Yeah, Sure They're Saying That John

Martin called this morning to find out how it went on Sunday.

He knew how it went on Sunday. He knew that I'd have ended up trapped in the woods, pulling and pushing and tugging bikes up the hill. He knew.

"I spent two hours in the woods, pulling people up this rooty hill"

"Yeah, I know that hill. Forgot to tell you about that one"

Thanks Martin.

Here's a funny thing. Martin has relaxed a bit now. He gives me munny. I take the munny. Or is it me who's relaxed a bit? Not entirely sure.

What I'm going to do is ask Martin to make up a list of "Things I could have told you". It will save me a lot of time, since an awful lot of the conversations go like:

"I discovered ... today"

"I could have told you that"

But the point is that he could have as well. For instance, my revelation about Darren Wheeler not being a ten-foot giant. Martin could have told me this.

So we spoke about Darren Wheeler. I was joking with Martin about this time next year:

"This time next year, Darren Wheeler will see me on the start line. He'll turn to Darryl Bolter and say: 'no point even competing - championship is already lost - look who's here. That bloody 2009 Dakar guy'"

Martin chuckled - "Yeah, sure they'll be saying that John".

He then went on to tell me that goals are not a bad thing. Having goals is what it's all about. If my goal is to be overtaking Darren Wheeler, then why is that a bad thing, and why should it not be possible?

I told him about rider number 155 and the, em, issues I had had with him. Martin was very much in the "should have put his lights out" camp, but did recommend that taking my Marshalls jacket off first would be a good idea. I mean, insconpiciously knocking somebody out is probably something you'd get away with, but don't do it whilst you're wearing a hi-viz vest. The clue is in the name - "hi viz". As ever, Martin is the brains of the outfit.

And it turns out that yesterday we had carnage synchronised across countries too. My ITM was taking part in a rather arduous event at Bunclody in Ireland. It was horrible. It took him ages to get up a slippery hill that was only 100m, and he missed the time cuts. He was not happy.

There's a couple of different types of people in the world. There's the ones who would take a really bad experience at Bunclody and decide that enduro is not for them and they should take up knitting instead. Then there's the ones who resolve that a shitty Bunclody is actually a great motivator. It's nature's way of pointing out the areas that need a bit of work.

My ITM will be looking at the bits he wants to improve and, by sheer force of will, he will improve them. It's either that, or he gets a proper kicking from Missus ITM for buying an enduro bike that just sits in the garage whilst he perfects his knitting.

And, speaking of areas that need work, I've taken some of my own advice. I have produced a manuscript and this is going out to various people in publishing. I write well, I write naturally, and I want published. So out goes the manuscript. I will keep you posted.

A few weeks ago, in a bit of a drunken fit of rage, I did rather a silly thing. I filled in an application form for The Apprentice. I went into a bit of a rant about muppets and snake-oil salesmen and stuff like that and how I could do much, much better. That kind of thing. It asked for a recent photo of myself.

The normal thing to do would have been to send the standard head-and-shoulders of me looking my best in an Armani suit. Yes, that would have been normal. Instead, I sent in a photo of me covered in cowshit at the West Wilts enduro.

So, my audition is next Wednesday.

I asked my boss if I could have the time off. He said that he would be delighted to give me the time off. In his words, me being on The Apprentice - that would be compulsive viewing.

Do you ever get that? Do you ever get those "what the fuck did I go and do that for?" moments? But, at the same time, you've got to kind of see it through?

Or is it just me?

Divine Comedy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm brilliant"

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

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

This guy will go far.

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

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

Someday, he'll understand.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, forgive the rant.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How was the race?"

"I ran over a Marshall"

"What happened?"

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

"Was he OK?"

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

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

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

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

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

After the race I spoke to the organiser:

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

"What about?"

I told him what happened.

He pulled back his glove:

"This guy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

Meeting Fate Halfway

I have a lot of shippee about tomorrow.

First, a wee story about Aladdin. Kept rubbing his lamp, and the genie would appear. The genie would say "your wish is my command" and Aladdin would say "I want to win the lottery".

Week after week went by, and Aladdin never won a single thing. One week, he rubbed his lamp and out popped the "your wish is my command"-ing genie. Aladdin had a right go at the genie. "Every week", he says, "I wish for to win the lottery and it doesn't happen. What's the deal?"

The genie said to Aladdin - "meet me halfway. Buy a ticket".

MidWest Racing. Home of champions - Darren Wheeler, Darryl Bolter and the like. And I, lil 'ol me, riding as a marshall.

Today, I was tightening and screwing and fastening and making Goldilocks all ship shape for her big day out tomorrow. My ITM was doing the same on his KTM 250 - he has Bunclody tomorrow. Jago was doing the same on his KTM 300 - he's at Midwest. All over the country today, there was cups of tea in one hand and spanners in the other as people got their bikes ready for the various events that are on tomorrow.

Maps came out, final regs were being printed off, satnavs were being programmed and people were working out what time they'd need to leave and stuff like that.

U-Drive in Romsey were supberb. They had no vans - everything is always booked solid in the last weekend of the month - and poor Lewis was phoning all over the place to find me something that would get Goldilocks up to Midwest. He managed to wheel and deal and sort something out for me by some creative moving around. Many many thanks Lewis.

The BMW gear was all washed by the Missus. The several tonnes of Salisbury Plain which caked it were all scrubbed off to the accompanying tune of "we can't have you going out as a marshall looking like that now can we?".

There's the small matter of my boots which I left up at AJP and, other than that, I'm ready.

I have no idea what to expect tomorrow. I figure that it will be a lot like trail riding - just ride around and help people out if they're in a bit of bother. And keep and eye on Jago - make sure he doesn't get up to mischief, since I know what these 2-strokers are like.

My new-found level of riding is up to par - I am riding so much better than I was only a few months ago. Jago thinks it's great that I am riding as a marshall since I'll get a totally different perspective on the course and have a bit of fun. I proved yesterday that I've got what it takes to beat Martin, or at the very least to make him have to work very very hard to beat me.

I said some ago that I' like to write, that I'd like to get published. Regular readers will remember that one. I remember it.

Then, rubbing my lamp, and wishing to be published, the genie said to me - "meet me halfway - write a book"

It's a good point, well made. Even an all-powerful genie can't get me published with a book that's not written. Doh.

So, I've started on my book. I will keep you posted and progress.

When it's complete, it'll be published. It'll be a best seller. It will make you laugh, and sometimes make you cry.

Genie had a fair point though.

A year ago today I was at Millau and the spectacular viaduct conceived by Norman Foster en route to Ibiza. I had just finished BMW Level 1, had never yet done a race, and I am marshalling at a Championship enduro tomorrow.

Life is this great unwritten canvas and you can paint on it whatever you want. Marshalling at a Championhip race. How chuffed am I? I feel like a dog with two tails ...

Thirsty

I believe that the people of Salisbury must be the thirstiest people in the world. I'll explain in a bit...

Day 2 of Brian's stag do was a lot less drama than yesterdays little shenanigans with the air ambulance and stuff.

The guys were a bit muted today, unsurprisingly. I set off ahead with them, and Martin had some stuff to finish off and would catch us up. As we rode towards the Plain, I was musing on how to deal with this.

It's the guys stag do, and he wants to have fun. Riding the bikes should be fun, but everybody's confidence was shaken after yesterday - they'd not be human if it hadn't put a damper on things for them. To me, this was not acceptable. They deserved better. I figured out what I was going to do.

First though, Martin is a very clever individual. He has seen me out on the Plain, out with people. He has seen the way that I really identify with what I am doing. That I am passionate, that I love it, and that that is infectious. He knew that if he gave the guys an hour or so with me then it would change the mood.

It's not just a bike thing either. When I am on form - and boy am I on form just now - then it is impossible to be in my company for an hour without pissing yourself laughing at least twice. I am razor sharp, and can see humour in anything. Don't invite me to a funeral when I'm on form.

Not like my Uncle Joe, who chose to leave us a few years ago when I was on form. We were at the funeral and the pirest was giving it "bless bless bless ..." over the coffin. Let's be clear though - I loved my Uncle Joe, and sobbed my heart out when he died.

So we're at the funeral and the priest is blessing away and he started rummaging around in drawers and cupboards on the altar. I says to The Missus - "ah, so that's where he keeps the whisky. Want one?". Grievers around me started pissing themselves. It's what Joe would have wanted.

I took them to the trees. The tight, twisty trees with only a 12-inch path running through it.

Firstly, this means they have to concentrate a lot. They really need to pay attention to what they're doing - not like open fields where they get a chance to think. They're dealing with a Nobel Prize winner of taking your mind off things - they're in the right place. Roots and trees soon occupied their thoughts, and elbowed tibias and helicopters out of the way. As ever - a great metaphor for life. Monsters can only survive if you feed them. Monsters in your head only survive if you pay attention to them. Focus on where you want to be, not where you are.

The second thing is that the trees are slow - they have to be. You can't go quickly when you'e got to change direction on slippery mud every few feet. Since Little Richard's injury was down to speed, I had to break the link in their thoughts between motorcycles and speed. I had to get them confident on the bikes at slow speeds and - crucially - enjoying it, otherwise we'd never be able to get them out of it.

The third thing is that woods are tiring. Your body raises its heartrate to pump blood faster and get more oxygen to the muscles and brain. It is impossible to be depressed when you are exercising, and - equally - it is near impossible to exercise when you are depressed.

Add into that little mix my infectious enthusiasm and constant piss-taking, and it didn't take long. There's only so much of "Look at that - body of an athlete, shame the sport is tiddlywinks" people can take before they either punch you or laugh.

What happened yesterday happened yesterday. The real problems are in front of you. Just like life.

We emerged from the woods and stopped for a breather. The change in mood was audible and visible. People were excited and smiles started to appear. Brian pointed out that those woods were "so confidence inspiring". In that moment, I could have thrown the British Enduro Championships at these guys and they'd have lapped it up. We had turned a corner.

A little 4 wheel drive golf buggy thing came towards us across the field. I said "Oh-oh, here's trouble" and everybody's face fell.

The guy skidded to a halt and jumped out his little buggy. He demanded "Do you have permission to be here?".

The guys looked at eachother, at me, and at eachother again. This wasn't part of their plan.

I took off my helmet and said "No, we're just taking the piss".

"You shouldn't be here"

"I know"

The guy grinned. I grinned. We shook hands. "You should be over here! I found this brilliant track!". It was the farmer, and we were just winding the guys up.

He drove down the hill in his little buggy and put a couple of blue stakes and some tape so that we could find the track. It involved some fairly slippery uphill work, and he drove his buggy round the corner so that he could witness the carnage and have a laugh.

As the guys realised that it was a wind-up, and that everything was OK, they relaxed even more. Yes, Martin - wily old dog - knew what he was doing.

The farmer told me about Lee Wheatley. Lee was the service manager at Honda of Bournemouth, and used to give me discount off all my gear and parts because I was a regular and put thousands of miles on my bike every couple of months. What I didn't know at the time was that he was also an enduro champion who rode at Midwest.

Lee Wheatley, Darryl Bolter, Dave Nuttall and Darren Wheeler. The top 4 at Midwest was always those four, although the order varied.

Lee, working at Honda, was able to "borrow" any bike he chose and regularly did so. He borrowed a 1000cc FireBlade, and overcooked it on a corner. He managed to jump clear of the bike, but had a little bit less success avoiding the lamp-post he was flying towards. He was killed instantly.

Last week was the Lee Wheatley Memorial Enduro, and it will probably be a yearly event. Dave, Darren and Darryl finished 1, 2 3 in truly fitting style. Dave won the three-hour enduro by 22 seconds.

Lee, you will be missed. And, one day, I will lift the cup with your name on it.

Martin caught us up at the wods where we had laid out a better, longer, track - nearly 2 miles. I had moved a lot of logs and stuff and carved a couple of new routes up and down the hill. This gave us a real zig-zag up and down the hill, before going out across the fields and then up the steep hill we use to teach the guys momentum.

I took the guys round it a few times to show them where the route went. I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure they were there. One time, as I looked, I saw this huge yellow hooligan bike bearing down on me - Martin.

"Right", I thought, "let's get the gloves off". I tore off across the field and I could hear the roar of the Husaberg behind me. We flisked left long a barbed-wire fence and came to the top of a steep hill that would have scared the shit out of me a few months ago. None of this first gear malarky - I went down in second and gassed it all the way down. I heard Martin still behind me.

Through the slipper and wet woods, we had to pull a hairpin to go back up the hill. Martin overshot the corner - the Husaberg is no match for the PR3 in the woods - and I gained a few yards. By the time I hit the bottom of the hill, I was doing 60 - as measured by the speedo and Martin was gaining.

Across wet field with wet grass, we had a sharp left turn before going down a very chalky and slippery track. Martin, too much power again, overshot the corner and I zipped round it - MX-style - on the PR3. Again, we came to the bottom of the steep momentum hill where I had first spotted Martin behind me. First lap to me. I held up a finger and shouted "That's 1!".

When we got across the field back to the woods, we realised that the guys had stopped to watch what was unfolding. They recognised that this was not just a couple of hooligans, they recognised that this was a duel - a battle which had been going on for some time. They watched. They shouted. "Go on John!", or "Go on Martin!".

Martin, on a race-prepped Husaberg 450, had more power and better accelaration. Me, riding Tango, had more agility and an ability to change direction like a startled hare. Up, down, round, skid, gas, brake. Rinse repeat. We came to the bottom of the steep hill. I held up two fingers - "Thats 2! Your powers are weak old man!".

On the third lap, Martin found grip at the top of the hill, and nailed me with an MX-style blocking pass on the corner. As Meatloaf said, 2 out of 3 aint bad.

We stopped at the end of that lap and got the helmets off. Martin, sweating and breathless, asked the milion-dollar question:

"Fuck me! So why don't you ride like that on an enduro?"

I gave the million-dollar answer:

"Because, until Tea till Dusk, I didn't realise that I could".

It is the mind that is the limitation. Whether you think you can, or think you can't, you'll be right.

"I will whip your ass this year Martin"

"No, not this year. You already did. You have no idea how hard I had to work to pass you"

And, just to make sure that egos were intact, he grinned and added:

"Then again, you were taught by a master"

to which there is only one response - delivered in my very best Alec Guinness:

"Only a master of evil Darth"

and Chief will testify to how spookily brilliant this impersonation is.

He knows. He knows that I have designs and plans way beyond the petty squabbles we have on the enduro track. He knows and, most important of all, he believes.

As Martin Luther King said - "Take the first step in faith. You don't have to see the whole staircase. Just take the first step".

Sometimes, people wonder why I am so fiercely loyal to Martin. They wonder why I refuse to give up on the little AJP despite cooked clutches and the like. The answer is simple.

I believe in the AJP. I believe in the little AJP the same way that Martin believed in me.

A year ago last Monday, I went out for my second time ever on an offroad bike. I stopped at the edge of a set of woods and I said to the guy I was with:

"Do you think you could get me to the start line of the Dakar?"

He smiled and said "yeah, might do".

The guy was Martin. The edge of the woods were the same edge of the woods where we saw the farmer today.

I am riding at Midwest on Sunday, as a travelling Marshall. Thanks to Martin, and the work we have done together at AJP. I am going to Enduro Africa, thanks to Martin and the work we have done at AJP. Not everything can have a price ticket attached to it, and doing so can interrupt the natural flow of things.

Do the maths for yourself. And then ask me again why I am so fiercely loyal to Martin. Ask me again why I have absolute faith that the little AJP will take me where I want to be, and why I have absolute faith in Martin.

The guys got back to AJP and declared it "the best weekend they've ever had". The grins were genuine, the handshakes were warm. They were off to the hospital to see Richard, with our regards and best wishes.

Martin gave me a cheque. It was a cheque for Queen Madge II - somebody had bought her. He asked if I'd be willing to take more, and I asked him to add a zero or two. He added a few shekels, and he was visibly relieved that I took some munny in return for my efforts. I like cheques.

I went into the workshop and gave Queen Madge II a kiss and a cuddle to say goodbye. I dont expect you to understand. She's hauled my ass through mud, ruts, roots and all kinds of carnage and has never - ever - let me down. She was named well. Madge, the real Madge, that fearsome heart-of-gold giant of a woman Aunt of mine, never let me down either.

Madge, I will never forget you. Both of you. You stood by me through thick and thin. You guided me from where I was, to where I wanted to be. You taught me that life could be more than it currently is. You were patient when I needed patience, and you were fierce when I neeed ferocity. You never, ever, let me down. Either of you.

So, thirst. I was driving home through Salisbury - where I had the run-in with the traffic cop a few weeks back - and popped into Waitrose. I was driving out of Salisbury and I thought to myself - "lot of cops out tonight".

Next minute, there's blue lights everywhere and all kinds of signalling for me to pull over.

I stopped the car and was out in a flash - just the way my Da taught me. I've got three cops approaching me from the front, and god knows how many from the rear. There's two cars in front of me, three behind me, and a meat wagon pulling up alongside. I realised that I better hide my shotgun or bomb or whatever it is, because this is serious.

A cop grabbed the keys out my car. That's clue number 1. I'm smiling, asking what the problem is. He won't tell me, and starts asking me questions. Have I been into Waitrose? What did I buy? That kind of thing.

The cops then do what cops are trained to do. Picture the training course at Police college:

"Step forward. Invade the suspects space. Like THIS. Make them take a step back. Asset your authority."

Oops. Sorry. I skipped school the day they taught the how-suspects-will-react lesson. I stepped forward too.

So now I'm about 3 inches from the cop's face. He again demands to know what I bought in Waitrose. I ask him, again, what the problem is. He demands, again, to know what I bought. I've had enough by now.

"Nothing. I bought nothing. I stole the whole fucking lot. So, tell me, have I committed, am in the provcess of committing, or about to commit an offence? What reasonable cause do you have for preventing me going about my lawful business?"

He looked at his more senior colleague - he didn't know how to deal with this one. This is exactly the language they use on the training courses. His more senior colleague decided that they just weren't invading my space enough, or that there weren't enough cops, since the manual says that I should be intimidated. They took a step forward. I stayed my ground. There was now only an inch between his eyeballs and mine.

"So, officer, if you tell me the nature of your enquiry then I will try to assist you"

A swarm of black. Five cop cars and a transit van. Lots of squawking radios.

"We've had a complaint from the member of the public that you were drinking at the wheel of your vehicle".

Ahh. That explains it. Drinking at the wheel. Drink driving. Guaranteed conviction. Nice statistic. If it were a fight in a pub, you would all be busy right?

"Yes, I was drinking whilst in control of a motor vehicle".

Ka-ching. Lights on all round. The sea of black gets tighter.

"Tell me something"

"Whats that?"

"The legal limit for alcohol is 35mg correct?"

"Yes"

"And the offence of driving whilst under the influence is well established, correct?"

"Yes"

"So, is drinking alchohol at the wheel a separate offence? Or is it OK to drink alcohol at the wheel as long as I am under the limit?"

The poor cop. That one overloaded his brain. He had to sa ythe three words that, according to the Police training courses, you never EVER say:

"I don't know"

Bingo.

"So, have I been stopped because you suspect I'm over the limit, or have I been stopped because you don't know if I've commited an offence or not?"

He looked at his more senior colleague.

Whilst they think about it, I produce a packet of fags. A young lady by the name of Rhona - brilliant lawyer - taught me this trick. If you want to keep the upper hand, always ask your next question before they've answered your previous one.

"Can I smoke?"

"OK, go on"

"But if you're going to breathalyse me, then I shouldn't smoke for 10 minutes prior to being breathalyased, otherwise the evidence is inadmissible. Is it still OK if I smoke?"

"Better not"

Poor guy. I almost felt sorry for him.

Up comes the breathalyser. They puke when I tell them that I have been drinking and show them the bottle - it's juice. What they saw - and it was a cop who radioed it in and not a member of the public - was me drinking red bull.

So what is it with Salisbury and Red Bull? Last time, it was a mobile phone (aka Red Bull). This time, it's alcohol. Five cop cars and a meat wagon - for a can of Red Bull.

If I lived in Salisbury, I'd be afraid to drink anything. The people of Salisbury must be the thirstiest people on earth.

By the way, two hands and a foot on the next rung ...

Best Mans Speech

Statistically speaking, we've got a great track record at AJP. A great track record of teaching people to ride, and teaching them to ride safely.

I always make a big deal about how our objective for the day is to send the guys back home in roughly the same shape as they arrived.

So, today was day 1 of our 2-day event. Brian's Stag Weekend was to start with 2 days off-roading.

There was Brian, the stag, all 50 years old of him. There was Richard, the best man, all 6 foot 5 of him. There was Patrick - same size as me and same age as Brian. There was another Richard - same age as Brian. There was Neil and Mike - Brian's son and Patrick's son respectively. Stag do.

There will be no problems with the best man's speech either - but we'll come to this in a bit.

Usual throw the bike on the floor, give them time to pick up their jaws, go through the whole pegs thing. No dramas there. Usual safety briefing. No dramas. How to skid the bike. No dramas. Ruts. Hah! No dramas. Roots. No dramas.

In fact, it was getting to the point that we were having to work very hard to even have an itsy-bitsy little bit of carnage.

Richard, and so you know which one I'm talking about we'll call him "Little Richard", was quick to oblige. He took what can only be described as "the line I would take" through a set of ruts - i.e. the wrong line. When his bike lurched sideways, he flew through the air and landed square on his back. This really hurt him.

The others came back whilst we got him sorted out. Big Richard, the best man, took this opportunity in the woods to take his clothes off and get all native and naked. He claimed he was taking his jeans off, the others weren't so sure.

Little Richard was looking very grey. The others went on ahead, Little Richard and I nursed our way to the woods. We rode across some fields that were in the middle of having a cut of hay taken. We got a toot-toot from the farmer as we rode over the field. None of this gerrof-moi-land stuff - a wave and a toot-toot. How it should be - we can all co-exist.

We caught up with Martin in the woods. The conversation went like this:

"Where's Brian?"

"He set off with you"

"No he didn't - he stayed behind with you"

"No he didn't, he set off with you"

Lights came on. Big Richard was musing about how on earth he'd tell Brian's betrothed that we had only gone and lost the groom somewhere on Salisbury Plain.

I was dispatched to retrace our steps - plus the ones we thought he might have taken - to try and find him. I set off at a hell of a rate of knots.

I've never done that until today. I've never ridden the trails on Salisbury Plain like I'd ride an enduro - flat out and to the limit. It was a total hoot. I was riding Tango - the PR3 with the full-size orange wheels - and she was superb. The large wheels gave her a much more planted feel and the longer wheelbase gave her lots more stability.

She is being test ridden by Trail Bike Magazine at the end of the month - and my bet is that they will really like her.

I rode all the way back to where Little Richard had had his wee spill. No joy. I rode all the way off the Plain to the road and back. No joy. I rode all the way up to the road that runs along the ridge - no joy. I rode back to the woods and there, to my surprise, was Brian.

He had set off with Martin and they had left him behind. He missed a turn and ended up at the main road. He found a landmark - a pub - and had been sitting there trying to call people on their mobiles. When he got through and said where he was, they went off to fetch him and bring him back. Meantime, I'm having a hoot riding around for an hour at speed on Salisbury Plain.

We got to the pub for lunch and all was well. It turns out that Little Richard works as a Management Consultant, and the others all work with helicopters - fixing them, designing them and stuff like that. Big Richard was an ex-Navy pilot.

Helicopters. Like this one:


We'll come back to this.

We rode up this track and encountered a couple of horse riders. We cut the engines and pulled over, and they were ever so grateful. One of them commented that they wished that all bikers would do that - then they could ride where they like. I know. It's not where you ride, it's how you ride.

We came to the most easterly part of our route - where I cooked the clutch a few weeks back and borrowed the rope from the traveller. As far away as we could possibly be.

There's a huge mudbath there - about two feet of water with a foot of mud at the bottom of it. All of the guys made it through, and Little Richard was a bit hesitant about it. I got off my bike and showed him the line.

He took it at tremendous speed - what a bow wave. When the water hit him, he panicked and gave it 'andful. This was one of those one times in a hundred when it was the wrong thing to do. The bike shot forward, cross-rutted and then dumped him on the floor. He was grey again.

We gave him a few minutes, then he couldn't stand up. His leg wasn't working right. We're in the middle of the deepest muddy track on our route - three feet of mud behind us, and two feet of mud in front of us - sort of like on an island in the middle of it.

I took a look inside his boot and saw blood. He was going into shock. That blood in the boot was coming from his shin. This sits under the shinguard - and the shinguard wasn't punctured. Which means that the blood could only come from the skin being broken by a bone poking through it - aka a compound fracture.

Martin called an ambulance whilst I got the maps out to get a position fix. Pylons or no pylons, I knew exactly where we were and rattled off the grid reference and long / lat co-ordinates to Martin who relayed them to the ambulance people. I then set off to the main road to guide the Ambulance in.

The Ambulance driver, old guy by the name of Dave, was a real trooper. He came blastring along the road with his sirens blazing and then we set off up the muddy track. He was in a 4 wheel-drive car - he was a lone paramedic - and took on the tracks with gusto. He ripped the exhaust off the car on one of the particularly bumpy and rutty tracks, and I kept stopping in the puddles to show him how deep they were and where the shallow side was. All the while, the sirens kept going.

We got to the end of the track where Little Richard was lying, and there was no way a 4 wheel vehicle was getting along there - it was two-feet deep of mud all the way along. We got his ger out of the car and walked along the track.

He got right on his radio and asked for the Air Ambulance - there was no way that a land vehicle could reach here. The Air Ambulance was already in the sky and only a few minutes away - we heard it approach.

We started looking for somewhere for it to land, and the only place was a farmers field which (unfortunately) had crops in it. The photo above is the air ambulance coming into land.

When it landed, I realised that it was actually a Police chopper - apparently the Police and the paramedics share it and they travel as a crew. So, next time you watch one of those car chase things on TV, know that there are two cops and a paramedic in the chopper:


We all helped the paramedic unload her gear - lovely lady by the name of Jill - and trooped it through the mud and stuff to Little Richard.

I was carrying this big white stretcher that looked like a surfboard, bouncing along the track giving it "na na na na naah naaaaaaaah, na na na na naaaaaaah!" - Hawaii-5-O style. I mean, you had to.

The paramedic got the morphine straight out and filled Little Richard up with it. Colour came back into his face and he wasn't grey anymore. We got him on the stretcher, all strapped up, and got his boot off. More morphine.

Then we set back off towards the helicopter - 6 of us carrying the stretcher through the mud whilst the paramedics and policemen kept their feet dry by scrambling along the embankment.

Then we came to the locked gate and the fence. No choice but to go under it. We put Little Richard on his surfboard on the ground and dragged him under it and got him into the chopper. The pilot was holding an oxygen tank which was feeding Little Richard oxygen to keep him nice and calm and breathing regularly.


As you can see, I'm not the only one taking photos.

They give you oxygen first because it helps keep you calm but - most importantly - because it stops you hyperventilating. Quite clever really. By putting a mask on your face, and regulating the amount of oxygen you get, it forces you to breath regularly and steadily rather than short panic breaths.

Meantime, whilst all this is going on, Big Richard is having an in-depth discussion with the pilot about the technical and flying characteristics of the helicopter. I am reliably informed that it is a 109, made by McDonnel Douglas, and rather a nifty little machine.

Richard was medevaced off the Plain and now we had to get the bike back. We did this by relaying. I ride a mile, then Martin takes me on the back of his bike to pick up the other bike, then I ride two miles (i.e. a mile past the other bike). Ride back to pick up the other bike, ride two miles, rinse and repeat. It was slow going.

The guys pressed on ahead. We gave them a map and showed them the route - they're aviators, maps are no problem. They all made it back before we did.

News from the hospital is that Little Richard didn't quite finish the day in roughly the same shape as he started it. He has four fractures of his tibia (shin bone) and fibia (bone at the back of the lower leg) and two of those are compound - i.e. the snapped bone pokes through the skin.

So, now that we've dispensed with the easy stuff on our 2-day adventure, we can make it difficult tomorrow ...

Moths

What, exactly, is the point of moths?

I don't like moths. The flutter and flap and fly into the light bulb and then they kind of flap around and go "I cant see, I cant see ..." and get all in your face and annoy you.

When I was admitted to hospital a few years ago, I had to go through an interview with a Very Clever psychiatrist. He asked me such genius questions as:

"Do you see things that aren't there?"

I asked him:

"If I see them, then how do I know they aren't there?"

and we kind of went round in circles for a while.

Whilst we were going round in circles, a moth was doing the same in the room where I was sat. I never took my eyes off it the whole time I was there. This really un-nerved the doctor - who may well have thought that I was watching some manifestation or other that I was imagining - but I was watching the moth.

So moths are attracted to the light. They love the light. They fly straight towards the light. We know this.

So why do they come out at night then? Why not come out in the daytime when there's this huge big ball of light hanging right in the sky? Are there millions of moths flying through space right now - heading towards the sun - telling themselves how great it's going to be when they get there?

I have been really busy these past few days. I've been really busy rubbing my lamp and looking where I want the bike to go.

One thing I didn't mention about Sunday is that I took the Tripy roadbook and recorded the route. When I uploaded it into the computer, I had a bit of a laugh - it went completely mental when we took on the enduro laps in the woods.

I've now created a roadbook for Martin to follow on Thursday. This is cheating a bit, since Martin knows the route, but it helps us determine whether or not the Tripy is the tool to use for the roadbook training we're planning to do. I'll keep you posted.

In the past two days, I got a couple of unexpected groat arrivals. First was Martin, telling me that somebody wants to buy one of my bikes. Second came today, when I discovered that I got paid and wasn't expecting it. I bought the Missus a lottery ticket - she likes lottery tickets.

We have different views on lottery tickets. She loves the anticipation that - possibly - it coule be worth a million quid. The glee on her face when she's scratching it is lovely to watch. I love the quantum physics aspect of it - it is both a winning lottery ticket and a losing lottery ticket at the same time - until you scratch it then it's both of them. Just like Schroedinger's Cat.

Anyway, we won twenty quid.

And, speaking of quantum physics, this really made me chuckle. The Wee Yin had a school trip today, to some place where there were peacocks. The Missus asked the Wee Yin to watch out for peacock feathers and, if she saw one, then to pick it up because it was good luck to have a peacock feather.

I remember having an ear-ring with a peacock feather in it. Very stylish. My Ma, when she saw it, was going to rip it out of my ear - wailing like a banshee to "get that out of her house right now". She believed that peacock feathers were very very unlucky.

When I told this to the Wee Yin, she thought about it for a minute. Bear in mind that she's only 7. She said:

"Now I don't know what to think about peacock feathers. Maybe in one universe they're lucky, but in another universe they're unlucky. I don't know what universe we live in, but maybe we live in one where they're lucky and unlucky at the same time".

Aww, bless. It's all about using quantum physics to avoid having to take sides.

I have no idea where my optimism is coming from and, to be honest, I don't care. It is unshakeable. I know that I am going to Beijing. I know that I am going next year. I just know. the world may well be trying to tell me different but, strangely, it's just background noise and I don't hear it.

I feel as though I am at the front of an unstoppable head of steam. The outcome is assured, and I just don't need to worry about it. I feel bulletproof.

I have one unanswered question though, and it's been bothering me. How tall is Kemal Merkit, and what does he weigh?

The Transorientale website had this to say the other day:

"The performance of the day came from Kemal Merkit . Starting from a lowly 42 nd place, Merkit ended the stage in 5th , producing a huge performance that belied his modest stature".

It was the "modest stature" that jumped out at me. It's obviously "modest" enough for them to mention it - but what exactly is it? More importantly, what bike is he riding? If it's small enough for me to pick up, then I want one of those.

What You Think About

It goes where you look. I've said it since the very first time I sat astride a motorcycle and learned this massive secret, this almighty formula that will keep me alive. It goes exactly where you look - no exceptions.

Your purpose is whatever you say it is. Your mission is whatever you decide it will be.

Any my mission is Transorientale. Beijing via the Russian Steppes. Why the universe decided to cancel Dakar this year of all years, and have the inaugural Transorientale this year of all years, could just be coincidence. Or it could be trying to tell me something. It could be trying to tell me that my love of Russia, and my love of motorbikes, can be met at the same time.

It could be trying to tell me that yes, I can have the opportunity to get my face slapped in Russia.

Yet how do we afford it? I don't know. But why is that a problem? Anybody who ever achieved anything didn't know - when they set out - how they were going to do it. They knew what they were going to do, but didn't have a clue about how they were going to do it.

The universe will show the way. It has infinite power, and everything is effortless. Mythology and legend are full of stories - King Midas, Aladdin and the lamp, and it all tells us one thing - be careful what you wish for because you will get it.

I am going to Transorientale. I don't know how yet. I'll be able to tell you how after I've done it.

One guy who spent a long time thinking about such stuff was Joseph Campbell. It was he who coined the phrase which so eloquently sums up my unshakeable optimism.:

"Follow your bliss and the Universe will open doors for you where there were only walls"

Which is exactly what I was saying yesterday. If it feels good, then it's the right thing to do. If it feels bad, then it's not.

I've lost my way a bit. Let me explain.

The best enduros I've ever ridden have been when I am looking ahead - hunting even. I'm watching for grip, traction, pot-holes and obstacles. I can see them coming. Without even thinking about it, I am planning ahead for them - the 90% of my brain I don't use knows they are there and starts doing the calculations for me.

The worst enduros I've ever ridden have been when I start reacting to things around me. I lurch from obstacle to obstacle and don't seem to have any control. I lose sight of where I want to be heading, and every millisecond becomes a fight for survival against the laws of physics. Physics always wins.

Life is exactly the same. When you lurch from obstacle to obstacle and simply react to the events around you then you are inviting trouble. When you keep your eyes focused on where you want to be, then the obstacles fly underneath you and you don't really notice them (apart from the odd smack in the nuts from the fuel tank and stuff like that).

I was out today on Salisbury Plain with Jago and Ed. Jago you've already met, Ed is his mate who is new to enduro.

Martin had been kind enough to give me keys to AJP so we could get the bikes. Jago has a rather quick KTM 300cc 2-stroke which lives up at AJP, and Ed was on an AJP. The merest mention of a 300cc 2-stroke - and how brilliant and torquey and powerful they are - will have my ITM reaching for his chequebook I imagine.

We covered over 60 miles of hard trail in about 4 hours. It doesn't sound like much, but I was riding quicker on the trail than I ride on enduros.

I discovered many things today. Firstly, that I can get up and down hills a lot quicker than I thought I could. Secondly that I am an awful lot better at riding ruts than I thought I was. Thirdly, that I can go much faster than I thought I could go. Fourth, that I am an awful lot better than I think. Fifth - maybe most important of all - my navigation is superb and an awful lot better than I thought it was.

What's the common thread in that little lot? What has been holding me back? It's what I think. Exactly.

I now have two hands on the next rung. OK, OK, so I'm not likely to be winning any world enduro championships in the next couple of weeks, but the difference in my riding was so great that evenI noticed it.

The last time I saw Jago was Son of Dawn to Dusk when I was recovering from injury. He was blown away by the difference in my riding.

I lost my way. I became obsessed with the "how are we going to do this?" and stopped focusing on the key part of that sentence:

"We're going to do this"

As long as I focus on the goal, the universe will take care of the how.

And we are going to Transorientale.

Blood, Sweat and Tears

Well, everything except the blood then.

I was a bit tearful when I left AJP tonight - we'll come back to this in a bit.

We had an Enduro Africa day today - 5 guys in all - who are heading off on Enduro Africa in October. Apparently, Martin and I are going too. The details of this are still being worked out but, I am told, job's a good un.

As usual when we've got a bundle of people, we split into two groups. Martin tore off ahead with the guys who had experience, and I toddled along with the novices. Well, I say "toddled", but it was a bit quicker than that.

I had Calum, Johnny and Dave. Calum was a huge Scotsman who taught people how to drive articulated lorries and he rode up from Brighton on a Super Blackbird with his Missus on the back. Enormous guy - I'd easily fit into one of his legs - spent 10 years in the Navy. Dave - from Leamington Spa - worked for Accenture, and flew all over the place working on projects and stuff like that. Johnny - who fewl in from Northern Ireland - worked for the British Standards Agency. He had some particularly amusing tales about how they tested condoms.

So, that was us. A Scotsman, and Englishman and an Irishman go out riding on Salisbury Plain.

It had been raining - and the rain was on and off all day - so it was slippery. Very slippery indeed. Martin had been in since 6am fixing the bikes - I got there about 8am - and he had been gracious enough to put new back tyres on them. No slicks today.

Coming round the woods where I nearly bashed the Police car the other week, nobody fell off. This is a good sign. I always use that particular corner to gauge who we've got out, and nobody fell off.

We introduced the guys to ruts, and the body english needed to deal with them. There was much sore arses, mostly due to the slipperiness and the fact that the long gras had overgrown the ruts. "When you get in a rut", I explained, "stay in it. You go where the rut goes. No exceptions. Attempt to steer out of it and you'll fall off". They understood and they took it in.

I showed them how to skid - front wheel and back wheel - whilst the bike was moving. I explained that it was crucial to be comfortable with the bike skidding underneath them. They roosted their way up the long gravel track like they had done it for years. I saw the back ends snaking as they flew up, and could see the grins when we got to the top.

We introduced them to roots - wet roots - and the guys soon realised how fearsom these little buggers could be. Tiny little matchstick roots that could chuck a whole bike sideways without warning. I explained how to deal with these by pulling the clutch in as your wheels went over them - no brake or power - since this minimises the sliding.

Uphills and downhills - how to use momentum in both good ways and bad ways. How to get to the top of a hill with just enough momentum that you coast over the top with the clutch in. I learned that one from Gary Palmer at BMW - almost a year ago now - and it as poseable today as it was then. How to give it 'andful as you rolled down a bump so that you land on both wheels at the same time. Even more posable.

Then into the woods where they could stitch it together. Martin was already there with his two guys - Richard, a Surveyor, and Ian who is a photographer. Ian was on the Enduro Himalaya trip this year and took lots of professional photographs - being published in a book in August.

Both Richard and Ian are keen green-laners and ex-trialistas. They both own enduro bikes and go out a couple of times a month. They were already going round the course we have set out.

As you know, there's a nasty uphill climb in the woods. Dave, the novice, took off round the track just behind Ian - the experienced green-laner. I was watching him, whilst stood with Johnny. I saw Ian go up the hill very stylishly and slickly - giving it 'andful at all the right times and up on his pegs the whole way. Dave, right behind him, struggled a bit but still made it up to the top.

At least, that's what I thought I saw. As Johnny pointed out to me, Dave - the novice - was in front and had all the style. Three hours ago, he'd never sat on a dirt bike.

If you'll pardon me please, I'd like to take some of the credit for this. He rode the bike, he made it up the hill and he did that all by himself. But I'd like to hope, that even in a small way, I got him there.

After lunch, I showed the guys how to handle sticky oozy mud (and there was lots of it). You will all know the technique already - give it 'andful. This lightens the front and drives the back wheel through. If you blip on and off the throttle at the right times (a technique I am still learning myself) then you can sail through muddy whoops easily. By this time, ruts were no longer a problem for the guys - they were just annoying.

Since they were doing so well, I took them to the huge puddle where I normally cook clutches and borrow towropes from travellers. They sailed right through it - Calum doing so at such a speed that he created a bow wave higher than his head and got completely soaked.

On the way back, I took a sharp right turn and we went down a very narrow and slippery rutty track. They came down it at an incredible speed, and nobody fell off. I stopped my bike at the bottom and waited for them to pull up.

As they did so, I could see the grins through the helmets. They recognised the track - it was the track that we had so much carnage on this morning. They were absolutely ecstatic, and simply could not believe how they just rode down it with such ease.

I gave them my Yoda speech:

"Jedis you are now hmm. No more training do you require."

Back to AJP for a cup of tea. Nobody in history, ever, got worse because they had a cup of tea. The guys were beaming and had had the most brilliant day. They will ride a lot more comfortably, a lot more safely and with a lot more enjoyment because of what they learned today - even the stupid stuff like putting plastic bags inside your boots to keep your feet dry. You can't learn experience, but you can learn a lot from the experience of others.

Good judgement comes experience. Experience comes from having exercised bad judgement at some point in the past.

The pressure washer decided to have a bit of hose-related hari-kari and developed a bit of a leak so there wasn't enough pressure in it to get the stubborn mud off all of the bikes. Martin and I started dismantling it and then decided that, actually, it wasn't the problem we were here to solve.

All packed up and ready to leave, Martin set about trying to bludgeon me with a fistful of munny. He knows our situation, and really really really meant well. He wants me to take munny for trail riding and - to be honest - he is such a nice guy that he probably feels really guilt that I don't.

I couldn't take it. I felt sick. I knew that I should - and to some extent knew that I must - but I couldn't take it. I just couldn't bring myself to take it - it made me feel sick.

Human beings have this in-built guidance system. It's your emotional guidance system. Emotions have many names, but your emotional guidance system only understands two types - good emotions and bad emotions. When you feel good emotions, you are on track with your core beliefs. When you feel bad emotions, you're not.

Martin stuffed the munny into my boots and told me just to take it. I stuffed it into his boots and told him to fuck off. I really was feeling quite upset. Being torn between the knowledge that I should take it, and the sickness I felt, was really giving me a bit of grief. I opened his car and put the money in it and closed the door. No words were said - it was all in the look.

He could see that I was hurting. Not hurt, or offended, but hurting. I could see that he was a bit embarrassed and - probably - a bit offended. We parted company still smiling, and looking forward to our 2-day adventure on Thursday and Friday next week.

As I was driving away, I started to cry. Again, there was this almighty tearing going on. Martin takes money from people for trail riding, I help in trail riding, and Martin wants to give me munny for that. I can get my head round this.

But Martin has been very kind to me. He has taken me from - only a year ago - not being able to do shit on a bike to being able to ride enduros and fix the bikes I break. I did a clutch a couple of weeks ago - I could never have done a clutch on my own. I did braked this morning - bled them and everything - and could never have done this a year ago. I have an opportunity to go to Enduro Africa - thanks to Martin - and last week I rode an enduro that I didn't pay for on a bike that wasn't mine.

Enduro riding has helped me out of the dark. Martin is the guy who has coached and mentored me to this point.

I cried because I knew we could do with the munny, and I felt really terrible that I wasn't able to take it. I felt terrible that I had offended Martin. I just felt awful. What a state to get into over a couple of shekels. Pathetic.