suspect in their clutch murder investigation ...

A word of warning, do not watch this if you are a BMW rider:

Myanmar

The sounds of summer were out today. Beautiful warm day, barbecues becoming today's national sport. We, like pretty much everybody else, grabbed sausages and burgers and coal and beer and cooked and ate in the sunshine.

The Wee Yin played in the sprinkler, squealing and giggling. This is the sound of summer - food sizzling on the barbecue, whilst kids squeal with delight playing in the sprinkler.

My ITM was at the TORC enduro toda