Punchlines

I need help with a punchline. The joke starts like this:

"A Scotsman, an Englishman and an Irishman take on the toughest enduro in the UK - Dawn to Dusk - on the August Bank Holiday weekend. In Wales ..."

Ideas on a postcard please.

Obviously, I'm talking about me, Martin, any my ITM. Ywo AJPs - one of them with garish orange wheels - amd a KTM. Now, consider that Martin and I will have a spare clutch in our pocket, and that there will be much sharing of tents going on. You've got to have a idea for a punchline ...

Speaking of ideas on a postcard, what exactly is going on here?

x

I can't figure out the physics involved. I knew it was Tea til Dusk - I recognised th soil - but I didn't realise who it was till I saw the wheels, then I realised that it was Martin riding Tango. WTF?

And, today, the man d from Del Monetet said "Yes". Thes like our proposal. We have our first cutomer in a large corporate environment. OK, so massive amount of money wont change hads right now, but this sets it upfor later. Our first customer, which includes a case study and customer reference, is happy for us to build this and get a reference for doing it.

That is the duck we've been trying to break. And it's not just a small dodgy company either, i'ts one of those red ones owned by a guy called Richard Brasnon or something. Nice reference to have.

Thurnin a suprtanker is a slow process but, on you start tunint, it's difficult to stop.

The supertanker may well have started turning.

And a big thank you to my Ma and Da. You know why.

So Now We're Here

That's one of Martin's favourite phrases. Well, I'm not actually sure if it's one of his favourites, but I hear him say it a lot.

I got a phone call yesterday from Robert, the farmer. He had a particularly brilliant time last weekend marshalling the World Enduro Championships in Wales. Darren Wheeler (whom you've heard me talk about) came 18th. Tyson and Dave Nuttall didn't finish - it was that tough.

Robert is setting up a session with Dave Nuttall, him, me and - oh-my-god - Darren Wheeler for a spot of bike riding. That's Darren and Wheeler. It's a bit like somebody saying "I'll get my mate Muhammed to give you a few boxing tips". As I've said before (blogs passim) - when the pupil is ready, the teacher will arrive.

Anyway, "so now we're here". When I make a navigation error and end up in the middle of Salisbury Plain completely off the track, I get Martin stopping me and getting the maps out and saying "so now we're here". When we get a bike fall over in a massive puddle and get completely drowned - "so now we're here". You get the idea.

We nearly lost Martin yesterday. I'm not sayin we'd have missed him, but for him to check out without having the common courtesy to build me a minimum 250cc rally bike would have been a bit rude don't you think?

He was out walking his dog and the dog took off. Whoosh. Or Woof. Or whatever noise it is that dogs make when they take off. Whoosh! Woof! Splash! Fido had fallen down an old Victorian well and was swimming around in the water about 4 or 5 feet from the well top.

Martin had the presence of mind to call his Missus and tell her what was going on. He did this before trying to rescue the dog. I think that he did it because he (his words) hates the dog and it's his wife's dog and he wanted her to know what a proper pain in the arse it was. In any event, the phone call was a good idea.

The dog is getting tired by now, and can't get out of the water because of the sheer and slippery 150-year-old walls all covered in slime and all crumbling bricks and stuff. It's starting to panic and disappear under the water as its energy fades.

He leaned over the side of the well to try and fish the dog out. It's a big dog and quite heavy. He managed to get a hold of it and then Splash! He's in the water along with the dog. Skanky, smelly, stagnant putrid water.

Martin manages to find a small ledge under the water to put a foot on and, thankfully, it bears his weight. He tries time after time to grab the dog and lift it out of the water and the dog - all panicky - isn't getting the message. Eventually, the dog cottons on to what is going and uses Martin as a bit of a stepping stone to get out of the well. Martin's foot comes off the ledge and he can't find it again.

So here's Martin, all covered in this shitty and smelly liquid, treading water in a well that he can't get out of. The dog, back on dry land, is helpfully barking at him to tell him that being stuck in a well is not a very good idea.

Every time he tries to climb out, the ageing bricks in the well shaft crumble and fall into the water. There's nothing to get a hold of, dry land is only five feet away, and there's a hundred feet of cold and dark water beneath him.

True to form, Martin says:

"So now we're here"

He treads water for another half hour hour or so before his next door neighbour - alerted by his Missus - comes fishes out a rather smelly, cold, wet and tired Martin. He did not admit to giving the dog a good kick but I know I would have been well tempted.

This did not stop him from delivering Jago's bike to Midwest today, for a particularly baking hot and tough enduro. I wasn't doing it - I am on call for work - but Jago managed 8 laps plus a particularly impressive off which knacked his shoulder.

As I've said many many times before, and will say again, if there is ever one guy you'd want to be stuck in the middle of nowhere with then It's Martin. He is as unflappable as a Dodo's wings, and as resourceful as a fox with a PhD.

And if he thinks that a little swim in a well is going to get him out of building a 250cc rally bike from the little PR3 then he's mistaken. I mean, as if falling into a well and drowning is a valid excuse. Really.

Seriously though, we're all very very glad that he's OK. Really. Although after a couple of size-10's to the backside, the dog might feel differently ...

Nature By The Numbers

Nature by the numbers. Prime numbers. Wait till I tell you this, it'll blow you away.

I'm not sure if this will have anything to do with bikes or not. I've not decided yet. I don't decide in advance what to write, I just write the thoughts that come into my head as they come into my head.

Part of this, I suppose, is laziness and sloppiness on my part. I've thought about this and, in a way, that would be right.

Part of it is to try and help you to see the world through the eyes of somebody like me. Yes, all these thoughts do fly into my head that quick. Yes, I can go from quantum physics to philosophy in a gnats heartbeat. If I planned it all out in advance, then it would be less - well - less authentic if you follow me. This is not some carefully-crafted movie plot with a guaranteed happy ending. It's just a day-by-day meandering of stuff.

But it will have a happy ending, and that will be in Beijing. Will that be the end? Or, as Winston Churchill put it:

"This is not the end. This is not the beginning of the end. But it is the end of the beginning".

I don't have a clue, but I know I'm getting to Beijing with Martin and my ITM. And I know that I'm going to have a job convincing my ITM to go with me if I'm on a bike that isn't orange. Speaking of which, Martin looked absolutely gutted the other day when I said to him:

"Martin, I know you're getting old and stuff but you've got to get me more power on the little PR3. I need 250cc minimum to even enter the race. Then again, maybe my next bike will just be blue and white".

By "blue and white" I am, of course, talking about the new BMW 450X due out in October:


That, right there, is pornography. Look at those curves. Look at the slim figure, and the inviting pout. A 450cc, fuel-injected sex object with Marzocchi forks.

OK, I just realised, it's about bikes. I know, I need therapy.

So you're probably wondering how today went. Well, it's not a "No". Which means that it's still a potential "Yes". More accurately, it's a "too busy to read it right now", but that's still not a "No".
Couple of young journalists back in the 70's thought that they smelled a story. The reason why they smelled a story was because of what is called a "non denial denial". They asked:

"Did you channel slush funds from the committee to re-elect the President?"

and they were given the answer along the lines of:

"All of the funds in the committee have been properly accounted for".

They spotted it. What followed was a single sentence that changed the world:

"That's not a denial".

The two journalists were Woodward and Bernstein, and their spotting of the "non denial denial" brought down Nixon.

And, since we're talking about Presidents and temptresses and the yearning that a man can suffer, I already know what my BMW 450 will be called:

Monica.

Think about it.

So, anyway, "too busy too read" means any one of the following:

1. Too busy too read
   
2. I don't have the balls to decide, it's going upstairs
   
3. I dont have the balls to decide, I'm delegating it downstairs to somebody with balls
   
4. Haven't decided yet
   
5. Yes, but need permission
   
6. Fuck, I haven't read it yet. You're a persistent little sod aren't you?

My Ma always told me that I read too much into things. That's probably true, but I also have this amazing sense of when somebody is not telling me exactly what they are thinking. I will keep you posted. But I know, for a fact, that "too busy to read" doesn't mean "too busy to read".

Recently, a very very good friend of mine had had enough of the bullying culture going on at his work. He had had enough of the "we make mistakes and the blame you to cover out arses" stuff going on. He told them what they needed to be told. He told them in no uncertain terms. He told them loudly, and using lots of words that your granny would have a heart attack if she heard being said. He got suspended on full pay, pending investigation.

We went to work. We wrote letters and statements and stuff like that. I thought the whole thing through, 40-odd moves ahead, and predicted a final written warning. After several weeks of deliberation, and much wailing and gnashing of teeth, the final written warning duly arrived.

This is a guy who has been a friend of mine pretty much my whole life and - arguably - is my best friend. I'll call him "Pop", since that's what he's prone to go when people push him too far. He taught me how to fly under the radar so that people would not see me coming. He taught me a lot about life, and about how to deal with it, but the most important lesson of all that he taught me was "never, ever, back down when you're right - and know that you're right 100% of the time. Except when you're not". I owe this guy my very existence, and I am what I am today because of him.

OK, OK, so I'm talking about my Da. The toughest guy I've ever met. A man who lives by his principles in a way that I aspire to. They took him on and they lost.

Hitler, and Napoleon, took on Russia. In front of the superior technology and tactics, the Russian lines collapsed. Napoleon made it to Moscow. Hitler made it to Stalingrad. What neither of them new until later was that the collapse of the Russian lines was not a sign of defeat, it was deliberate tactic to stretch their supply lines and draw them out nice and thin. We know what happened to Hitler in Russia. We know what happened to Napoleon in Russia. Let the counter-attack begin.

There are two people in the world you absolutely do not want to pick a fight with. One is yourself - you will always lose. The other one is my family. We fight as a Spartan phalanx - impenetrable and deadly. These people tried to fuck my Da which, unfortunately for them, means that they are now head-to-head with me. Poor people. Hell is about to be unleashed, and they have no idea.

You have to understand that when I was alone and vulnerable and just a small child, my Ma and my Da fought tooth and nail for me. Against the overwhelming might of authority and beaureacracy and people with power they fought. Unwinnable battle after unwinnable battle they fought. Child psychology expert after child psychology expert were dispatched:

"Do you have children?"

"No"

"Then don't fucking tell me how to bring mine up"

And now, unfortunate as it may be, it is my turn to go into battle for my Da.

Anyway, nature by the numbers.

There's these litle insects called cicadas. They get buried in eggs underground and spend years feedins on roots. One species lives 13 years underground as grubs, the other species lives 17 years underground as grubs.

Then, one day, they all dig their way out and sprout wings. They live for anywhere between a few days and a few months, they mate and lay eggs and die. 17 years underground in exchange for only a few weeks of shagging. It doesn't sound like a good deal, but I'd take it anyday since I've met the Missus. Well worth 17 years underground.

But that's not the point. The point is in the 13 years and 17 years. It's a stroke of genius. It's a mathematical defence against predators.

The predators of the cicada are many, and they all have 3-year of 5-year breeding cycles. But the cicada's breeding cycle - 13 or 17 years - is a prime number. Which means that none of their predators can get into sync with it. It's an absolute stroke of genius.

Then, when I think about it, the breeding cycle of humans is (on average) 23 years. Which is also a prime number. Which may be one of the reasons why we've evolved to be top of the food chain, and capable of building BMW 450X enduros. Maybe if we hadn't done it first then there would be a little cicada bike factory churning out little cicada BMW enduro bikes.

As Woodward and Bernstein said - "that's not a denial". And the 13 and 17 year breeding cycle of the cicada - that's not a coincidence.

Somewhere in there, there is something for me to learn. There are answers all around you, if you're prepared to ask the questions.

And a question that I have. How tall and heavy, exactly, is Kemal Merkat? The Transorientale website applauded him for his performance on the hottest day despite him being "of modest stature". I have a vested interest in this - how small is he exactly?

Grateful

I am grateful. I am grateful for lot of things. I have an attitude of gratitude.

I am grateful for the Missus. I am grateful for the wee yin. I am grateful for the crap dog. I am grateful for the friends that I have. I am grateful to have a well-paying job. I am grateful that I am so brilliant at what I do. I am grateful that I was stuck in a traffic jam for 3 hours on the way home tonight.

There are three arterial roads southbound to Southampton from London - the M3, the A30 and the A303. The M3 had a fatal accident on it and was closed. The A303 had a fatal accident and was closed. The A30 had a fatal accident and was closed. Bumper-to-bumper gridlock traffic was trying to get along single-carriageway C-roads and it was mayhem.

My problem, and the problem of the several hundred other people going nowhere in the baking sunshine, was that we weren't going home as fast as we'd like. But we were going home. The guy in the air ambulance wasn't going home. The guy who died at the scene because the air ambulance couldn't get to him as it was dealing with somebody else - he wasn't going home either.

So I am grateful. Grateful that the biggest problem in my life today was a 3-hour traffic jam. Grateful that there is nothing more serious going on that was at the forefront of my mind.

We pulled the rip-cord today. Myself and my gangly friend, being asked to build this new system for the folks we work for, put in a proposal instead. Usual this-is-what-you-get-this-is-what-it-costs stuff. Very risky.

There's a chance that hell will be unleashed, and the company will crucify us for overstepping our mark in this way and getting above our station. There's also a chance that we'll change their thinking, change the way that they see us, and get what we're asking for - a chance to build our system and get a nice reference customer for it. We're not asking for any money, all we're asking for is a referencable customer.

The discussion we've provoked will probably happen tomorrow. Tomorrow night, we'll know what that discussion was. Thing is, it can't go away now. We've passed the point of no return, and we can't go back to where we were.

This is on the back of my little strop last week about the way in which we were being used - just sweeping up and mopping up after companies who have taken money to do a job that they weren't capable of doing. Ahh, but it's OK - John here will work all night to sweep up and make it right. We don't actually need to solve the problem, we've got these guys who can solve the symptom.

And then today it struck me. I have no right to complain about how I am being treated at work. I cannot complain that I am not being treated in the way I want, unless I have said how I want to be treated and the answer is "tough". So we've asked. We await the answer.

On more important fronts, we're still trying to sort out Dawn to Dusk. The ever-organised Jago is having some decision issues about whether or not he's doing it marathon or not. The teams are limited to 3 people, so his decision affects whether or not there's a team slot for my ITM. Entries close on 31 July, so we're running out of runway.

Oz wants to do it too, so there's definitely enough of us for two teams, but it's still a bit of a nightmare trying to sort everything out and make sure that we all get the chance to ride.

That little trauma aside, I am grateful to be riding Dawn to Dusk at all, and grateful for the winderful people I'll be riding it with. Grateful is good. We like grateful.

Psychotic Breakdowns

The quote for today is "This is going on the blog". We'll come back to this in a minute.

First, sorry for the lack of noise, but I've been away a bit. Proper away. To Ibiza, with The Missus and the Wee Yin and a bundle of people whom I am privileged to call "friends". There was Chief, Chief-esse, Young Sky, Isabella (Danish princess who happens also to be the Missus of young Sky), my gangly friend and his Missus.

I flew out this time. Finished work on Friday, flew out Friday night complete with laptops (yes, two of them) and mobile phone. The Missus and the Wee Yin were already there. So, just to set the scene for you, I am on the bus from the car park to the airport logged into work computers trying to un-fuck things (pardon the language). Saturday morning, with the princely sum of a couple of hours sleep, I am on the phone again and logged in again. Monday, I'm at it again. You get the idea.

I was supposed to be coming back on Saturday night (yes, a 1-night stopover) and failed to do this - the plan being that I'd come back Monday instead. Then, during Monday, something just went pop. Big pop. Super-duper pop.

So I'm in a conference call discussing Very Important Stuff hearing the Wee Yin splashing around in the pool and trying to perform a coup d'etat against Young Sky who had become the self-declared "King of the Pool" (which involved staying on the floating li-lo without being toppled off). I'm listening to my mighty mighty friends chatting and laughing. I see sunshine. And I'm on my fucking mobile phone talking about stuff that - in the grand scheme of things - doesn't matter.

We have just lost cabin pressure. I am Jack's festering anger. I kind of told them on the call that I couldn't help them and they really needed to find somebody who had the skills and knowledge they need. Thanks. Goodbye. That was on Tuesday. I will turn up at work on Monday to find out if I still have a job or not.

So, anyway, this cabin pressure thing. After some fairly distressing trauma - including bawling my eyes out to Young Sky that I wished I could be as clever and brilliant as he is - and some massive amount of support from my friends (including gay hugs from Young Sky and Chief and my gangly friend) I end up completely on my back just wanting to die. Really. Just wanting my heart to stop and not take another beat. Not able to eat. Not able to move. Not able to smile. Words flashing through my brain - words like gnawing, biting, gnashing, frothing - those kinds of words.

After being on such a high for so long, this hit me like a truck. It was like being pile-driven to the floor by a grizzly bear who you had stolen something from. I started to turn my mighty intellect, and knowledge of the laws of Physics, to what I thought was good use. You know, things like "is there enough fuel in the little AJP to fill the garage with enough carbon monoxide to kill me if I run it for long enough with the doors closed?". That kind of useful stuff.

So I'm shaving, and The Missus walks in the bathroom:

"Are you OK?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I'm smack bang in the middle of a psychotic breakdown"

"OK. Do you want fries with that?"

God bless her. And God bless my friends. I've said before that the nicest people I've ever met are the ones I've met through biking, but that's only half-true - and I realised the flaw this week.

The truth is, that it is me who has changed since I discovered biking. It is me who is more open about being ill and all that that means. It is me who is letting my guard down and being prepared to see kindness and friendship where I refused to see it before.

In other words, it is not that the people I have met through biking are the nicest people in the world. It is that I have discovered that I am not a leper and that people actually do care, and it is biking which has caused me to open up and allow the kindness and goodness of these people in. I am so lucky, and privileged, to have friends like I have. I really am.

Martin had a bit of a problem. He had a trail riding day booked today - Enduro Africa - and couldn't do it. I had agreed to do it. He was getting very worried indeed - I hadn't been in touch, and the people were arriving today. He was concerned that (his words) I might have just gone walkabout and disappeared. He was concerned that this would have given the guys today a bit of a problem and, also in his words, that I wouldn't be whipping his ass in the near future on the enduro track.

The thing is, that I was never going to let him down - no matter how bad I felt or how unwell I was. So, persuaded by The Missus, I set off this morning to AJP for the Enduro Africa day. Martin couldn't do it and I was out on my own - he was relying on me.

We had Chris, a grinning ex-Air Force ski-ing champion (yes, they ski in the RAF but don't ask me why) who hailed from Sheffield. He worked with massive gas turbines in power stations in some very scary parts of the world. We had Dave - who started life as a shelf stacker in a massive supermarket and now ran the place. We had Graham - who manages and keeps safe the M25 - and we had Alan, who drove all the way from Manchester to be with us today.

All Enduro Africa guys. All novices. All looking forward to it. As soon as I put the lid on, so was I.

This must be how Batman feels. This must be how Darth Vader feels. Once that lid goes on, I am a different person. I am an enduro rider. I am an offroad instructor. I am riding the fucking Husaberg apparently. I am armoured, invincible and utterly utterly focused on looking after the guys who have put themselves in my care. Utterly focused on not letting Martin down. Utterly focused on making sure that these guys know how to take care of themselves in Africa. I am an offroad instructor.

We did all the usual stuff - up on the pegs and all of that good stuff - and worked the day the way I like to work it. The morning is very stop-start. There's lots of stop-talk-explain-show-do cycles going on. The explain part is, I think, the most important part. It's not enough to know what to do, you need to know why you're doing it. Only then can you apply it to different situations.

For example, standing on your pegs. I could just say to the guys "stand on your pegs". But if they didn't know why this was a good thing, then what use would it be? When I explain how this puts your weight at the lowest point of the motorcycle and lowers your centre of gravity, then it makes sense. They know why. They're not just doing what they're told, they're developing their own riding style based on what they know. It's a subtle difference, but an important one. People always learn things better if they understand what's going on rather than simply learning by rote.

So the morning was lots of this. Lots of explaining and doing and then doing again a little differently this time. And boy, did it show.

Graham, during an uphill momentum lesson, forgot to pull in the clutch at the top of the hill and gave it 'andful instead. The resulting wheelie and backwards somersault was spectacular. He spent the rest of the day boasting about how little Jane had thrown herself on her back with her legs in the air - he has this effect on women apparently.


Yet, by the end of the day at the BMX track, he was coasting up hills and rolling over the top almost at a standstill. Then, in perfect control, rolling down the other side and setting himself up for the tight hairpin turn before having to give it 'andful to get momentum for the next hill.

At 10:30 this morning, such a thing was not possible. By 4:30 this afternoon, these guys were some of the most confident and competent enduro riders that will be in Africa in October. I stood there, watching, and had tears in my eyes - I really did. It was a privilege, an honour, to have been part of that transformation.

Dave, who had never ridden offroad before, was terrified this morning - he couldn't even get on and off the bike without tentatively putting the siestand down first. By lunchtime, I couldn't keep his front wheel on the ground - the thing he loved most about being offroad was the opportunity it gave him to get the bike off the ground.

And Chris, well he was more of a Marine than an Airman. For one thing, he was game for anything. He had the most infectious grin that would have made a Cheshire Cat jealous. Constantly up-beat, the kind of guy you'd not mind being stuck in a sweeper truck with for a few days.

Don't ask me how he did it, or how Physics even went along with such an absurd idea, but he rode over the top of an upturned .303 bullet. It sunk right into his tyre until there was only about a quarter inch sticking out of it. Bearing in mind that a .303 bullet is nearly 3 inches long, that gives you some idea of how deep it went. One of the downsides of riding on a military firing range I suppose.

Out came the slime, to fill the tyre, and the pliers to get the bullet out. Out came the cable ties to hold the tyre on to the rim. Out came a broken front brake lever - which I had changed earlier in the day - and I took the threaded bolt out of it. I screwed it into the hole in the tyre (about half and inch diamter of hole) to try and keep it shut. I found a bottle top, punched a couple of holes in it, and cable-tied this little lot on top of the threaded bolt to keep it in place. More slime was applied into the tyre. Slime expands when it makes contact with air, and the idea was to keep the tyre inflated so we could ride home.

The guys were absolutely amazed at this piece of jury-rigging. They had never seen anything like it before. They didn't realise that it was par for the course for when we're out on the Plain - we carry pretty much everything we need to do pretty much anything to a bike to make it rideable. Chris turned to Graham and delivered the quote of the day:

"This is going on the blog"

I asked which of them kept a blog. Neither of them did, and everything went a bit quiet. Then it dawned on me which blog they were talking about.

I think that they didn't know whether to say anything more or not - especially if they read my posting about the "Dakar nutter" a few weeks back. And me? I really didn't mind at all. In fact, I was rather proud that they had even read my blog, even if I was a little sad if I've created an impression that it's not OK to talk about my illness.

If people can take the piss out of you, then it means they're comfortable with you and vice-versa. There are no awkward silences between people who are comfortable with eachother - there are only silences, and they're never awkward. I'd much rather people said things like "you know what, I never expected that mentally ill people would be so ugly" rather than not say anything.

Anyway, there was no drama and no trauma. The guys were having a great time and so was I. Nobody was getting upset today. And yes, it did go straight on the blog - as you knew it would. Thank you for taking the time to read.

And here's a funny thing. I'm willing to bet that part of it was that I didn't, well, seem mentally ill. I was teaching them to ride bikes and (even if it's me who says so) I was doing a damn good job of it. So it surely couldn't have been me could it? It must have been another John, another Martin, another AJP. I mean, could you really say to somebody - "Sorry mate, I thought you were somebody else, a mentally ill guy"? I don't think I could.

Chris rode with a flat tyre for a fair few miles and then swapped for the Husaberg. Her name is Hoop. Hula-hoop. Hooligan hoop. I took the sick little PR3 with the very flat tyre - Nadia - and rode her back through the woods and roads back to AJP. It's quite exciting riding a bike with a flat tyre which is cable-tied to the rim. A year ago, I'd have been terrified at the prospect. Today, I knew that it was just part and parcel of long rallies and I should be grateful that it was the back tyre and not the front one.

Anyway, Chris and Graham are coming back in a few weeks and bringing some mates. Graham took Martin aside when we got back and said something about how fantastic I had been and how I was a real asset to Martin. Much grinning and handshaking. I felt very very proud.

So, that's a psychotic breakdown, a bullet, and proud as punch in a single week. When I talk about the savage beauty of mental illness - maybe you kind of see what I mean.

Fries with that anyone?

Great Script

Got a great idea for a movie script. It's got everything in it - intrigue, courtroom drama, passion, betrayal, murder, dogged detective, making legal history - the works.

A young computer programmer, super-intelligent, has a surprisingly difficult time meeting women. Strange, you'd think, given his obvious magnetic personality. Let's call him something nice and short and easy to type. Let's call him Hans.

In the dot-com years, he makes a lot of money. An awful lot of money. The guy is smart, and uses some of this money to fund start his own software company. the company does very well indeed.

In an effort to reduce costs, and because Russian programmers are amongst the best in the world, he moves some of his operations to Russia - which is in economic dire straits round about this time. Since he's got loads of money, he buys himself a Russian bride called Nina. Stunningly attractive, and also intelligent, she marries him since it offers her much better prospects than seem to be available in the prevailing economic meltdown.

They move back to the USA, have a couple of kids. Nina likes the USA - the land of plenty. She loves California - Silicon Valley - and the massive freedom she has compared to her Soviet upbringing. She quickly discovers that Hans's friends are more interesting than he is and starts an affair with one of them. This friend introduces her to debauched pleasures of the flesh, and introduces her to drugs like ecstasy.

Hans finds out about this and goes a bit mental. Nina leaves him, suing for divorce and threatening to take the children back to Russia where he'll never see them again. Shortly afterwards, Nina disappears without trace. There are rumours that she's went back to Russia and also rumours that she has been murdered by Hans.

Hans's abandoned car is found, with the passenger seat missing, and it's recently been spotlessly cleaned inside and out with a fire hose. In the back seat is a book on "How to Commit The Perfect Murder".

At the same time, strange little message start to appear in Hans's computer code. Things like:

if (nina.notWorking())
then
kill nina;

The guy is one of the most famous and brilliant computer programmers in the world, and eyebrows get raised a little.. but everybody knows that he's just taunting the law.

The dogged detectives set out after Hans. They put him under surveillance 24x7 and start to watch his every move. He knows it, and takes counter-surveillance measures - doing u-turns on motorways and stuff like that.

The detectives make out a case and take it to the DA, and Hans is prosecuted with Nina's murder. It is front-page news - this guy is almost as famous as Bill Gates. It is to the world of computers what OJ Simpson was to the world of football.

There's only one problem though - they don't have a body. Nobody has actually been found dead. Hans, genius and a bit odd, is charged with murdering somebody whom nobody can actually say is dead. It's a legal first in the USA.

Hans is offered a deal. If he pleads guilty to manslaighter, he'll get 5 to 15 years. He laughs at them, asks them to prove that somebody is actually dead, and goes to trial.

As the trial goes on, Hans demonstrates his rapier intelligence and argues with the prosecutor, the witnesses and even the judge. At one point, the judge says to him:

"There are not enough words in the English language to describe just how obnoxious and arrogant you are"

Shortly after this, the jury convict Hans of the first-degree murder of Nina - even though there is still no evidence that anybody (particularly Nina) is actually dead. First time in legal history. An appeal is planned, and a sentencing date is set. The sentence will be 25 years to life.

The day before he is due to be sentenced, Hans has another surprise in store. Handcuffed to his lawyer, he leads the Police into the Oakland hills and takes them to where he buried Nina's body after strangling her.

In another legal first, Hans was convicted of first degree murder, but is going to be able to plead guilty of second-degree murder in exchange for showing them where the body was.

Wow. Hollywood anyone? Except for one thing:

It's all true.

On Monday, the mighty Hans Reiser finally confessed to murdering his wife Nina.

One of the most gifted programmers in the world, I knew Hans. I worked with him and helped him to design and flesh out the software which made him famous. I knew Nina, and was at her "Welcome to the USA" party. I have - or once had - the bragging rights of being referred to by Hans as "the smartest guy I have ever met".

I would have bet the farm that Hans didn't do this, and it blew me away. It also blew away my American friend. I got a phone call last night at about 11pm:

Ring ring.

"Hello?"

"DUDE! WHAT THE FUCK? HE DID IT!"

I know, I know. Except when I'm not....

The Baby

Tea till Dusk is on Wednesday. It sounds really civilised and all Pimms-in-the-sunshine doesn't it?

It's an Army enduro, laid out by Army PT instructors, and it's about as far away from Pimms as you can get. Martin is under strict instructions, as I told him today:

"Take a good look at my face whilst you can, because once that race kicks off Wednesday, all you're going to see is the back of my helmet".

To which there really was only one available put-me-back-in-my-box response:

"Yes, that would be possible, if I wasn't taking the Husaberg"

Army PT instructors have a certain way of looking at the world. Now, I'm not sure if a career as an Army PT instructor attracts a certain type of person, or if it just turns people a certain way, but there's definitely a pattern.

I mean, you've heard the tale about the PT instructor with his recruits:

Army PT instructor gets his recruits out on the parade ground 6am on a freezing winter morning in their shorts.

Him, being tough as cowhide, has his red vest with a Union Jack on it. He has a whistle round his neck. The poor recruits are doing their best to stand to attention without shivering too much whilst the PT instructor tells them what's going to happen:


"When I blow once on this whistle, you will jump into the air as high as you can. Understand?"

"YES SERGEANT!"

"And when I blow it the second time, you are to come down again. Understood?"


He puts the whilst to his mouth:


PHEEP!

"... WAIT FOR IT!"

Humour is nothing unless there's a hint of the truth in it.

They do a brilliant enduro at Tea till dusk though, and they put an awful lot of thought into the course - fallen trees and all. Pimm's it ain't.

I was faced with a bit of a dilemma yesterday. Martin needs help. He has a trail riding group booked on Thursday, but he has to - has to - be elsewhere.

I have an audition for "The Apprentice" on Wednesday, as you know. Why on earth did I want to do that? I can only have 1 day off work next week. So, do I help Martin, or do I go and have a hoot making the producers piss themselves?

Five people on Thursday, right on the arse of Tea Till Dusk on Wednesday. And, to top it all, I am riding The Baby. Nooooo! Not The Baby. You know about The Baby - Martin's little favourite. She hates me. She smells fear. She sees me coming and sticks out her little petted lip like a toddler having a strop. She knows I hate her too. She's got the same fat arse as a 450, and all the grunt of an electric slug.

There's two schools of thought on this. One school of thought is that if you ride around on a shit bike then when you get on a good bike you will notice a big difference. The other school of thought says that if you ride around on a shit bike then you will hate it. Hmm.

You already know the answer to this one. There will be other series of The Apprentice. You never, ever, let your friends down. Munny comes and munny goes. Prosperity ebbs and flows. Your friends don't.

And, speaking of good bikes, I got a lovely picture today sent to me by the Wizard of Oz:




This was him doing his stuff on Heroes Legend. He's obviously recovered well, since he's looking for an entry to Dawn to Dusk on 23/24 August. So far, there's me, Martin, Jago, Oz and (possibly) my ITM all doing Dawn to Dusk.

I remember my first enduro - almost a year ago now - and how traumatic it was. I still have a healthy respect for the trauma, but it's this really fantastic feeling to know that there's a bundle of people you know out there on the course too. You egg eachother on, take the piss out of eachother and race eachother. You can't see anybody's face, but you know they're grinning.

This must what it feels like to belong.

Perspective

Long, long time ago, a guy called Homer wrote a book. A long book.

Nowadays, we use that book as an indication of what was going on back then. How people lived, who was who, that kind of thing. We use Homer's descriptions of what was going on to make assertions about what life was like.

Roll forward a couple of thousand years. Arachaeologists in the year 5008 find a couple of books. One of them is "Star Wars" by George Lucas. The other one is "Lord of the Rings" by J.R.R. Tolkien. They then use these books to identify what life was like in 2008 for you and me.

They conclude that 2008 was a pretty troublesome time for us lot. The Jedis were at war with Mordor, but the Hobbits - and their lightsabers - took on the invincible Death Star of Sauron armed only with a ring called R2-D2. Aragorn, son of Obi-Wan, was the true King - but he first had to defeat Darth Gollum before he could fly off into space with Princess Leia Arwyn, and then get on with the serious business of having babies called Luke and Frodo.

Or something like that.

Or they might even, somehow, stumble across my blog. They might stumble across the 30 kilos (count them) of blog that my Ma has got printed out. They'll conclude that we lived in a world where strange primitive vehicles called "motorcycles" were the dominant religion, and that disciples of this religion made a yearly pilgrimage to the holy city of Dakar.

Those who followed the religion of "motorcycles", and who worshipped the god of "Dakar", were at war with a group who followed the religion of "rambling" - they worshipped a god called "Roaming".

According to Homer, the Greeks went to war with the Trojans because Paris fell in love with the beauty of Helen, and ran off with her.

So, when the war between the "Motorcycles" and the "Ramblers" came, it was started over the age old favourite of love and beauty. A beautiful goddess called "Countryside" couldn't make up her mind about which one of the two suitors she would marry. Both loved her dearly. The "Ramblers" were very gentle with her, but the "Motorcycles" ravished and tingled her in a way that made her feel like a real woman.

The poor girl was absolutely torn. She thought that she could share her pleasures equally between them, that there was more than enough for everyone. But neither the "Motorcycles" or the "Ramblers" were having any of it. Both of them wanted her undivided love and attention. Both of them wanted her to be theirs and theirs alone.

The two armies assembled, and met at the top of a hill called "The Law". The battle was led by two main divisions - the elite soldiers of either side. The Trail Rider's Fellowship (or TRF) were the special forces of the "Motorcycles". They wore fearsome masks, known as "helmets", and had impenetrable body armour. The vanguard of the "Ramblers" was a group of hardened warriors known as "The Ramblers Association". They wore a garment known as a "kagoul", which struck fear into the heart of their enemy. They made themselves look even more sinister using headgear known to their enemies as a "bobble hat".

It was a bloody battle that went on for years. Inch by painful inch, the "Ramblers" took territory from the "Motorcycles". Their main weapon was an indestructible device called "Saving the Planet".

One day, as the battle was raging, everybody looked up at the sky - which had suddenly gone very very dark. A massive asteroid, about to smash into the Earth, had blotted out the sun.

In that instant, both of them realised that their massive war was - on a galactic scale - nothing more than a petty squabble.

That's one for the archeologists of the future to think about.

Democracy is two wolves discussing with a sheep what should be on the menu for dinner.

Free will is a heavily-armed sheep asking them to reconsider their decision.

Time And Stuff

Uh-oh. Another one of those ones.

Here's something that's been bothering me, and bothering me for some time. Maybe it's been bothering you too. I can't figure it out.

Why is it, right, why is it that I can remember the past, but I can't remember the future? Why is it that my memory - and knowledge - just falls of the edge of a cliff at right now?

I mean, time doesn't exist. It was only in 1660 that the first clock was invented that didn't only have an hour hand. Sundials, usd before watches, didn't have minutes on them. Long before that, people knew roughly what time of year it was and, roughly, what time of day it was. Noon - which we still recognise today - was nothing more complicated than when the sun was highest in the sky.

Now, we're measuring things to the nearest 1/100th of a second. The Olympics are coming up shortly - we'll be awarding gold medals and silver medals based on a difference in time that is only a fraction of the time it takes you to blink.

Does this mean that the future isn't written yet? Does it mean that I am responsible for creating my own future? Quantum physics says so - it says that you can't have a world without thought. That thought is what creates the world around you.

So does that mean that if I think I see a future in which I will be overtaking Darren Wheeler, then I am creating a future in which I will be overtaking Darren Wheeler? If I think I see a future in which I can easily pick up a 120kg bike (coincidentally, the weight of a BMW 450X), then I am creating a future in which picking up a 120kg bike is a piece of piss?

Is it just me, or does this stuff bother you as well? We can predict, to within fractions of a second, exactly when a rocket will land on the moon after it takes off from earth. Yet, at the same time, we can't explain how a bumble bee flies. But the moon is Up There, and the bumble bee is Right There.

Why can time only flow in one direction? Why can't I unscramble an egg, or un-fall off my bike? Who said it had to be so? Who decided, and why wasn't I allowed to argue about it?

Yes, I know, it's all the laws of Physics. But who made these laws? Why can't we make new ones?

Whizz, whizz, whizz.

But, have we really come so far in a single year:



One year. Happy birthday blog.

Been a While

It's been a long time since I was able to do it more than once in a single night. Or so The Missus tells me. Obviously, I'm talking about blogging - what on earth did you think I was talking about?

Anyway, I cound't resist this one. I was talking to my American friend, who's been a bit down in the dumps. I offered him this piece of wisdom, boy to boy. Adolescent to adolescent. If you're ever feeling a bit down, watch this video:



I defy any boy to watch that and not snigger.

Apparently, it is banned in some countries because it is obscene. Pornography, if you will. Oh my gosh.

Still, let's not forget the legal definition of "pornography":

"If it gives a High Court Judge an erection, then it's pornorgraphy".

I don't know any High Court Judges, at least none that haven't been in the news for allegedly having the most bizarre sexual relationships with their cleaners (here), or for allegedly flashing at young women on the tube (here), so I'll leave the judgement up to you.

Enduro riding needs you to be very very fit. Races like Dakar and Transorientale need a massive amount of fitness. Yet, all of a sudden, exercising seems to be very very appealing.

Anyway, whatever it raises, I hope it raises a smile.

The Head of the Baptist

Tell you what, I'm still at it and I'm still here. Which reminds me of something that George E. Allen once said:

"People of mediocre ability sometimes achieve outstanding success simply because they don't know when to quit."

So, I'm still forging ahead and keeping on keeping on. But my, how the mighty have fallen.

First, have a look at the Midwest Results from Sunday. In particular, have a look at rider 155. 15 laps. Well done. But he still finished at the bottom of the pack. Somehow or other, he managed to get all his points docked.

Once upon a time, so we're told, there lived a guy called John. Used to baptise people in the River Jordan - which is the main reason why he became known as John The Baptist.

King Herod, on the throne at the time, married his brother's wife Herodias. John, being a bit of an outspoken individual, publicly condemned this marriage stuff like that. He may well have been right to do so, and certainly believed that he was, but he made a few enemies with that message - most of all Herodias, the King's new bride.

Herod had John put in prison - apparently to prevent an uprising - but did not have the heart or the will to kill him.

Herodias was still not happy. But she had a secret weapon. She had a sexy little minx of a daughter called Salome. One night, as Salome danced seductively for a drunken Herod, he was so taken with her dance that he promised her anything she wanted. Anything.

After consulting her mother, Salome said what it was she wanted: She wanted the head of the Baptist. She got what she wanted.

So it's entirely possible that John's death was down to not a lot more than revenge combined with a drunken promise because he had caused embarrassment to somebody.

A few years ago, I worked for a company who were in the gaming industry. Just so we know who we're talking about, let's call them "Gamble Unfair".

They were ruthless, absolutely ruthless. The culture of the company was gambling. Any gambler knows that there is no such thing as luck - there is only odds. There's no such thing as bad luck - things don't "just happen". Somebody is always responsible. There's no such thing as good luck - if you win, then it's because you cheated.

That same culture permeated the company at every level. Desks, occupied yesterday by happy and smiling Kevin, were today empty because somebody, somewhere, had decided that they didn't like Kevin. Kevin didn't work here anymore. Kevin was not to be spoken about. Kevin was an un-person.

I had a bunch of guys working for me. Hard-working, diligent and talented guys. Guys who worked 15-hour shifts 7 days a week because that's what it took. I went into bat for these guys, and their 100-hour weeks.

At the same time, I was trying to impress upon the powers that be that their dealines and demands were unmeetable. I was, in short, telling the Emperor that he had no clothes on.

One day, there was a really big hoo-hah because a very important project had missed it's launch date. The music played, the parcel of blame was passed round and round and nobody wanted to be the one holding it when the music stopped.

This may surprise you, but I wasn't wily enough. Well, actually, I was, but I just really didn't get involved in all of that nonsense. I've always believed that if you're taller than everyone else then it's because you're tall - it's not because you've cut everybody else's legs off to make them shorter by comparison.

So, a few days later, I was ushered into a room one day by my boss and my boss's boss. My boss had a brown envelope. I knew what was in it - I'd seen them before en route to Kevin and those like him. I was offered a choice between a nice sweet pay-me-to-dig-the-garden resignation deal, or be sacked and marched off site immediately. It was less than a week until Christmas Day. I had ten seconds to choose.

Somebody, somewhere, with a drunken promise in response to a seductive dance, had offered up the head of the upstart baptist and mine was duly served.

So, last night, I was talking out of the blue with a young lad who had worked for me at Gamble Unfair. For some reason, the guys who worked for me still talk fondly of me and - crucially - still talk to me. I am still talked about - even now. Still, as Oscar Wilde put it - "there is only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about".

After I "resigned", they ran out of people to blame and fire, so the blaming and firing went up the chain. Everybody - up to and including the CTO - have been fired over the last year. And, guess what? Nothing has changed. The emperor still doesn't know that he's not wearing any clothes, but they've ran out of people to fire.

Sooner or later, no matter what it is, you have to stop blaming everybody and everything else and take a good long look in the mirror. It's only when you do this, and are prepared to see the bad as well as the good, that you start to turn things around.

I took my own look in the mirror. I went through the normal shittiness that comes with having been rejected in this way. Sat down to eat my Christmas dinner as an unemployed person - for the first time ever. I told myself that something was just around the corner.

Strangely enough, something was just around the corner - my birthday - in a few weeks. On my birthday in January 2007, I opened my present from The Missus - the "Race to Dakar" book. I've never looked back.

I suppose, when you see how badly I ride sometimes, you'd argue that I don't look forwards either. I know, I know.

Anyway, that whole episode changed my life. I'd like to think, gauging by some of the fantastic people I've encountered and am proud to call "friends", that it has changed it for the better.

I'm taking a lot of incoming just now from the world around me - various things. I am absolutely bulletproof.

In the Vietnam War, Buddhist monks would walk down the street of Saigon in their orange robes. They'd sit down, cross-legged, on the road. They'd meditate for a bit. Then they'd pour a jerry can of petrol over their head, and set fire to themselves. They'd sit there, cross-legged and meditating, whilst they burned to death.

That's sort of how I feel right now. The outside world can come and go and do what it likes, but I am untouchable. I have this tremendous optimism that everything is going to be much better than all right, and that what's going on just now is just the final hump to push over in order to get there.

I find, as I feel like this, I seem to be attracting a lot of good things and a lot of good karma. Maybe I'm not attracting them at all, maybe I'm just seeing them whereas I'd normally ignore them.

Martin called tonight to talk about various things but, most importantly, to tell me about James at Enduro Africa.

James, one of the Enduro Africa organisers, was killed in a motorcycle accident on Monday. A road accident. That's two people in as many weeks. I don't ride road motorcycles anymore - would you believe that I am too scared?

Hold on a minute. I regularly fall off my bike into cowshit and mud and ditches, and I'm too scared to take a bike on the road? Yes, I am. See how badly I injured myself when I came off at 30mph in the Moroccan desert. What if I came off at 90mph on tarmac? How bad would it be then?

Martin and I kind of kicked the tyres on this. There but for the grace of God go I. So, what do you do? Do you think "oh no, life is precious and fragile and I must wrap myself in cotton wool and not do anything risky?". That's certainly one approach.

Or do you think "Oh no, life is precious and fragile and I must make every single minute of it count"? When you die, is that it? Is there any refund for unused credit? Not even if I kept the receipt? Or do you get a chance to hook up with those you knew, and piss yourselves laughing at some of the silly and outrageous things you did?

Anyway, I have a confession to make. I am having a bit of a love-affair my my ex. Sorry, I know that this will come as a shock to you. I left my ex some time back - we had our differences - but I have become strangely attracted to her recently, especially when I saw her sister photographed in a glossy magazine. My thoughts have been taken up with how good she felt, her slim frame and her sexy figure. Sigh.

I am, obviously, talking about this month's review of the BMW 450x enduro in Trail Bike Magazine. BMW have basically torn up the rulebook on offroad bike design. The fuel tank, for instance, is under the seat - a trick they learned from AJP. At 120kg, she is no heavier than a Yamaha 250. She has Marzocchi forks, just like the little AJP. She has 50 horse power, more than a comparable KTM. Higher ground clearance than any enduro bike in the world.

And all that business with the catalytic converter and superheated exhaust that you didn't want burning into your leg on an enduro? Forget it. Swap the stock exhaust for a standard one that they give you, and job done. No 3rd-degree burns.

Light enough to pick up. Fast enough to cope with long liasons. Suspension to cope with the toughtest terrain - she came second at Erzberg this year. And she's a BMW.

Cancellation of the Dakar. Inaugural Transorientale. BMW's first foray into proper enduro bikes, and they build a lightweight masterpiece work of German-engineered art.

Am I the only one who sees the magic of the universe at work here?

Oh my God - what do you say to Martin?

Hmm.