Husky Galore

Loot!

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 14:08:18 GMT

Yesterday lunchtime, one of my colleagues sent an all-staff email from his Blackberry to announce that the Oxford Street Borders is closing down and all stock is half price.

I swung by an hour ago and found a state of January sale-level mayhem, albeit polite, quiet, bookish mayhem (no frantic tugs of war with the Taschens).

I'd gone in determined not to lose my head, and to allow myself only things I'd been meaning to purchase anyway. I picked up The Philosopher and the Wolf and Vroom by the Sea, and the DVD of Bolt.

Then I wandered through the Music section on the off-chance they had that book on the folk-rock movement that's been on my Amazon wishlist for the past four years, or perhaps The Three Chord Eagles Songbook, and then I saw it.

Paul Simon: Lyrics 1964-2008. A huge, glossy, utterly unnecessary hardback that I hadn't known existed until that second, priced at £20.

Mine. Feeling slightly giddy, I joined the queue - which ran the length of the ground floor, twice - behind shoppers carrying loaded baskets or stacks of books half a metre high. At the till, I demanded and received the free stuffed hamster to go with my DVD.

Don't let me go back tomorrow!

That Righteous Stuff

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 11:42:23 GMT

I had treats last night: The Right Stuff at the BFI, and a scoop of Eton Mess-flavoured ice cream on the South Bank beforehand.

A colleague had lent me the book, which has been on my To-Read list for years and I was hoping to finish before the movie rolled around, but I fell short by a couple of chapters and had to read them when I got home.

I always enjoy Tom Wolfe's writing and I was fascinated by what he had to say about the mentality of the fighter pilot and the unexpected direction taken by the space programme that looked set to turn pilots into passive specimens in a capsule.

The film was fairly faithful to the original material, although some plotlines had to be left out or simplified. I feared that Wolfe's beautiful turns of phrase would be lost, but all the best ones were cleverly put into characters' mouths as the story unfolded and the action moved from Edwards to Cape Canaveral.

One bizarre deviation was the inexplicable "G'day, mate, we're Aboriginals!" scene in which the strange sparkling UFOs reported by John Glenn during his orbital flight are explained as the results of a mystic ritual performed in the Australian bush to help the astronaut on his way.

All the technical details looked thoroughly realistic throughout, however - horribly so, in the case of the medical examinations undergone by the pilot hopefuls - while changing fashions, cars and music brought us from the '40s to the '60s.

The cast is large, and some of the seven astronauts whose career we follow don't get a great deal to do; a pity in a story which celebrates the strong allegiance they form against the civilian world when it tries to push them around. The pilots and astronauts may have larger-than-life egos but they come across as the only real people in a world of baying press packs, Strangelove-style politicians and comedy-German scientists.

Sound barrier breaker Chuck Yeager is presented as the real hero of the piece, always pictured standing tall and strong in the desert, accompanied by a glinting aircraft, a sweating horse or his beautiful wife. I wondered whether whoever cast John Barrowman in Doctor Who had seen the film, as there was a lot of Captain Jack in Yeager's grin and his hairstyle (though less of a nancy-boy aura). By the end of the movie, the contrast between the fêted astronauts surrounded by crazy excess and the lone flyboy attempting to break a record nobody cared about could not have been more marked.

It's a very long movie. It's testimony to how riveting it was that I looked at my watch during the credits expecting it to be around 9:30, only to find it was a quarter past ten - nonetheless, by the end I was pretty hungry and in similar straits to Alan Shepard during the farcical 'Request permission to urinate' scene.

Spoilers: The Russians get a man in space before the Americans do; the first American in space is a chimpanzee; the X-20 programme gets canned.

Round Britain Rally: Bath and North Somerset

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 13:45:00 GMT

Why Bath counts as a county in its own right is a mystery to which only the rally organiser has the answer. Still, it made for a pleasant afternoon's ride for me and partner-in-crime Howard.

Bright sunshine alternated with rain showers, although we avoided the darkest grey clouds and only got a spattering. As we joined a single-track road at the top of a hill, Chew Valley Lake suddenly appeared below us, sea-blue in the sun and surrounded by green hills. I slowed down to take in the spectacle - and continued slow as I discovered the exciting ruts and gravel on our downward path.

This rally is really bringing home to me how terrible I am at composing photographs. The landmark in question was twofold, consisting of two bridges a little way apart. I took a shot of each, with my bike and the rally card clearly visible, then as we rode away realised that if I'd only stood on the other side of the road I could have got them both in the same picture. I hope it still counts.

It's always a pleasure to ride around the Glastonbury and Stonehenge area, unless there's a festival or a solstice on. Unfortunately this afternoon a tailback on the single-carriageway section of the A303 coincided with further instalments of rain, and there were many miserable minutes of filtering on wet, pitted cross-hatching, occasional overtakes and just plain sitting there to be got through before the road opened up.

We stopped at a petrol station for a farewell hot chocolate before Howard headed for Amesbury and I for the M3. We were just finishing when a woman in a maroon 4x4 who had deliberately got in our way during the earlier filtering escapades arrived at the pumps, having emerged from the jam half an hour after us. Ha!

London's Burning

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 14:01:23 GMT

At least, part of Soho is. We're all rubbernecking out of the office windows and hoping we get sent home early. Crumbs.

ETA: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/8144708.stm

Five Words

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 11:05:18 GMT

This is that thing where your chums list five words which remind them of you, and you have to riff on them.

kowarth gave me Oxford, Biggles, Scooter, Servalan & Orange.

Ah, Oxford, scene of my higher education. It was a nice place to spend four years, and also a safe one - if I'd gone to one of the London universities I'm sure I would have been repeatedly mugged during those first tentative flutters out of the nest - but I don't retain any particularly fond feelings for it. I can only recall visiting once since graduation, and I could certainly never live there - too full of bloody students.

Worth mentioning is that I met kowarth, who had lived within ten minutes of me for all of our lives, because his then girlfriend happened to be on my corridor in my first year.

I was already a teenager when Captain James Bigglesworth flew into my life thanks to my best bud Sally, who was having a clearout and presented me with three Biggles books on the grounds that "he's like the James Bond of the air".

I don't think the clean-living, morally upstanding Captain would have appreciated the comparison, but I lapped up his adventures. I was just getting into First World War aviation thanks to some great airshow displays, and Biggles of 266 was probably responsible for tipping me over the brink into obsession.

My Biggles collection has its own bookshelf; I own almost all the books, only a few scarce and pricy titles eluding me. Over the course of his career Biggles is a boy warrior, Spitfire ace, treasure hunter, Cold Warrior and flying detective. But the stories I re-read over and over all put him in the cockpit of a Sopwith Camel.

Scooter: always, never a motorcycle. Sorry to all my biker buds, but scooter aesthetics appealed to me while bikes left me cold. kowarth was a frequent flyer on my first scooter, Bernadette, and her successor, Oscar - I'm recalling particularly our trip to see Austin Powers 2: The Spy Who Shagged Me in Bournemouth one balmy summer evening.

Servalan: Blake's 7, like Star Trek, has never featured in my personal canon of sci-fi greats. It didn't help that the first episode I saw featured giant rubber spiders which revolted me utterly. But when I do happen to catch an episode, I have eyes only for Servalan. The height, the haircut, and the withering sarcasm delivered in that voice. The lady rocks.

Some years ago I accompanied kowarth to a signing at Barking's sci-fi bookshop. Having stood with him in Jacqueline Pearce's queue for some time, I decided I might as well have my photo taken with her while I was at it. I asked permission, and Jacqui patted the arm of her chair and said - in that voice - "Of course, darling! Come and perch!"

I was pretty smitten.

Orange: My favourite colour was always red. Then, in the summer of 1999, I acquired Oscar, my Vespa, painted in a beautiful shade of burnt metallic orange. I still think wistfully about that scooter, the first I ever owned from new.

Around the same time, I found an orange corduroy shirt in a charity shop. "I'm into orange at the moment," I told the lady behind the counter. "That means you want to be loved," she informed me.

It was very true at that time (to a certain extent, of course, it always is). Whether that's the reason orange has been part of my personal statement ever since, though, I don't know. Maybe it's just groovy.

Would anybody like five words? I can't promise they'll be terribly good ones.

June Culture

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 14:52:02 GMT

Books read:

A Spot of Bother - Mark Haddon
Dr Dolittle's Post Office - Hugh Lofting
Lois on the Loose - Lois Pryce
Slaughterhouse 5 - Kurt Vonnegut
Wilderness - Roddy Doyle

Plays seen:
none

Gigs attended:
none

Films seen at the cinema:
none

Can this really be right? I should be making amends in July on the theatre and movie fronts, anyway.

A Spot of Bother
Donated by my mum, who failed to see the humour in a retirement-age gentleman going bonkers. With youth on my side, I found it both funny and touching. The short chapters and my desire to know what happens next kept me reading just one more chapter before lights out, and snatching a few pages over meals. The characters - Mum, torn between an affair and looking after her husband; daughter having doubts on the brink of her second marriage; son trying to make up with his boyfriend - were sympathetic and believable.

Dr Dolittle's Post Office
I pounced on this in Oxfam, as it was my favourite of the Dolittle books but as far as I can recall not one I ever owned myself. I love these gentle stories about the eccentric doctor who learns animal language, and Lofting's distinctively naive illustrations. Pacifist and chubby, the Doctor is an unusual but adorable hero. In this instalment, he establishes and runs a post office for people and animals in the small African country of Fantippo - but first he has to teach the animals to write...

Lois on the Loose
I posted about attending a talk by the author - her book is an expanded version of what I heard that evening, told in the same chatty, humorous style that understates the many scary, frustrating and lonely moments.

Slaughterhouse 5
This had been on my 'must get round to' list for some time, and I wish I'd read it sooner. Funny and sad and weird and horrifying. The Second World War plus time travel. Recommended.

Wilderness
I'd tried to read Roddy Doyle several times, but found the Janet-and-John prose not to my taste. I was won over by huskies, however, and enjoyed the delight and wonder experienced by two boys and their mother as they go on a sledding holiday. Yes, it's exactly like that! I found the secondary narrative strand, in which the half-sister back at home meets the mother who left her as a toddler, unnecessary and annoying, but that might be the husky bias again.

Round Britain Rally: West Sussex

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 15:44:47 GMT

Sunday seemed a good day to pick up another localish landmark, so we set off for - *snerk* - Cocking.

In previous years I'd ridden past Biggin Hill on an airshow weekend and found only light traffic, so I saw no need to make a detour. Ha! Half an hour of queuing and filtering in blazing sun (which vanished when we hit the open road and a spot of light and warmth would have been welcome) and we were finally moving more freely.

What with this, that (a closed road and diversion onto the A22) and the other (my accidentally taking a country lane rather than the A272 at Coolham) the journey took longer than anticipated, but fortunately there was a tea shop still open for refreshments. Oh, and we found the landmark too.

Vulcan's Fire

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 14:15:00 GMT

Biggin Hill this weekend, my local airshow and always a favourite. This year Howard came with me, and his company was well worth the anxiety I always feel on such occasions about whether my companion can possibly be having as good a time as I am myself.

As far as I'm concerned it's not a proper airshow if you don't get burned, so the weather was perfect (once we'd arrived, shed the bike gear and sat down; I admit it was a shade too hot for walking around).

Although I never get tired of the Red Arrows, the Chinook, the Blue Eagles and all the rest, it was refreshing to be with someone for whom these acts were a rare treat rather than an annual ritual, and to whom I could say: look, an F-86 Sabre, they flew those in the Korean War you know!

The highlight of the show for me was seeing the mighty Vulcan XH558 in the air again at long last. A staple of my teenage airshows, it had been grounded by the crippling cost of flying and maintaining it. I must have dropped many a coin into the Trust's collecting buckets over the years, and one Christmas I bought my father sponsorship of a 'bus bar - red phase', so I felt I had a personal stake in the awesome, rumbling flight of the mothlike delta-wing. I only wish my dad could have been watching it with me; the test flights in 2007 must have been one of the last things we discussed before he died.

Towards the end of the flying display a storm brushed past us, spilling sparse but enormous drops of rain on the crowd. As is traditional at this Battle of Britain airfield, the display was closed by a single Spitfire. Between the Last Post and Jerusalem we had a couple of minutes' silence to enjoy the evocative beat of the Merlin engine; just then, as the little fighter swept down from right to left, forked lightning flashed behind it on the dark horizon. Airshow magic!

Round Britain Rally: Hertfordshire and Lincolnshire

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 10:25:12 GMT

I decided to utilise my journey Up North on Friday afternoon to bag a few landmarks. The first of these, in Hertfordshire, was just off the A10 and made easier by brown tourist signs that led me round the town and through an industrial estate. I stopped in the empty car park, took a very satisfactory photo of bike-plus-landmark, and rewarded myself with coffee from my Thermos and a Lidl hazelnut wafer thing. One down!

I set off for Lincoln next, for a landmark I was particularly anxious to cross off. Churches, ancient monuments and plaques are all very well, but hold little personal interest for me. The same cannot be said of a bloody big aeroplane. (If you know what I'm talking about, kindly hold your piece to keep me within the rules!)

Having come this far, it seemed silly not to push a little further up the country for the second Lincolnshire landmark. I found my way along little country roads, another brown sign with the symbol for a prehistoric monument pointing me down the correct path. I was underwhelmed by the landmark itself, but no matter - it was mine. And I'd had excitement enough with my large aircraft.

My final destination for the day was Leeds, and rather than backtracking along the A15 I decided to give the Humber Bridge a go.

I hadn't experienced the bridge before, and was awed when I saw it in the distance. I'm going over that? It's huge! My nerves weren't helped by an information sign flashing 'HIGH WINDS', and once on the bridge I found myself fighting to keep in a straight line. As far as I know nobody has ever actually been blown over on a motorbike, let alone lifted up in the air and flung off a bridge, but you always feel it's a possibility.

When I was able to take a look around me, however, the views across the water were well worth it. I didn't even mind forking over £1.20, though I've grown accustomed to toll bridges being free for motorcycles. From here it was an easy journey to my B&B, though filled with apprehension about the next day's riding...

Begins With A Single Footstep

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 15:05:38 GMT

I woke up on Saturday morning with swine flu. Definitely. There could be no other explanation for my shaking legs and churning stomach. I wasn't up to riding a mile down the road from my B&B to Squires Café, let alone 1000 miles around the country. The whole idea was insanity. I should just go home.

Yet somehow there I was at the start line, waiting my turn to set off among almost 200 bikes. There were BMWs and Africa Twins looking all ready for the expedition; Gold Wings like big comfy sofas; cruisers, sportsbikes and hacks - but mine was the only scooter, and I was gratified by the attention the GP800 received.

My start time was logged at 08:37, my odometer reading recorded, and I was off amidst waves and good wishes from the volunteer marshals.

There were four routes to choose from: a northern circuit around Scotland and a southern one down to Cornwall, across to Dover and back up, either of which could be done clockwise or anticlockwise. I plumped for southern anticlockwise, which would place me for the most part on roads I knew. (You can see my route as a Google Map here.)

On each route there were five mandatory stops, requiring a receipt from either a specific petrol station or any shop in the same town - as long as the town name appeared on the receipt, along with the date and time. At these compulsory stops and everywhere else we fuelled up, we had to save the receipt and record the stop on a fuel log along with the time and odometer reading.

The dark grey sky in the distance warned of heavy rain ahead on the M62 - a bad start. At the first stop, Birch Services, a dozen damp bikers huddled under the awning filling in their fuel logs. I turned south for the next target, Telford, outran the rain, and travelled cheerfully onward in the knowledge that I was making good time. A hundred miles clocked - that was one-tenth of the way. Two hundred miles - a fifth!

I was riding alone, but on the motorway I passed and was passed by plenty of other bikes whose bungeed luggage and determined-looking riders told me they were on the same mission. I kept bumping into the same group of people at the petrol stations, which made for relaxing stops as we chatted, commiserated and compared notes.

Progress was smooth and steady down the west side of England, following the M5 to its end then taking the A30 down to Cornwall. I put the distances out of my head, since to think about it too much was madness, and enjoyed the moment. I had sunshine, I had glorious views of the moors, I had the Eagles on my iPod. This was the life!

Soon after I pulled into the petrol station in Redruth, other riders began to arrive - mostly familiar faces from previous stops. There was no way out of Cornwall except the way we had come in, so three of us decided to travel together to break up the daunting dullness. I retraced my steps sandwiched between an FJR and a cruiser, enjoying the company and the moments when we all changed lane in unison to pass a car.

I had been cheered to discover that my route passed within a mile of Howard's house near Dorchester. At just over halfway, it seemed an obvious place to take a break for a couple of hours. Howard hadn't fancied the thousand-mile ride but lay in wait in a layby near Honiton so I could follow him home for a much-needed bath and pizza. I'd been on the road for just under twelve hours.

("Have a bath? I thought it was supposed to be an endurance rally!" he said when I outlined my plans. I pointed out that there was nothing in the rules to say you couldn't.)

After this welcome pit stop I started to struggle, my mood dipping with the darkening sky. I was moving away from warmth, rest and companionship. My stop had put me out of synch with the rest of the ride, so I was all alone. I couldn't find the Southampton petrol station; panicked; rang Howard at a quarter past midnight and made him fire up Google Maps; lost nearly an hour.

Fortunately I had planned my route and timings so that I did the roads I knew best during the blackest hours of the short night. Up the M3, round the M25 and slingshot back down to Dover on the M20, empty but for the occasional lorry and a few daredevil rabbits. I could do it in my sleep, and on this occasion I practically did. Fuel up at the deserted BP station by the port, my last designated waypoint, up the dark and silent M2 and through the Dartford tunnel. I'd made up a lot of time, the sky was growing lighter, and I was on the home stretch. But it's still a long way from London to Leeds.

Slog, slog, slog up the endless A1. (Google Maps had recommended the M11/A14, but I feared getting lost.) The cheery red dawn had been replaced by the kind of chilly grey cloud that means you're up far too early in an uninviting world. I had seen no other riders for nine hours and the idea that I must be running terribly late was eating away at me. Or had I, in fact, hallucinated the entire rally? Was this a dream?

I hadn't taken my earplugs out since leaving Dorchester, nor stopped for longer than it took to fill the tank/have a wee/slug down a few mouthfuls of water. The minutes were racing and the miles were crawling. I'd been up for twenty hours, twelve hours previously I'd been in Cornwall, and everything felt utterly unreal. All I had to do to make it stop was ring Paddy, the ride organiser, and pull out - but what would I do with myself then, somewhere near Peterborough at six in the morning?

At last Doncaster started appearing on roadsigns, and I knew Leeds could not lie much beyond. Perked up by this thought, I arrived at a blessed stretch of motorway and pressed on. The sun rose higher and the sky turned blue. Far sooner than I'd hoped, I was at the junction with the A63 - then taking the turning for Sherburn-in-Elmet, then indicating right to pull into Squires. The waiting marshals gave me a round of applause as I stepped off my bike, careful not to drop it at the last moment, and a huge grin cracked the grime on my face.

I'd been dreaming for hours of the comfy bed that awaited me back at the B&B, but there was so much adrenaline sloshing around my system that I only managed a brief nap before I wanted to be up and doing again. So I had lunch and headed for home - a mere couple of hundred miles.

My trip meter stood at 1121 miles. Even allowing for odometer fibbing, that's comfortably over the requirement. I am anxiously awaiting confirmation from the Iron Butt Association; I'll be upset if I'm denied my place due to a cockup with my receipts, or suspiciously high average speed on the last leg, but even if I don't enter the hallowed ranks: I did it.

File under 'Things I Have Done', and also under 'Things I Am Never Doing Again'

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 09:23:08 GMT

Ridden 1000 miles in 24 hours

What's On at the BFI

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 16:24:36 GMT

From the BFI's weekly newsletter.

Funny - I thought it was about talking mice.

Did Not Do The Research

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 10:07:37 GMT

I happened across an ad for this online RPG - set in a supermarket?

Catsitters' Club

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 16:11:28 GMT

I am temporarily resident in Bounds Green, catsitting for a colleague while he holidays in Majorca with his family. I'm greatly enjoying having the run of a four-bedroom house, a cupboard full of exciting kiddie breakfast cereals (the luxury of choice between Coco Pops Moons & Stars, Ricicles and Golden Nuggets!) and of course the cat, Jasper, who is massive, tabby and placid with a tiny nose.

I was filled in on his habits by his people before they went away: he likes to have company while he eats his dinner, then he goes out to inspect his territory, then he comes in and leans against you while you watch TV. If you are particularly favoured he'll roll over to reveal his soft underbelly.

Every evening I come in to find him waiting inside the front door with a selection of hungry mews lined up ready; I'm choosing to believe that he hears the front gate open, rather than assuming the position from mid-afternoon.

He does tend to jump on the bed at five in the morning, but when he realises that no breakfast will be forthcoming at that hour he curls up behind my knees in a very cute way.

It makes me sadder than I can say that my dysfunctionally busy lifestyle and non-ownership of my home currently prevents me from having one or more mogs of my own. Perhaps when I retire.

Round Britain Rally: East Sussex and Essex

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 13:04:20 GMT

The weekend's social engagements took me conveniently near two landmarks: on Saturday I was able to polish off East Sussex on the way to a friend's wedding anniversary bash, and Sunday's social ride with LAM left me within shooting distance of Essex.

In East Sussex I had already photographed the landmark itself, which required some relatively hardcore walking in Ashdown Forest, but I had neglected to take a photo of my bike with a local roadsign to prove I had ridden there.

The Forest is a spot I often visit if it's a nice day and I'm at a loose end. The roads are pretty, and the blanket 40mph limit no hardship when the views are so lovely. It is also the home of Winnie-the-Pooh, and the landscape is instantly recognisable from E. H. Shepard's drawings.

After taking my photo I journeyed through East Grinstead's horrid one-way system to my friend Marianne's house in Crawley Down, where I partied the afternoon and evening away with a bunch of complete strangers, their small children and a neighbour's dog who had popped in to see what was going on.

Sunday's ride was to Mersea Island. The weather was perfect for an outing to the seaside, and apart from a few annoying slow-moving cars the roads were ours. After the ride and an excellent pub lunch at the Victory I left the group at Battlesbridge and went hunting.

How hard can it be to head east along an estuary? Very, if you're me and your sense of direction is dubious. Face me with an unmarked T junction and I will always, always select the wrong fork. After several circuits of a town called Rayleigh which I hope never to visit again, I found myself back in the countryside and heading in the right direction.

At last signs for the village I wanted started to appear and I found myself passing idyllic-looking allotments. I made a classic wrong decision in the town, heading towards open country instead of down the High Street, but swiftly saw the error of my ways and U-turned.

There it was, my landmark, just outside the church! I parked the bike and took a pleasing photo.

It was tempting to press on into Wallasea Island just to see what it was like, but time was getting on and I steered reluctantly back to tangle with the Dartford Crossing.

Friday afternoon: time for my colleagues to look at dresses online

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 13:53:34 GMT

How have I reached the age of 31 without previously encountering the phrase 'bust band'?

I might have concealed my ignorance better if I hadn't immediately felt the need to shout "Dinna dinna dinna dinna BUST BAND!"

Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 07:02:46 GMT

I bought some Lidl 'herb fresh' toothpaste to see what it was like.

Like washing your mouth out with Pernod, as it happens.

Wheels

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 15:06:01 GMT

I spent the weekend at callmemadam's, during the course of which I got to drive her car.

This was not only the first time I'd driven since passing my test (and thus my first outing without L-plates) but my first go in an automatic, so it was all very exciting. Contrary to both our expectations, I enjoyed my ten minutes behind the wheel immensely.

Say what you like about small automatics - and I know many of you will - given the choice between a car that can stall and a car that can't possibly, I know which I pick.

Saddlesore 1000

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 09:53:38 GMT

I blame jiggery_pokery.

He it was who asked whether I'd ever considered doing an Iron Butt ride. At that point I hadn't even heard of the Iron Butt Association, so I had a look.

High-mileage endurance motorcycling sounded dull at best, dangerous at worst. To attain those sorts of distances in those sorts of times you need to be on motorways all the time, which is boring for the rider, costly in fuel and harsh on the machine, not to mention the ecological equivalent of pissing on a panda. Yet the idea kept niggling away at the back of my mind. Yes, I'd like to give it a go. Once. Just to see if I can.

The end result is that on June 20th I will be joining more than 200 other motorcyclists of the Royal British Legion Riders Branch for RBLR 1000: one thousand miles in 24 hours, known to the IBA as a 'Saddlesore 1000'.

Starting from Squires Cafe near Leeds, there's a northern route going into Scotland and a southerly route to Cornwall and back, either of which can be done clockwise or anticlockwise. I plan to head south - it would be exciting to travel round Scotland in a day, but I'm much more familiar with England and less likely to panic about getting lost.

The ride will raise money for the Poppy Appeal and raise awareness of the Riders Branch. Successful completion will also qualify riders as members of the Iron Butt Association.

Here's a handy button if you would like to sponsor me:

And while I'm begging, any Leeds-based chums feel like offering me a sofa?

May Culture

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 14:49:06 GMT

Books read:

Popular Music - Michael Niemi
Rushing to Paradise - J. G. Ballard
Fighter Pilot - Duff Hart-Davis and Colin Strong
Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction - Sue Townsend
Johnny and the Bomb - Terry Pratchett
Everyday Life in Ancient Rome - F. R. Cowell

Plays seen:
none

Gigs attended:
Melanie at the Jazz Café

Films seen at the cinema:
none

Popular Music
A book tagged 'The Nick Hornby of the Arctic' was bound to get my attention. Matti's coming of age in northernmost Sweden is sometimes funny, sometimes sad and sometimes gross, placing universal problems and feelings in a remote, snowbound setting.

I wish I could read this in the original and get all the dialect jokes. And that there were huskies in it, obviously. Otherwise a near-perfect read.

Rushing to Paradise
Ballard's death filled me with the urge to read some of his works, and to my great joy I found one on my sci-fi shelf I hadn't read before. This time round the dystopia is an island wildlife sanctuary turned into something more sinister by charismatic yet barking naturalist Doctor Barbara. The sights, smells and sensations are brilliantly described as always.

Fighter Pilot
In 1981 this book-of-the-TV-series was an account of contemporary life in the RAF, following six hopefuls from their initial interviews at Biggin Hill all the way to the fast jet stream. Now it's a fascinating document of a time when war with Russia was a constant threat and you had to wear a collar and tie in the Officers' Mess. Bonus unintentional LOLs are the cadet named Al Stewart and the description of nuclear test drills in West Germany in which hooters go off at the base: 'there are hooters at the Married Quarters too'. I bet there are.

Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction
Reliably funny. Nitpick, though: surely Adrian's teacher wasn't actually called Miss Elf in the original secret diaries? I thought this was a nickname based on her love of pixie boots.

Johnny and the Bomb
More from Johnny Maxwell, a boy who worries too much and has extraordinary things happen to him. These two facts may be connected. Pratchett has succeeded in writing a children's book that touches on moral and philosophical issues while being funny and tense, but I still like Only You Can Save Mankind best of the trilogy.

Everyday Life in Ancient Rome
Some years ago, purple_pen kindly made me a list of useful books about, well, everyday life in Ancient Rome, which I have subsequently mislaid. Perhaps if I ask nicely she will make me another one?

It's noticeable how books about Rome reflect the interests and prejudices of the age in which they were written - so, in Cowell's book, Roman women stay at home doing housework 'just as they do in our day'.

Round Britain Rally: Buckinghamshire and Berkshire

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 11:30:11 GMT

Saturday was a glorious day, and my mesh summer kit got its first outing of the year. I filtered past the queues on the A21 and hit the M25 with R.E.M. on the iPod Shuffle and the breeze like a cold shower against my skin.

I left the motorway at the M40 junction and took A roads through Beaconsfield. It was a straightforward route and I found my landmark on the second pass - it was rather overgrown, and sitting back from the road in the shadows.

The convenience of a landmark right at the side of a main road was offset by the inconvenience of taking a photo without getting run over, but I managed it and made it to the outskirts of Windsor only a couple of minutes late for my meeting with scooter forum chum Big Ears.

I had suggested we meet for a cuppa when I came by to collect the Berkshire landmark, and he promptly offered a personal escort to the spot. This turned out to be highly necessary: without a native guide, I might still be circling Windsor's one-way system. Instead, I was led to within inches of my target, and then we had an ice cream. Another successful mission!

Lay It On Down

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 17:02:55 GMT

On Friday I added to my collection of Woodstock performers, bagging Melanie at the Jazz Café. If only I'd been around over the Bank Holiday weekend I could have snapped up Johnny Winter too - I expect he'll pass this way again soon.

I went knowing only the drippy-dippy 'Lay Down (Candles In The Rain)', inspired by Woodstock and epitomising everything that people who hate hippies hate about hippies, and 'Brand New Key', once banned for supposed sexual content and best known nowadays thanks to the Wurzels' pastiche 'Combine Harvester'.

The support act was a nice young Latin American-looking man, who came on stage and told us he'd be doing four pieces, and this was a new technique he'd developed on a car journey to New York, he thought it was, and he didn't think anyone had ever played like this before, and it was very exciting...and then his manager called over "Beau? You should tell them you're Melanie's son."

"Oh, yeah. Hi, I'm Melanie's son!"

We cheered.

He played four classical pieces very well, ending by playing his guitar while holding it above his head, then we waited for his ma to appear.

Melanie had a shirt covered in tiny mirrors, a glittery hairband, and wonderful hair like a Bearded Collie. Her voice is powerful and deep, very different nowadays from the squeaking high notes of 'Brand New Key', but not too tuneful, and she sounds strangely like Marlene Dietrich when she sings though not at all when speaking.

Perhaps because I'm not really a fan, I wasn't wowed by the material or the singing; in fact only my dedication to Project Woodstock kept me there beyond the interval. Frankly, she lost me when she declared "They used to call me the female Bob Dylan...well, maybe Bob Dylan was the male Melanie." WRONG.

I did enjoy, and how proud they seemed of each other. I always like to hear tales of the sixties, too, so on the whole I enjoyed the spoken interludes more than the music - especially her impression of how a fictionalised movie of her life would go, complete with nervous breakdown live onstage: "And I'm going no, Sid, let go (there's always a Sid) - I'm fine, Sid, I just want to be with my friends - and it could happen tonight, this could be the night!"

In spite of myself, I grudgingly liked singing "Lay down, lay down, lay it on down. Let your white birds smile at the ones who stand and frown" with the rest of the crowd at the end (though not as much as I relished doing the Fish Cheer with Country Joe). I was only sorry that, modern fire regulations being what they are, we couldn't actually have candles.

Round Britain Rally: Flintshire, Wrexham, Denbighshire, Shropshire

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 15:16:24 GMT

There was still time to pick up more landmarks on the return journey from Heswall on Bank Holiday Monday. At the first of these, not far from Chester, I had to wait my turn to take my photo - for the very first time, I'd run into someone else doing the Rally! We chatted for a while about where we'd been and where we had yet to go, then set off in different directions for our respective next targets.

The second port of call was the landmark near Wrexham I had wimped out of pursuing on Friday. As it turned out, it was trivially easy to spot ('trivially' there being a hilarious Latin pun, since the landmark was situated at a crossroads)

Next we went tantalisingly close to the Horseshoe Pass, but with too many miles to cover to enjoy its delights. As I stopped to consult a tourist information board, a helpful hiker asked what I was looking for and pointed out my landmark, sticking up most obviously in the middle of a nearby field.

Having mopped up three landmarks in a couple of hours, we stopped for a service station cheese sandwich in high spirits.

Things went slightly off-track in the afternoon. Our landmark was near the town of Clun, reached by unclassifieds and B-roads, but I wasn't sure exactly where. Plus it was raining. I asked a friendly local and was directed down a very lovely B-road back into Wales. The car park was exactly where he had described, but it was the wrong car park for my landmark. We backtracked to a different parking spot, negotiated some horrific potholey gravel which nearly had me off, then gamely walked half a mile uphill. After all this fuss, we were jolly well going to find what we had come for.

It looked for a while as if we were going to return empty-handed, as the trail we were following seemed bereft of landmarks. Then Howard detoured into a muddy field full of sheep, and there it was, hidden away behind the trees!

Returning to the car park, I made sure to take a photo of my bike next to a signpost, proving as per the rules that I had actually ridden to the spot. Then we headed for Severn services by the sat-nav's alleged most direct route.

All this left me the wrong side of the Severn Bridge at 7PM, which made for a later arrival home than I'd envisaged. But at least I wrung the very last drops out of my Bank Holiday weekend.

Round Britain Rally: Cheshire, Derbyshire, Barnsley, Greater Manchester, Lancashire and Merseyside

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Fri, 29 May 2009 16:17:52 GMT

I've noticed in my research that there are four landmarks clustered round the Peak District National Park, which looks like a pretty nice day's riding to me. We leave the motorway and almost immediately find ourselves on steep and winding country roads with a view of hills, lakes and sheep. Stopping at junctions on slopes makes me nervous, since if the ground is less than level my feet won't touch it, but we make it to our first landmark without mishap. Another contestant has obviously passed this way, because I notice a dropped earplug on the ground.

As soon as I stop and park dozens of cars and bicycles appear on the quiet, narrow road, but miraculously the way clears for me to turn my scooter round, which in a road of this breadth I can only achieve with a three-point turn.

Today's route fortuitously takes us along both the Cat and Fiddle and the Snake Pass, which must have been a deliberate move by the rally organiser. Landmark 2 for the day is situated behind a pub, and we reach it just in time for a refreshing glass of something - the day is sunny and almost too hot off the bike, but lovely on it.

I bless the sat-nav again as we are taken to a crossroads in the middle of nowhere, without the benefit of signs. Two of the roads are farm tracks, and there's no sign of our landmark on the one we've come up...wait, what's this, set back from the road and almost covered by bushes? I'm so excited by this success that I step in a cowpat.

It feels like teatime. We make a detour along yet another lovely road, miles of straight followed by downhill swoops, for a couple of hours in the splendid company of sloopjonb (eheu!), C. and Mia-dog.

There are still several hours of light left, and we hop on the motorway to bagsy the Lancashire landmark, which is in the middle of a roundabout just off one of the junctions. We find our quarry without any problems, then I spend ten minutes setting up my photo. I must confess, I don't have the kind of mind that's good at working out where my bike and I need to be for the perfect shot with everything in it.

The last landmark of the day is in Formby-by-Sea, and if we'd reached it any later my photo would have been too dark to use. We hightail it out of the badlands through the Mersey Tunnel, and test Howard's theory that any journey from one point on the Wirral to another takes exactly twenty minutes.

We're a few minutes under.

Round Britain Rally: Warwickshire, Staffordshire, Shropshire and the West Midlands

agent99@dryden.co.uk — Fri, 29 May 2009 15:04:17 GMT

The wedding on the Wirral provided an excellent base to collect some Round Britain Rally landmarks, and we made a start on Friday once I'd collected Howard at Cherwell Valley services.

Our route meant that we ended up going through the middle of Coventry just in time for everyone to leave school and the middle of Birmingham just in time for everyone to leave work, but all the filtering was worth it because we gained a whopping four landmarks.

The first of these was a short walk along a canal from the nearest road, enlivened by watching two narrowboats sort out which of them got to pass under the bridge first while a moorhen paddled frantically out of their way.

Our second landmark was a tourist attraction with its own car park, but we had difficulty finding the structure itself due to dense surrounding foliage. Number Three was located in the middle of a roundabout and so vast I spotted it from almost a mile away - the difficulty here was finding a safe place to park so I could take a photo of it and my bike.

At last we left the ring roads and suburbs and rode out into the country in the direction of Sutton Maddock. We missed the signpost for the hamlet we wanted - it had obviously been designed for a time when traffic passed very, very slowly in a horse and cart - and doubled back to find a leafy, single-track road leading up to a church. Hurrah!

Even if a landmark is easy to find, getting off the bike, setting up the shot and taking a photo eats up time - and often they're not easy to find. Over gammon and chips just inside Wales, with half an hour's light remaining and another landmark in the area, I pleaded enough. We made rapid progress up the motorway and the twisty B-road into Heswall.

We arrived at our hotel dead beat at past ten o'clock to find a live band in full swing and the bar full of the local youth. But it would have taken more than a few dozen drunk teenagers to keep us from our well-earned pints.