On my final lap at Dawn to Dusk, when I was waiting for a gap in the traffic to perform my "buttock-ski-ing / Despres-grinding" routine, I heard this a lot.

An expert on a 2-strok would ring-ding-ding-ding up to the top of the hill, take a look down it, and you'd see the flash of recognition on his face about how nasty the hill was:

"Oh fuck, it's that one".

It was quite encouraging to see first-hand that even the experts shit themselves at this no-win situation between Physics and man. There is hope for me yet.

So, the results are published, so we can crunch a few numbers if you've got time.

214 riders and teams finished the race, out of 290 that started. So, straight away, that's a finishing rate of 74% - only three-quarters.

We finished in 139th place overall - in the top half of all the teams that started, and in the top two-thirds of all the teams that finished. Out of the bottom third.

We did a little worse in our class - 21st out of 29. But here's the irony.

Back when I was at BMW, I ran over the photographer (blogs passim). The photographer was none other than Llewelyn Pavey - a very capable rider. He was sat next to me on the start line last week on a Gas-Gas 2-stroke. I had declared to the Missus that his team was the team to beat.

And the irony is that, despite our rather dismal placing, we did beat them - by 4 laps. Small consolation but, as I've always said, you go where you look and I was looking at beating that team. Now, perhaps if I had been looking at beating Zippy ...

Anyway, on the whole "Oh Fuck It's That One" theme, I kind of alluded a few days ago to making a dash for the safe weirdness of quantum physics. Hence your own "Oh Fuck, it's that one" reaction.

But here's a bit of quantum physics with a difference. I mean, these guys actually appear to have a sence of humour.




They're the kind of Physicists who would break the ice at parties by making the clothing of all the girls in the room suddenly jump three feet to the right - leaving them all naked. There are Physicists who'd complain about this, that it's an abuse of science and the like, but their main complaint is that they don't get invited to those kind of parties.

It reminds me of a time, many years ago, when I was interviewed for a job at a science place in Musselburgh, just outside Edinburgh. It was brilliantly paid, and working with some cutting-edge computers in a laboratory, a few miles away from where I lived. Seemed brilliant.

I found out a few days before my interview that they did animal research - mice and stuff - and I didn't really want to get involved in it. So, I decided to turn the interview into a bit of a piss-take.

Instead of a shirt and tie, I wore a t-shirt with a huge picture of an erect penis on the front of it, and a slogan that said:

"See that? That's you that is!"

and I went in for my interview. Panel of three Very Clever People.

At first, they pretended not to notice, and went through the whole motions of the interview. Then, to be fair, one of them asked me how I had chosen what to wear for this interview.

I put on my most serious face, managed to keep it straight, and gave them the killer line:

"Well, I am so clever that a lot of my friends joke with me about being a bit of a geek, and I didn't want you to think that I was too stuffy to work here".

They then went on to tell me about how much fun they had working there and how they were so wedded to humour that sometimes people even sent round an email that contained a joke.

The job offer arrived in the post a few days later but you already know that I didn't take it. Instead, cash-strapped student or not, I waited until I got something that was more suited to my disposition. The rest is history.

Speaking of the whole Dawn to Dusk thing, and my gnashing and wailing about how crap I am, I got a bit of a wake-up yesterday. Jago's lad - Jed - age of 3. He was on a little bicycle without stabilisers whilst we were at the horsey thing. He was bloody good, but kept on falling off it. Every time he fell off, he got back on again.

Now, the smart thing would have been to have a word with him:

"Listen Jed, about this whole bike-riding thing. You're falling off all the time. Maybe you should consider just walking everywhere".

OK, so you know that that's absurd. Falling off is part of learning not to fall off.

We continue to learn. We continue to fall. We continue to plug away until my investment in waterproof boxer shorts (a la Zippy) has been made worthwhile.

Let's just take a minute to remember who I am. I am a manic depressive novice, somebody who is labelled "insane" by Very Clever People, who has never claimed to be brilliant on a bike. I do the best I can, every time, and I am capable of no more than this.

And, for the record, here's something to think about. Very Clever People have no test that they can use to diagnose mental illness, and they have no test to figure out if it's cured or not. Here are some Very Clever People saying exactly this - eminent psychiatrists, every one of them:



Sorry. Today, a la Leonidas, "Manic Depression will be a bit of a problem".

I will continue to do my best but, the more I practice, the better my best will become.

Yes, I know. "Oh fuck, it's that one".

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Jago and Missus Jago and Jago's Wee Yins all came down to visit in-laws this weekend. Their in-laws live just a few miles away from us, and Jago had some gear to pick up, so we all went out.

Speaking of Jago, there's some lovely footage of him almost binning it at the start line of Dawn to Dusk. You'll spot him easily - the name "Jago" is emblazoned in bright yellow letters at the top of the video:



Anyway, the plan was that the girls and Wee Yins would get an opportunity to repay the favour of us having them slopping round muddy enduro tracks whilst we ride - they went horse riding and Jago and I were relegated to official photographers. An interesting role reversal.

Now, Jago and I could have easily went on the horses but there was no way I was getting astride something that has a mind of its own and no brakes. Jago was of a similar opinion.

Whilst the girls and Wee Yins trotted around and got sore bottoms from the saddles, Jago and I checked out the horse boxes and realised that you could fit a couple of bikes in one. We also realised that you could stand up in them, and that you could - if you were so minded - sling a couple of hammocks in them. Our days of camping in wet tents are numbered.

If the horsey people found out that we were planning something as sacreligious as turning a horse box into a offroad bike transporter then they'd probably have lynched us.

So, anyway, the Wee Yin is on this horse and being led around by the stable girl. She had a bit of a moment when trying to trot (you know that whole up-down-up-down thing you have to do) and her foot slipped out of the stirrup. Bit of drama there. Quick grab for the saddle, re-seat the foot, and all is well.

The stable girl asked the Wee Yin if she was OK. Jago and I absolutely pissed ourselves at her utterly serious response:

"My foot slipped off the peg, but I dealt with it and I'm back on my pegs again so we can give it a handful now".

Aww, bless.

Speaking of getting astride things I'm scared of, I've been in deep deep discussions with a rather unsavoury gentleman by the name of Zippy. Zippy is the owner of a KTM 200 2-stroke, which used to belong to another unsavoury character by the name of Duncan Tweedy. Zippy has decided that he is getting a bit old for this whole kickstart malarky, and is getting himself a 250 2-stroke, which has an electric start of sorts.

So, it's entirely possible that we could be getting our hands on a KTM 2-stroke in the near future. I have also got my eyes on a Gas-Gas EC200 2-stroke, but I'm not sure that the groat negotiations will work out in a way that everybody is happy with.

In a way, this is taking my own advice. When people come up to AJP and they discuss getting themselves a bike, I always advise them to get a bike that scares them. My thinking here is that their riding is only going to get better, and if they get themselves a placid and docile bike that doesn't push them, then they will stagnate.

And yet, at the same time, I have done exactly this. Time to take my own advice and be scared. Seems like an awful good idea right now, but I bet that I'll be singing a different tune after I've wheelied right on to my arse a few times.

Still, if you don't do things that scare you then you'll never push your comfort zone.

The human body can't tell the difference between excitement and fear. The physical sensation is exactly the same - the same nerves tingle and the churning in your stomach is the same. The only difference between excitement and fear is how your brain perceives it - it is your brain that decides which of the two it should interpret the feelings as.

For now though, it's fear.

And I was thinking about my whole footpeg issue. Maybe if I were to fit stirrups on the bike instead of footpegs then it would make life a lot more interesting. Perhaps I could even argue that thie bike is a horse, and then get away with riding on bridleways.

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So we got an email from Nick Plumb, my ITM, Martin Jago and I. Went like this:

"Hi Guys,

Hope you had a great weekend.

The guys that were doing our scoring had a query with riders number 152 and 370 - the query was that on one lap they both came through scoring at the same time but there was only one rider - meaning both wrist bands were being worn by the same person.

Could you shed any light on this??????"

Hmm.

So, when Jago picked up the transponder from me and my broken-down bike, he put it on his right wrist - next to his own. When he scroed his own lap, he scored one for us as well. Then we got captured.

So, after explaining this to Nick, he will dock us the mis-scored lap. No harm done. Sort of.

This relegates us to about third from bottom - the two teams below us did one lap each and then sat and drunk tea for the reast of the day. We pushed from 7am till 8pm, quick changeovers and broken bikes, and could have drunk tea all day.

Martin is, to put it midly, not impressed. My ITM is probably equally unimpressed, as am I. Where did we go wrong?

OK, so I say "we", but ultimately this is down to me. My 90-minute lap on the diarrohea-inducing orange KTM didn't help. My sans-footpeg last lap - which took me about a week and a half - didn't help.

At the time, I thought that just finishing the event was an achievement, but now I've had a chance to reflect on the what-ifs. What if my bottle hadn't gone on the KTM and I had charged down the hills as I was doing before? What if I had been able to cable-tie the footpeg? I suppose that this is normal, you're always going to feel that way. Especially when you're in a team. I mean, if it was just me then the result is the result, but to have put in so much effort with my ITM and Martin all day, and ending up with a result like this - makes you sort of, well, ashamed in a way.

I've been riding for over a year now, and perhaps my ambition far outstrips my ability. Perhaps I should take up something more appropriate to my physique and disposition. Perhaps I am just never going to cut it, no matter how hard I try.

That would be one way to go. Then, there's the counter argument which says that I have to keep going and I am not done yet. That, as Zippy says, if I keep plugging away then one day it will just "click" and I'll never look back as of that moment.

OK, so I finished without a footpeg. Does that mean that I have what it takes, keeping going like that? Or is riding without a footpeg just not as difficult as I think it is? Is my 2-stroke strategy the right one, will it make me better or will it make me worse? Am I being irresponsible and selfish, throwing myself around enduro tracks when I have a Missus and Wee Yin who depend on me to look after them?

Questions, questions. Always questions, but never answers. It's at times like this that I start to wander into quantum physics - a nice safe haven of unanswerable questions that have me looking away from the never-ending stream of questions I ask myself.

I tell you what I do know though. I know that I did the best I could do, and gave it everything I was capable of giving it. I know that I really had to push myself to get down those hills after having a fright on the KTM - buttock ski-ing or not. Whatever our result, and its not published yet, it was the very best I was capable of doing in the circumstances.

And, if all you can ever say is that "that was the absolute best and most I could give", then you're not doing too badly.

Surely it's better to give 100% and fail, rather than only give 50% and succeed?

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OK, so two is a magic number. Here's two:



The one on the left is "Son of Dawn to Dusk". Obviously, it's smaller. The one on the right is the one we got this weekend. See that word there on the left? "Finisher"? That means we finished the toughest enduro in the UK. Fate and Physics put up a hell of a fight - which we'll come to in a second or two - but we finished. And I use the word "we" deliberately.

Saturday evening, we started to arrive. We arrived and erected our home for the next two days - a leaky nylon tent which we will refer to as "Chateau du Paddling Pool". My ITM arrived in a transit van - complete with mattress in the back - which we will call "Hotel du Poisson". It was a refigerated van, normally used for the transportation of seafood. Nonetheless, he had the best accommodation out of the lot of us. I understand that "Hotel du Poisson" is available for weekend family breaks and dirty weekends - contact itm@dodgymobilehotels.com for details.

We were buzzing. We might just win this. We might. Let's try to. One trip to the beer tent later, and we had the whole thing in the bag. As the riders briefing went on, we were drawing Caesar-style maps in the mud on the ground. This box, this one here, is the pits. This line, this groove in the mud I drew with my finger, is the start line. This wavy line here is the track which is visible from the pits when there is 1.5 miles left to ride. So when we se somebody here (wavy line) then we have a maximum of five minutes to get ready. Next rider gets helmeted up, Missus stands in pole position to swap the scoring transponder, we'll save 3 minutes per lap in changeover. We'll win this.

Before we go any further, here's a bit of general advice:

Dear Dierdre,

I am taking on Dawn to Dusk tomorrow morning (the toughtest enduro race in the UK).

I haven't race-prepped my bike yet, and I'm considering whether to just race prep the bike whilst it's still light, or whether to have a few pints first and then do it in the dark.

By the way, it's pissing down with rain, everything is muddy and we can't see a thing.

My boyfriend loves doing it in the dark when we're drunk, but I much prefer doing it with the lights on, so I don't know what to do. Please help me.

Yours sincerely,

Confused of Pissing-down Wales.

I know, I know, but we were excited. I'll leave you to guess what happened. In fact, we'll come back to "excited" in a minute when I tell you about Zippy.

So, as they told us at the riders brieing, there was to be a film crew there - filming Dawn to Dusk for the Extreme Sports Channel, to be aired in October. When somebody poked a camera in your face and asked you questions, you were to style it a up a bit - you're on TV.

A few minutes later, some guy poked a TV camera in my face and asked:

"Why are you here?"

"This is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy"

I've got the guy's attention now. I am not your "average" enduro rider. The zoom goes on, he crouches down.

"How's that then?"

"Well, this is better than sex. It's a chance to be alive. It's life, it's living. The alternative is dying a slow death in a 9 to 5 job. What would you do?".

"And what do you do to prepare for something like this? Whats the secret?"

"You shit yourself, and you pray"

Several screws - obviously the important ones - and tools and stuff all got lost in the dark. Martin and I are doing the whole sweary mechanics thing and going at eachother like an old married couple. Bits were lost, bits were found, other bits were lost and found again, lost again, found again, sworn at, sworn about, good old enduro stuff. Watch us survive three weeks through Asia.

We left a new tyre till the last minute and when we turned up at the tyre-fitting tent, there were two unsavoury individuals swearing at a wheel that wouldn't get a mousse into it. The two individuals were none other than Patsy Quick and Zippy. The girl and boy your mother warned you about. Grins all round.

Martin slept in our tent, my ITM slept in Hotel du Poisson. It was absolutely pissing down with rain, and blowing a gale. The crap dog, not content with being inside, wanted to be outside getting wet. This was OK, until she decided that she wanted to be dry again. She came into the tent, walked up to within an inch of a just-getting-to-sleep Martin, then shook herself dry. All that water had to go somewhere. The Missus and I pissed ourselves for about fifteen minutes whilst Martin swore like a drunken sailor on shore leave.

Karma got her own back when the blanket being used by me and The Missus dipped itself in a puddle of water and started acting like a wick. The water crept up the blanker until we were both soaking and freezing and - crucially - wide awake. 5am, and the alarms start going off. Nobody has slept much, if at all. "Private Missus" - because she is a Marine - breaks out he porridge and the coffee and the bananas and the smiles and the morale-boosting. If you've never met The Missus then take my word for it - one look at her jugs (revealed or not) is a morale boost. She wore a nice tight top, which does the trick even at 5am on the side of a pissing down Welsh mountain. Then she covered it over with a coat. Aw, bollocks.

We set off on the bikes to get them to the start line - Scotsman, Englishman and Irishman. Team AJP. Team. Think about that one. A DNF for any of us meant a DNF for all of us. Team.

Back up the road and I am drinking porridge and rainwater out of a mug. They key to a long race like this is to get as much of whatever you can down your neck - you'd eat shit if it would give you energy. Maybe it does, maybe I should try this.

The experts flew off the start line as only the experts can. Having lost the toss, I sat on the start line whilst my ITM and Martin stood on the side of the hill. I gave it a good go, and was out-cornering and out-braking the 2-strokes through the corners and up and down the wet and slippery hill. I was looking good, and feeling great. Corner after zig-zaggy corner and I was keeping the 2-strokes at bay.

Then, as soon as we were out of sight of the crowd, we had to go up a very steep and slippery hill. Halfway up the hill, I binned it and ended up on my arse as a half-dozen riders passed me. Bollocks.

I remembered a lot of the course, which was much the same as March, and this gave me a bit of an advantage. I knew, for instance, that that slippery downhill over there was a stay-to-the-right job. I knew this because I remembered almost breaking my leg back in March when I went to the left and got trapped under the bike after washing out on the hill.

For the first time ever, I was passing people. For the first time ever, I was shouting "Oi Oi!" as I pulled behing people and I watched them move over to let me pass. I am an enduro rider. Nothing fazed me or the little bike. She got up everything and, crucially, down everything. I was quicker than I had ever been and I was absolutely flying.

I came in from the first lap after about an hour. The Missus grabbed the transponder off my wrist and chucked it onto Martin, who then took off like a bat out of hell. Rinse and repeat. Me, my ITM and Martin. Lap after lap, The Missus feeding us and fanning us and running around to get the transponder from one bike to another. Keep that transponder moving at all costs.

Martin did his lap in an hour, and my ITM took off on his orange bike. When he arrived back in the pits, the bike was less orange and more black. The only thing that wasn't muddy was that insatiable grin he has. Never put out, never fazed, always looking to the horizon. An honour and a privilege to be riding in the same team.

A familiar face popped his head into our pit tent - Duncan Tweedy, robbed Dakar Legend. We met him in Morocco, where he was training for the 2008 Dakar, and he was cruelly robbed of his chance on the start line in Lisbon. We got chatting, and we were hubristic enough to suggest that we might even win our class. He smiled knowingly and said he'd check with us again at 6pm - it was only 10:30 am and there was over 8 hours to go.

I thought that my little bike had fuel issues - she was labouring in the higher gears and needed a lot of clutch abuse. She had been up at Martin's all week and had been out on the trail on Friday, but Martin assured me that she was fine. I knew otherwise. I had ridden this little bike every mile she had ever done, except the ones on Friday, and I know a fuel problem when I see it. It was exactly the same symptoms as Tea til Dusk. Martin delcared that she would be fine.

I went out for my second lap and got 5 miles into it, with more clutch abuse being required all the way round, and the little bike gave up - starved of fuel. Paul Carlile (who we met in Morrocco) stopped to see what was wrong, and declared that it was a fuel problem and he would fetch a marshall. I called The Missus, Martin, my ITM and none of them answered. I did this several times. Standing at the side of the track, I saw several numbers in our class pass me, and I knew our place was going west. I left Martin a very snooty voicemail:

"Martin, next time I tell you that a bike is about to do a 'teal til dusk' on me, please will you fucking listen?"

Next minute, up popped Jago (who was riding in the marathon class). Out came spanners and the like, but we still couldn't fix it. He took the transponder (keep the transponder moving) to get it back to the pits whilst I waited for recovery. I waited about half an hour, then I was resuced by a grinning marshall called "Chip". He put the bike on his trailer and, since I "wasn't getting in my van in that state", I had to sit on top of the bike. On the trailer.

Chip was a complete nutter. I'm sat on a bike on a trailer behind a ford transit being driven through tracks an up hills that I wouldn't even do on a bike by itself. Up these steep and muddy tracks, Chip is giving it the transit equivalen of a 'andful whilst I am doing my best to stay upright.

We passed Nick Plumb on a quad bike and he has a cameraman with him. He pulled up alongside as we're driving and shouted "Oi! You! On your pegs!". So, here's me on my pegs in a traler attached to a transit van, being filmed by the TV crew. Nice.

Back at the pits, and everything started to get dismantled - particularly the carburettor. Duncan Tweedy, who came to scrounge a fag, saw the spanners and just got stuck in. This is what enduro is all about. The riding is the riding, but the real story - the real adventure - happens in the pits:

This is where the real drama unfolds. This is where the frantic jury-rigging and quick-fixing and the "that'll do you for now" goes on. This is where the waiting and the worrying and the counting happens.

I will dine out for a long time on Duncan Tweedy - robbed Dakar legend - spannering my bike whilst I;m trying to fix it at the same time as getting food down my neck, before my ITM finishes his current lap. We saw my ITM turn the corner - 5 minutes to go - and we've 20 minutes of spannering to go. This means one of two things:

1. We wait 20 minutes, and the transponder stops moving;
   
2. I ride the KTM

Now, the last time I was on a KTM, it bit me. It bit me so badly that I needed surgery. I willed the carburettor to magically put itself back together again but no joy. My ITM pulled into the pits and my bike was still in pieces. It's the KTM.

My ITM knows I am terrified of his bike. He knows that it is his bike and that I will drop it - a lot. But this does not worry him. His main concern is keeping the transponder moving - onwards and upwards. We are part of a team, keep the team moving. We did not come here to fail. I grap a step-ladder and climb the mountain that is the KTM - she is tall. I don the transponder, start shitting myself, and give it some gas.

The KTM is fierce, and way too tall for me. My ITM's "progressive" riding style means that he has turned up his idle to about 4,000 rpm (which will become important in a moment). The throttle and brakes are on/off switches - there is nothing gradual about this bike. It is a race bike, ready to race, and need much more finesse and skill than I posess.

Downhills for instance. My technique for going dowhnill is to chop the throttle and use the engine braking, plus the front brake if you have to. This would be fine if you were not on a race-ready KTM 250 which "idles" at 4,000 rpm. Your natural instinct when you are powering down a hill is to pull in the clutch to cut the engine power. When this makes you speed up (you NEVER pull the clutch on a hill) then you snatch a front brake. That's over-the-bars incident number 1. My confidence saps with each fall, and there were many of them. My lap time increases accordingly.

In the end, and I am ashamed to admit this, I gave up trying to go downhills on that bike. But, unlike Midwest last year, I was not going to allow my team-mates to DNF. I walked the bike down the hills. Or, to be more accurate, I sat on my arse and held on to the bike whilst it dragged me down. I call it "buttock-ski-ing". I figure that it helps to chisel the old rear end into a Despres-envy-inducing shape. I think it worked too, or at least the Missus likes it (which is the main thing).

Somehow, I got that bike back and it took me 90 minutes for that lap. Martin was growling, since he knew that that had cost us the win. My ITM on the other had knew that it was a fucking big deal for me to even get me and the bike back in one piece and had a much more philosophical attitude to it.

As of that moment, it became a race of survival. No mtter what it too, it was all about finishing. OK, so we had lost the win, now it was about finishing even if we didn't finish well. Martin went out, after fixing the Husaberg radiator hose which had emptied his bike of coolant, followed by my ITM who turned out a sub 1-hour lap (our first of the day). The little PR3 had been jury-rigged to keep her going and now it was my turn.

I shot out and was going well. I came to the hill where i had binned the bike every time for the last three laps and there was a young lady standing there with a sign saying "Photo". This meant that a cameraman was at the top of the hill. Fuck.

If you ever need a lift when you're on an enduro, have a young lady stand up with a sign saying "Photo". No matter how out of shape things are, no matter how knackered you are, no matter of muddy you are, I guarantee that the next 10 seconds will have you showing off in a way that would win the Olympic Gold for showing off. And so I did. I made it right up the hill and pulled a lovely MX-style corner just for the photographer. OK, so I binned it once I was round the next corner and our of sight, but that's not the point.

Then, a few miles in, my right footpeg fell off. The whole footpeg. Gone. That means no standing up, and no left turns. It means no steering in ruts. In fact, it means no steering at all since you steer by weighting the pegs. It means doing the last 12 miles sat on the bike like a sack of potatoes and having every single bump mash all the way through your back. Several times on that last lap I wanted to DNF and cut the course. But it wouldn't just have been my DNF - it would have been Martin and my ITM's DNF as well. In fact, if I had DNF'd on the last lap then it's a safe bet that I would have had the little PR3 stuck right up my arse by an angry Martin, whilst I was bei held down by my ITM. Even if they didn't go as far as to give me a PR3 enema, I'd have got a proper slagging. More importantly, I'd have let them down. No medals. We came here for medals.

I did the last 10 miles without a footpeg. I tried several techniques, including side-saddle, but nothing worked. IN the end I just had to paddle the bike at walking speed through most of it - and this meant a 2-hour lap. Everybody in the pits was worried.

When I was going down hills, I'd hear an expert behind me:

"Ring-ding-ding-ding-ding (2-stroke noise) - come on mate!"

"Bear with me mate, I don't have a footpeg"

"Don't have a brain either, if you're still riding. Respect!"

and, my favourite when there was a bunch of guys having a committee meeting at the top of a hill:

"Guys, you better go first - I'll be slow since I don't have a footpeg"

"Nah, we'll go behind you - I want to watch this"

Buttock ski-ing is, apparently, "one way" down a hill.

I was so late, that everybody had moved from the pits to the start/finish line to cheer me home. They saw that I didn't have a footpeg and cheered al the louder. I almost cried. I really did.

As I crossed the finish line, Nick Plumb said:

"You cheated - you did most of it on the trailer"

which was very amusing. Then, what we came here for. A medal each. My ITM, Martin and myself. Medals. Dawn to Dusk finishers. That's us by the way.

I'll talk about some of the surrounding detail another time - including some of the things which demonstrate the giganticness of my ITM - but for now I wanted to report on the event.

Oh, and that excited thing about Zippy? He came over and was talking to us in the beer tent. Riding behind me, he notices a hell of a difference in my riding and, if I stick with it, then it will click. When it does, I will (apparently) have the enduro equivalent of a wet dream. I have ordered some waterproof boxer shorts in preparation for that day.It was tough, but we did it.

None of us could have done it on our own, but tenacity and sheer bloody-mindedness won through. A big Thank You to Paul and Mike and Zippy and Patsy and the guys who cheered me on. A massive Thank You to Nick Plumb for laying on a great event, and the biggest Thank You of all to Duncan Tweedy for getting stuck in on the spannering - without which my bike would not have finished the race.

That team spirit, that whole everybody mucking in an keeping the race going, is what enduro is all about. The whole truly is greater than the sum of its parts.

Beijing mothers, lock up your daughters ...

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When was the last time you dreamed? I don't mean in your sleep, I mean a real wide-awake, "what-if" or "if-only" kind of dream.

In fact, that's probably how you define the difference between being an adult and being a child. A child will dream, and believe that anything is possible. An adult will dream, then instantly dismiss it because they see all the pitfalls in achieving it.

So, then, let me ask you this. Is your childhood the happiest time of your life because childhood really is the happiest time of your life? Or is it just possible that your childhood is the happiest time of your life because you dared to dream? More importantly, you dared to dream and you dared to dream that it might be possible?

When I was a kid, I wanted to be an astronaut. At the time of writing, I've never been to the moon but NASA sent John Glenn up and he was 77. There's still hope. Little 2-stroke moon rocket, and we'll pop a wheelie right in the middle of the Sea of Tranquility.

So we dream. We look at the entry list for Dawn to Dusk this weekend, and we dream. We are team number 370. There are 28 other teams in our class. My ITM has bagged laps 3, 6, 9 etc. Martin and I discussed the other laps.

The team tactics are that I take lap 1 - I am the fastest runner and you need to run to your bike. I will be first into the first corner and, to quote Martin, "after that point, whoever is behind you stays behind you". Maybe, between Martin's ageing wiliness and my ability run quick, maybe the little PR3 will be able to fend off the Dawn to Dusk pack.

So, the dream is that maybe we'll win Dawn to Dusk. Maybe, just maybe. Maybe we can fend off the challenge of 28 other teams. Maybe we want it more than they do. Maybe we're more committed. Maybe we just dream that it might be possible.

My ITM thinks we're insane for even daring to dream this - he is firmly rooted in reality. But anything could happen. Should we be entering a race thinking that we won't win it? Or should we enter the race thinking that we have a chance?

Some fantastic fedback arrived in the inbox today forwarded by Martin - thanks to Julian and Charlie - which I will share with you (mostly because I am so proud):

I came down a few weeks ago for the off-road day. We enjoyed it so much, we would like to do it again before the Africa trip. There are five of us who would like to come along, preferably with the same instructor (I think his name was John, the mad Scot).

...

Just a quick note to say thanks to you and especially John for an excellent day on Saturday.
What a great instructor John is, I really felt I could tackle anything by the end of the day.

If all that I have done is made people a bit more confident on their bikes in Africa, then my life is not a waste. A year ago, I couldn't even get down the hill at Midwest. Martin bullied and forced me to go down hill after hill until I just hated it and wasn't afraid anymore. I have Martin to thank. Thank you Martin.

If we do not win Dawn to Dusk, then it will not be because we did not try. I am proud and honoured that my ITM and Martin have enough faith in my skills as a rider that they are willing to invite me into their team. I have never, ever, been part of a team in my life. This is a first, and I am proud to be part of a team with such mighty people.

We have 28 teams to beat. We get to the first corner first, and then everybody stays behind. We are three very capable riders, and we have a chance of winning this. We are Team AJP. We are a Scotsman, and Englishman and and Irishman. We are not afraid, even though we are. We will do the best that we can, and push ourselves to bests that we did not know we had.

Imagine that Martin could claim that an AJP won Dawn to Dusk. Imagine that, when I am teaching people, I could tell them that I won Dawn to Dusk. Imagine what it would do for my own self-worth if I won Dawn to Dusk. Imagine how I could look Martin in the eye and tell him that "your powers are weak Old Man". Imagine how elated my ITM would be to have won Dawn to Dusk.

OK, OK. Imagine the bragging rights:

"How did you get on at the toughest race in the UK?"

"Oh, we won".

I am absolutely shitting myself for Sunday, as is Martin and my ITM. But we are a team and we will absolutely do the best that we can do. If we do not win, it will be because there were others better than us and no other reason.

We start the race thinking we can win it. We finish the race either having won it or not. But valour, courage and character will be the mark of the day. I am riding with Martin and my ITM as part of a team and, in their mighty company, there is no possible outcome other than winning.

Dare to dream. Maybe, just maybe ...

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Imagine you've got a faithful little dog. A little floppy-eared, stubby-tailed, cockeyed little puppy who is your friend. Always happy to see you, always there to welcome you, jumps up on your bed and keeps you warm on the cold nights. Barks at burglars, good with the kids. An obedient and loving wee soul.

Yet, despite how much you love him, you are moving house to somewhere that doesn't allow pets. The wee man has to go. You need to make this move to get you to where you yourself want to be and, unfortunately, it's "No Pets".

You already know what I'm talking about don't you? I'm not talking about the crap dog - she is so crap that she'd not even register on the Pet-o-meter so she wouldn't be a problem. No, I'm talking about Goldilocks - my floppy-eared, stubby-tailed faithful little PR3.

Hold on a minute. I've been raving about this bike and how wonderful she is. How her little 89kg is perfect for me chucking round an enduro track. All of this holds true - she is a fantastic little bike. We've done Son of Dawn to Dusk, I've dug her out of two-feet of cowshit with my own hands. She's been nothing but loyal and faithful and now I am sending her to the big enduro track in the sky? What a cruel, heartless, bastard. I know, I know.

There's a logic to this. There is a strategy, and I need you to bear with me for a second. You've had shock number 1 - trading in little Goldilocks - now I need you to be sitting down for shock number 2.

Two is a magic number. My next bike is a 2-stroke. Oh my God, that's it. John has totally flipped and turned to the Dark Side. Quick, run to the Jedi temple and fetch Obi-Wan.

Hold on, bear with me.

I'm not talking about some hooligan big-bore 2-stroke such as a 250 or a 300. Whilst those are the weapons of choice for the experts, they are also the weapons of choice for people who are actually a bit crap but compensate for this by riding a really really fast bike.

I recall blogging about a year ago now about Lee Trevino, and the way he learned to play golf by using clubs which he had found in the dustbin - gaffa-taping them together if needs be. He perfected his technique by using equipment that made him perfect his technique. I recall blogging about competing in running wearing trainers, and the difference it made when my Ma bought me a pair of spikes. I recall blogging about learning to play the guitar on a 5-quid piece of junk I found in a Mates wardrobe, and how my playing got a lot better when I graduated to a proper electric guitar.

So the plan is to get a small-bore 2-stroke - like a 125cc. The powerband on these is so narrow (less than 1,000 rpm) that you better get pretty good at clutch control and momentum if you ever hope to make it round an enduro track.

The little AJP and I have taken the knocks and the falls and the cowshit, and she's carried me through all of it. Now we're at the stage where her forgiving obedience and docile nature is starting to limit what I can do. Learning to ride on a small-bore 4-stroke has taught me to have a pretty good technique, but now it's time to take the next step.

I could jump on a big-bore 2-stroke, or even a big-bore 4-stroke, like a 250 or higher but all it would do is mask the parts of my technique that are still crap. If I can learn to keep a 125cc 2-stroke in the power band by clever use of the clutch then - when I do jump on a big bore - I will be unstoppable.

I was out today with Julian - a graphic designer from London who is doing Enduro Africa. We had a great day, just the two of us. He had a declared intention to be able to do MX-style cornering and by the end of the day he was doing exactly this. He also learned how to turn a bike round in a space 6 feet wide, and he leraned how to use momentum to get up slippery and nasty hills.

At one point in the day, I asked him "when you woke up this morning, what did you wish you were coming here to learn?". He declared that it was MX-style cornering. I told him that "your wish is my command", and his face went white and his eyes went wide.

In that instant, he knew who he was with today. He knew he was with me. He knew that, on paper, he was completely alone in the middle of nowhere with a lunatic as his guide. Imagine you were coming for a day's trail riding at AJP. You do a quick google search on "AJP". Would you click on the 2009Dakar.com links? I would. Julian knew who he was out with today, I saw it in his face in that millisecond. I wonder how that must feel, I really don't know what I'd do in that situation.

Anyway, hill climbs. One nasty hill was a bit much for both of us. It was so steep that the front wheel kept on wanting to dance in the air and chuck you off. I got up it on the second attempt, Julian ended up zig-zagging his way up. As I crested the brow of the hill, that was the moment I realised that I had outgrown the little 4-stroke. I could never even have attempted that hill a year ago.

Coming back down, using the engine braking, I realised that the 4-stroke is making me a little lazy. Getting up a hill is a simple matter of pinning the throttle and leaning back. Coming down is a simple matter of closing the throttle and staying off the brakes. But there is no engine braking on a 2-stroke, and opening the throttle doesn't necessarily increase the power to the back wheel.

It takes finesse, and technique, to get a 2-stroke round an enduro track. A 2-stroke ridden with good technique is a devastating weapon. Mr Wheeler will be afraid when he sees me on the start line. Cyril Despres will be terrified.

I stepped up a gear at Tea Till Dusk and, unless I do something to push myself, I am danger of hitting a plateau. I have to work on my technique, and a small-bore 2-stroke is the way to do this. Either my technique will improve - drastically - or I might as well change my name by deed poll to "DNF".

Six months of riding a small-bore 2-stroke - in all of the shitty winter weather - and I will be an absolute demon when I jump on my proper bike. This "proper" bike I am referring to will either be a KTM 250 4-stroke or the new BMW 450x. The jury is still out.

I may well be giving myself another mountain to climb, and doing so needlessly, but I think that I have to push myself to get to the next level otherwise I'll never get there.

The little AJP is still a tremendous enduro bike, and I'd totally recommend it to anybody who wants to get round an enduro track with the least amount of effort. But "least amount of effort" is not what Dakar finishes are all about. Dakar is all about "No Pets".

Goldilocks, fantastic little bike, just like the little floppy-eared dog is a fantastic dog - probably not ideal for moving into a house that says "No Pets". Time to move on.

Or, as my ITM would put it, onwards and upwards.

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My day job had to wait today, I had a more important job to do. More accurately, I gatecrashed Martin's trail riding party today. Which, as it turned out, was actually a good thing. If Martin had been on his own then it would have been a proper drama.

We had two separate couples how were there by virtue of TreatMe.com - where people buy gift vouchers for balloon trips and skydiving and stuff like that. Their gifts were a day's trail riding at AJP.

There was Simon and Tess, a couple who hailed from Cheltenham, and there was Chris and Laura - father and daughter. Chris was 60 and it was a birthday present for him. Laura got the nickname "Penelope", which she took in good humour. This was due to her tendency to squeal and scream like Penelope Pitstop whever she encountered something she didn't like. At one point, she literally did sit at the foot of a rooty hill shouting "Hey-ulp! Hey-ulp!" and squealed like a banshee as she took it on.

I told Simon that he was riding The Baby, and I explained how she hates me and can smell fear. He thought that this was very amusing, but realised it for himself later in the day.

Martin was in a bit of a mischievous mood. He's just moved premises, so we're much closer to the Plain, but this also means that we miss out a lot of the places in the morning where we give the lessons. Which, due to Martin being a bit mischievous, means that we missed out a lot of the lessons.

The first time we encountered ruts, Martin was in front, and I don't think it occurred to him that we need to show these guys how to get through them. Some fairly predictable and messy carnage ensued. I'm trying to bring up the rear and talk the guys through it at the same time as they're trying to keep up with Martin. It was difficult, but we were still having a laugh.

As we got into the woods, I told the guys to keep to the right. This wasn't one of those "when John tells you to keep to the right, you have to wonder why" times - it really was a proper keep to the right.

There are two very very simple reasons for this instruction:

1. The left looks much easier;
2. The left turns into 2-feet deep of ruts and mud when you get round the corner

Laura and Chris took what looked to be the easiest route and went left. Simon and Tess were miles in front with Martin.

I have really missed my Friday mornings getting all wet and muddy and digging people out of carnage. Until this morning. I'm knee deep in the much-missed Salisbury mud pushing at a squealing Penelope telling her "go on, give it some welly". Proper comedy.

We got to the hill where we do the whole momentum thing. We explained the technique, and up shot Chris and Simon first time. Tess had a bit of lying down going on for her first attempt - helpfully captured on her camera by yours truly (much to the delight of her hubby).

Penelope had a bit of a delayed reaction to the "go on, give it some welly" instruction. In all the hours and miles I have done on the Plain, I have never seen a bike do a complete backward somersault and land on its wheels. I saw it today. She wheelied over the top of the hill and came off the back of the bike - which flew in the air and done a 360-degree loop - almost taking Martin's head off in the process.

Simon put his bike on the side stand to go and see if she was OK, and his bike fell over. That'll be clutch lever number 1. The problem was that it was Martin's "unbreakable" clutch lever that had, em, broken so this gave us some square-peg-into-round-hole issues with fitting a new one. An ingenious little device involving a spark plug and some gaffa tape was duly invented, and Physics huffily agreed that we weren't breaking any laws in doing this although he would be keeping a good eye on us from that point onwards.

Then it was time to go down the hill again. Penelope sat at the top of the hill and was completely paraysed, apart from squealing. She simply could not get down that hill. Absolutely terrified. I was sat at the bottom and I really felt for her - I was exactly there about a year ago at the Midwest enduro sans body armour (blogs passim). You remember, the one where I sat for an hour at the top of a hill and just couldn't find the balls to get down it. Martin took her a different way instead.

When Simon dropped his bike the second time, the whole clutch assembly snapped off. This happened at exactly the same time as Chris's cam chain jumped a tooth and turned the suck-squeeze-bang-blow of his bike into more of a buck-beeze-sang-slow. Dead bike. Physics had rather smugly declared that that was 1-all.

So I gave Tango to Simon, and started pushing his broken bike towards the woods. I've never had cause to ride this bike before today, so she didn't have a name. Today, this unnamed bik became Selene.

Selene was a moon goddess, who had a bit of a thing going with a shepherd called Endymion. Endymion ended up never growing old, but instead sleeping for all eternity. Given the current state of the bike, it seemed appropriate.

Out came the towrope. The legendary red webbing strap. Footpeg to footpeg. Here we go again. The guys have got their cameras out at this spectacle - they've never seen anything like this before.

Off to the pub for lunch, some ferrying back and forward with me on the back of Martin's bike, and I am off on my own for the afternoon with the guys - no spare bikes. None. Physics scoffed. 2-1.

Fifteen minutes later, Simon's bike starts backfiring and - eventually - drops a valve. The backfire was caused by the exhaust valve not closing as the fuel gets pumped in - so it explodes in the exhaust. Martin comes up in the car and declares that they'll need to come back another day - there are no more bikes - so after a bit more towing and 2-up, I set off with Penelope and Chris. I am now on the Husaberg.

We came back to Somersault Hill - as it will now be known - and I stopped the Husaberg, took of my helmet, and started grinning at Penelope. So, are we going up or what? Again, I walked her through the technique and showed her a few times. Her dad flew straight up and sat waiting for her at the top. Heart in her mouth, she gave it a go and flew right up. She raised both of her arms in the air - "YES!!" - and forgot that she needed them on the handlebars to steer. Physics, looking to score the winner, put a hatrick in the back of the net and dumped Penelope right on her arse.

She picked herself right up, then just turned round and came back down the hill - squealing all the time. Then, just for the hell of it, she went up again. Then down. Much squealing. A very happy Penelope. A very happy Chris. Broken bikes, towropes and trauma or not - that is a success. That's what it's all about.

Back at AJP for some "sweary mechanics". This basically involves me, Martin, some broken bikes and a bunch of spanners and much swearing at things that won't come off or won't go on. Bits from other bikes are taken off, attached, tested, found to be broken, sworn at, and put on the floor. Then we get mixed up about which are the broken bits and which are the good bits, so there's a bit more attaching and unattaching and swearing and remembering to separate them into two piles.

Is this what it will be like on the way to Beijing? Would it be advisable to learn how to swear in Russian?

Today is the first day in weeks that I have not had my head choc-full of stuff. It's my first downtime in what feels like ages. Physics gave us a bit of a hard time and, on the face of it, there was a lot of trauma. But it felt like therapy. In fact, I'll invent a new word here and call it "traumapy".

I am out again tomorrow and the weather forecast is totally grim. More traumapy. Shippee ...

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Had my head down for a couple of weeks. This may mean nothing to you, or it may mean something, but I'll tell you anyway. The fruits of my labours over the past month or so have been 30,000 lines of C++ code, 20,000 lines of Java and nearly 200 pages in Word documents.

And now I need a new laptop, since I've absolutely buggered the keyboard on it.

Big Chief Sitting Management Bollocks went into um battle today. He, me and my gangly friend were at it over the kitchen table last night working out what we were going to do and how. Chief put on his Armani suit and his best aftershave and in he went to meet with the Head of Development at the place where my Gangly Friend and I work.

This has not been without its fun either - at one point Chief and I were going to punch eachother (which would have been interesting since he's six feet odds and weighs a million stone) and my Gangly Friend and I have shared cross words quite often.

Whilst Chief sat there in his suit, my Gangly Friend and I done the whole prairie-dog thing - popping our heads over our screens and sniggering at eachother in the way you would if your mum was helping your teacher out in class.

I think we might have got a result too - at least Chief is coming back next week to do a spot of lunch and further discussions around the details of the contracts.

And me, I'm fucked. Completely and utterly fucked. That lever there on the left is the clutch, and I am pulling it in for a bit.

I declared to The Missus last night that I am taking Friday off to go trail riding with AJP. She was actually so glad to hear me say this. For the past god-knows-how-long, she's fed me and fanned me and watered me whilst I've rattled away on this latop making the keyboard sound like a bag of bolts in a washing machine.

So I figured that if I was going to go trail riding with Martin then it might be an idea to tell Martin about it - that would certainly help. Martin was delighted or, at least said that he was. There was dicsussions about whether or not there will be enough bikes, punctuated by lots of "it'll be fine". Usual stuff.

Imagine that you've been locked in this horrible room full of sulphur and smelly stuff like that and no sunlight. Then, all of a sudden, you step outside into a lovely summers day and breathe the fresh air. Knowing that I am riding on Friday kind of feels like that. I can already feel the tension slipping away from me, and looking forward to what is always a complete laugh out on the Plain. A bit of cat and mouse with the Land Warden is exactly what I need.

By the way, the picture I didn't post the other week - when I asked "what is going on here?":



As I said to Chief - I lost my balance. Now it's time to redress that a little. Apart from that, I've got Dawn to Dusk in 10 days time and I could do with the practice. There's an argument that says I could do with the practice anyway, and I'd have to agree with you.

Part of being able to deal with stuff is knowing when you need to back off and take some downtime. I've never been able to do this - this is one of the reasons why I've ended up in hospital. One of the reasons why I've never been able to do it is that I've had nothing to do it with. I've never really been passionate about anything, except the things I'm passionate about - if you follow me.

And now, I've got my bikes and I've got my friends. I've been given the gift of being able to go out with AJP if I choose and know that Martin is delighted to have me there. The guys who are going along to learn will be grateful that I am there. I get downtime, Martin gets help, the guys have a brilliant day. Everybody wins.

Come 10pm next Sunday, I'll be setting fire to my enduro gear and fighting with my ITM and Martin over who gets the matches and petrol first.

But even being able to look forward to set fire to my gear is a long long way from the places I have been. And an even longer way from the places we are going.

A Big Thank You to The Missus for the feeding and the fanning though.

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I like Leonardo da Vinci. Legend has it that he was a manic depressive, although we can't be sure because manic depression wasn't invented yet when he was alive. Labels. It's all about labels.

You may or may not know this, but Leonardo da Vinci was much more than an artist. He painted pictures to pay the rent, but his real love was science and - particularly - the science of warfare. He drew, in his notebooks, pictures of helicopters and submarines. He touted himself to the royalty of Europe as a courtier who could design and build great engines of war - siege towers and catapults and stuff like that.

But, nonetheless, he had a problem. There was only one of him. If the King of France and the King of Austria both wanted him, then one of them was going to be disappointed.

Now, if Leonardo was smart, he'd have spoke to Chief (who was definitely born at that time) to see how he could fundamentally synergise the duality-ness of da Vinci with the requirements of the Kings of Austria and France. In other words, how he could be in two places at once.

Now Chief and I have spent many hours bent over my kitchen table (no, not in that way) trying to solve this particular problem. You see, I have a gift but I can only be in one place at a time. At first, we thought we could write computer programs that pretended to be me, and that's only half of the problem. Now, we're coming round to a new way of thinking:

"Is it possible that 'Johns' are not born - is it possible that they are made?"

We know that I am a fantastic trainer and teacher - the Universe provided Martin to allow me to demonstrate this. Is it possible, just possible, that I can teach other people to be me?

OK, so there's an argument that says "why would they even want to be?" and I'd be the first to admit that. But this isn't real life, this is the numbers.

If you do only a little research, then you will discover that the truly great people in the world had no idea how they would achieve what they set out to achieve - they just knew that they'd achieve it. Kennedy had no idea how to put a man on the moon when he declared that "by the end of this decade, we will land a man on the moon and return him safely to the Earth".

So, slowly and surely, under Chief's beligerent and often-grumpy guidance, we explore and discover ways that we can have me in more than one place at once. When we solve that problem, funding Transorientale will not be a problem. Conversations will be of this nature:

"Hello?"

"Chief? It's John. Listen, Southampton is up for sale and I was wonder if you wanted to go half and half on buying it?"

"Nah, I don't support Southampton."

"No, you idiot! Not Southampton the football team, Southampton the City!"

Riches are in the post. Yet, at the same time, I know that you can't buy passion and you can't buy a Dakar finish. That is on the inside and is as much a part of you as the colour of your eyes.

Dakar finishers, unlike 'Johns', are born - they are not made.

So, fund it yes. Buy it no. Hopefully you understand the difference.

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Been a busy old week.

First, we had the small matter of a multi-million pound project to deliver at work. Usual stuff - people working through the night and stuff. Usual pulling rabbits out of hats against the clock. What was different this time was that I got paid for it - normally I don't even ask, but this time I did.

The reason for this is that it had dawned on me that I have a little trip planned for next year - you may already know this - and this trip is going to take a bit of munny. So, asking for munny in return for working isn't really a bad thing.

Saturday was a welcome relief, out for a spot of trail riding with Chris, Charlie, Glen, Brian and Steve. All of them doing Enduro Africa in October and Brian, who hails from the evil Accenture empire, has his own website at http://www.enduroafrica2008.com/. If you look really closely you will see their handsome instructor in the photos.

That's "instructor", incidentally. No plural. Martin didn't go. He was going to go but Charlie's, em, "progressive" riding style caused little Nadia to give up the ghost and bend a valve. Martin drove the Husaberg up on the trailer and Charlie then got on to Tango. He spent most of the day lying down, in one shape or another, although Brian shot this great video of Charlie jumping off the bike and going for a run - very amusing.

Tango also had her picture in TBM this month - 16 pages of a shootout against the larger Yamaha WR250R. Complete with bright orange wheels, which TBM described as "funky".

The girl doing the test ride, a girl by the name of Mel, wasn't having a good day at all. She didn't gel with Tango, and wrote a four-page review of a bike I didn't recognise at all. And, bear in mind, I've ridden this bike over the same trails on Salisbury Plain that she did.

I've got some complaints and observations about the little PR3 - I've posted some of them here before. There's the clutch, and how you really need a strong aftermarket clutch to be sure that it will last. There's the power issue, and how she really needs more grunt if she's going to be taking on long distances. Martin is working on this, inbetween going swimming in wells.

Mel described a bike that was twitchy, where the forks bottomed out going over bumps, and where the brakes didn't work. Me, all 50 kilos of me, and Martin - all 11 stone of him - have never been able to recreate these problems on some pretty tough terrain, including Tea til Dusk. I don't know how heavy you need to be to bottom out the forks, but Martin's 11 stone can't do it and Mel is only 5 foot 3. Hmm.

I rode Tango on Saturday and couldn't fault her (apart from me wanting more power). So I'm not sure what went wrong.

Then it dawned on me. The folks at TBM ride 5-grand-plus bikes every day and write about them. The little AJP is 3 grand, even with the Marzocchi forks. That extra 2 grand buys a hell of a lot more than 2 grand's worth.

The thing is, that when you step onto a PR3, you need to start with 3 things:

1. This bike is 3 grand
2. This bike is 90 kilos
3. This bike is a 200cc single

and, once you've got those things in your head, you realise what a little engineering marvel she truly is. If you sit astride her expecting her to behave like a 5-grand KTM then you're going to be a bit disappointed.

I had a bit of practice of long rides on a trail bike on Sunday as well. I rode Madge - the original Madge - back from Trowbridge on the road, about 60 miles in total. Chronic monkey butt set in after about 20 miles and I had to do the rest on my pegs. We really need to do something about that seat - maybe just gaffa tape a big pillow to it or something.

My Ma got some bad news today. She is being "consulted" about redundancy. Probably in much the same was as Hitler "consulted" Poland about invasion. It's not going to be a problem though, since I am imminently about to receive riches that would make King Solomon jealous. Munny is never going to be a problem again.

The Missus and I were talking yesterday and I was saying that I was tired. She told me to let up for a few days and stop churning out so much code (computer programs) and I explained that I might let up, but my brain won't. I am churning out a couple of thousand lines of code a day or something of that order, and the ideas are coming fast and furious. This is my moment, this is what I've been working towards for years, and payday is approaching.

So please bear with me for a wee while whilst I get this stuff churned out. When the cheques start hitting t