25. BICYCLES I HAVE KNOWN (continued)...

I got my last road bike a few years after the demise of the bike purchased with the proceeds of my fairly short lived paper run that itself replaced the one stolen by the vicious roaming street gangs of Sydney’s upper North Shore.

For those not familiar with Sydney I should perhaps make it clear that the vicious roaming street gangs of Sydney’s upper North Shore were neither vicious, roaming or deserving of the descriptor ‘gang’ when compared to almost any other group of youths up to and including a mildly mischievous scout pack.

But they still stole my bike dammit.

In what should possibly be a warning given my current plans, I had intended to strip down the replacement bicycle then repaint and rebuild it, but gave up after 3 attempts to strip the paint failed miserably and I couldn’t figure out how to remove the cranks. I’m sure that will not be a problem this time as my current frame is already beautifully painted, does not require the removal of anything and unlike 1987 I now have the limitless ‘how to’ resource that is YouTube.

It was a grey Miyata that I purchased for I think about $500.00 (a record for me at the time) from a bike shop in Thornleigh. It got quite the work out. For starters, this was a period in my life when I was out of school and lacking a vehicle for at least some of the time so it was pretty much the go to option.

It went with me to Canberra (where I spent a very hectic 12 months failing to be moulded into a leader of men) a town wonderfully suited to travel on a bike given its outstanding flatness and nice wide roads.

Once it became clear to me that I was perhaps not suited at that time in my life to being an officer in the Royal Australian Army (helped along by my Commanding Officer’s blunt assessment that I was deficient in 13 out of 13 Leadership Qualities....and don’t ask me what they were because I cannot remember....maybe one was memory related?) and I resigned, it ended up in the shed for a couple of years while I plied my trade as a motorbike courier.

As brilliant as that job was (and it was pretty good), inevitably, a combination of gentle parental questioning (‘Yes, but it’s not really a career is it?) and the steady mechanical decline of my motorbike, led to the inescapable conclusion that a proper job should at some point be worked towards. For reasons I am still not entirely clear on (but that may have had something to do with girls) that job turned out to be Nursing.

The motorbike made it about 6 months into my first year of Uni before it bought the farm and it was back on the (push) bike for me.

Totally lacking my own motorised transport and a good 20kms from the University, this was my first Golden Age of riding. Even when I took the train for part of it I was getting in 10 or so kilometres a day (or walking it). Up and down the Pacific Highway in really quite serious traffic, I could not be stopped (including quite a few occasions, possibly involving University levels of alcohol when I really should have been).

It was a good bike. The first that I paid for entirely by myself. And it served me well.

I feel kind of guilty therefore that I have absolutely no idea what happened to it.

Next: Round bits. Seaty Bits.

24. GAME ON BABY...

I shall speak glowingly of Stanton Bikes one more time - So the money went through, my highly rated Top Aussie Dollars changed through the magic of the international banking system into English Pounds (though inevitably I didn’t get quite what I thought I should of got – dirty thieving bankers) and mere days later the box containing my new frame was sitting waiting for pick up at the delightful Wollombi General Store all shiny and new. Impressive.

The next time you are looking to purchase an obscure niche bicycle frame from another country as opposed to simply popping into a shop and buying one with all the bits attached you would do a lot worse than give Dan at Stanton Bikes a call....email....whatever.

As an added bonus, my daughter seems to have moved into the box in which the frame arrived, allowing me to rent out her room to a student (who has a car that can cope with our driveway and doesn’t mind driving for 2 hours to the nearest University).

Of course sitting it on my lap and gazing at it for hours on end, while entertaining up to a point, will I suppose, get boring sooner or later. Which means I’ll have to start attaching bits to it in order to increase its usefulness as a form of transport. Wheels might be useful for instance. And handlebars (possibly some brake levers to mount on them). 

But not just yet.

So pretty.....

It's blue. It's white. It's fairly light.

Check it out. In case I crash and sustain a memory crippling concussion in the process, they have written the name of the bike in lovely running writing on the side. Brilliant.

A thing of beauty. Now all I need is a bottom bracket to put in there through which I can place a crankset and some pedals on that and a chain around the chain ring and muahahahahahaha! Sorry. 

23. EVER SO SLIGHTLY MORE ASS.....

The play is over. And now I am sad. Fairly surprising, considering the idea of partaking in amateur theatre up to this point in my life was, well...not. Our last performance was Saturday night and I’d have to say it went really well. Sunday....and as it turned out Monday...and a bit of Tuesday I suspect, was pull the whole thing apart day(s) (‘bump out’ in theatre speak - because you wouldn’t want to just say ‘pack up’ or people might know what the hell you were talking about) and as I say – the whole thing was quite melancholy. Over a two week amateur production.

Ridiculous. 

Except that this illustrates something I have felt for some time really quite nicely. See, it used to confuse me that I could get so very wrapped up in something like a 5^th Grade Suburban Rugby game (let alone semis and Grand Finals). To the point where I would quite happily put my level of nervous excitement immediately prior to running on for a Grand Final on a par with any top level athlete prior to whatever big game he or she is suiting up for. This is ludicrous, barmy and mental.

But of course it’s not.

Because, be it the 5^th Grade Grand Final or the local amateur production of a locally written and produced play about lying goats and gold crapping donkeys, I am fully invested in either. It’s really nice if you guys give a hoot about them also, and it’s entirely choice when the punters turn up to cheer, but it’s certainly not a pre-requisite as far as I’m concerned. 

This is why hobbies work and why, thank Christ, quite a lot of people still strap on the boots themselves on a Saturday or Sunday morning instead of letting out an exasperated ‘screw this’ and plonking themselves in front of the TV to watch the professionals run around while they load up on beer and fried carbs (mmmm fried carbs). Because if I can only be bothered doing something at the highest level then I’m frankly not going to be doing much of anything at all. And neither would anyone else.

Moving this discussion back to cycling (finally). I am fully aware that I will not be performing any back flips in the near or distant future (barring the development of some age rewinding treatment we have as yet not been made privy to), and as fast I can grind up the hill towards Finchley Trig (think of a hill, multiply that hill by another hill then add a hill) there are 5 or 6 people I run across on a daily basis who would make me look like I was standing still on it. But that’s fine. Because as long as I’m being honest with myself and pushing myself forward I can feel entirely comfortable with the whole thing.

So good on you Cadel Evans with your outrageous hill climbing ability and 0% body fat, I will continue to grind my own way up my own, slighter less high than the Alps, hills, and do so unapologetically.

NEXT: It's here.

22. GOLDEN ASS – FULL (KIND OF) REVIEW.....

I say full review, but of course I did not see a good half of the play on account of being hidden in the dark waiting to go one for my own bits -‘waiting in the dark waiting to go on for my own bits’ I should mention, is now quite high on my official list of ‘things that make me feel warm and cozy’.

I heard all of it though, even from back stage, which means at the very least every one was speaking clearly enough, which in itself is something you wouldn’t have got very good odds on early in the piece. In fact, you wouldn’t have got very good odds on very much at all if you’d passed the hat around after the 1^st or 2^nd (or possibly even the 10^th) rehearsal.

Which makes it even more awesome that it turned out so.....awesome.

There is going to be some bias from this point on. There will also be no names – which is unfair to a lot of people who do in fact have names and certainly deserve to have them associated with all the nice things I am about to say – but I still have not forgotten that this Blog is on that internet thingy and that anyone and his dog can read what is on the aforementioned internet (assuming the dog is several orders of magnitude smarter than my own dog who is even as I type barking furiously at some wallaby she cannot see and very possibly does not even exist) which means a modicum of circumspection is warranted.

I was going to change the names but it would just confuse Mary (name changed) when I changed her name to Amy (name never existed) or Amethyst (name from Nimbin)....so I didn’t.

In no particular order then.

WRITING AND DIRECTION: It’s easy to underplay the importance of this kind of thing I suspect, but without both being firmly in place I suspect you can put Meryl Streep on the stage and it’s still going to end up pants. In this case the script was particularly well suited to providing parts suitable for everything from the kid who walked on and off without saying anything, to quite long and involved speeches for the more heavily invested. It also played equally well to the adults and kids who turned up to watch it (according to the people I spoke to) which is no mean feat.

THE SET: The construction of sets is one of the things I always liked most about going to the theatre and this one was a doosy. In one quite small area they managed to build a house, a pub, a hill (including a path down from the hill) and locations for 3 different tradesmen to school the three daughters after they had been framed by the goat and unfairly kicked out of home. There were hinges and swinging bits and lifting bits and turn this bit into a different bit by moving this bit...bits. It was brilliant.

THE CREW (INCLUDING KID WRANGLERS): There were a lot of kids involved in the play....a lot. Some of them had the attention span of....well....kids. Despite this, the Team of adults (and I specifically include the two lads, still at school, who were on the crew and performed brilliantly throughout) tasked with getting them on and off, at the right time, into the right bit of light, with enough food in them to stave off hypoglycaemic collapse, in the right clothes AND then off again in reverse order, did it all without incident and without flinging any of the children off the set’s many quite high bits (though I suspect some were at times tempted).

Add to that all the usual bits and pieces that have to be done to make something like this work (catering, tickets, PR, set up, clean up, bar and on and on and on). The term ‘amateur’ starts to seem more than a little inaccurate.

My particular apologies to the 'Costume Genius' for the unprovoked head whacking she got on the last night (though to be fair she totally stepped into it Your Honour...)

THE KIDS: I have a suspicion that kids fall into one of two camps when it comes to involvement in drama. They either will not touch it with a ten foot barge pole or they are totally into it – like our lot. So while there were many issues involved with the management of so much underage talent, nerves did not seem to be one of them.....even when it sometimes should have been. They were fearless, enthusiastic and talented and if you ever get a chance to tap into some of that you would be an idiot not to take it.

THE (SLIGHTLY YOUNGER) ADULTS: There were a couple of the....youth participants, who would no doubt hit me repeatedly over the head with a stick if they thought I was describing them as kids. So I won’t. I say to (insert name), (insert name) and let’s not forget (insert name) – you guys were tops.

THE (SLIGHTLY OLDER) KIDS: There were only 3 adults in the play. Both the other two had a lot more experience at this than I have and made it a lot easier for me to say yes when I was asked if I wanted to be in it. The old warning goes – ‘Do not work with children or animals (or children dressed as animals)’ – we laugh at the fear and scoff openly at the risk.

MY WIFE AND CHILD: Not only let me do it, but did so with enthusiasm (barring some impatience from my 7 year old on the subject of stupid accents). And it took up a lot of time. Sorry about that.

As I say – amateur doesn’t really cut it.

NEXT: Something slightly less self indulgent?

21. IN WHICH I RIDE AN ASS...NO WAIT...THAT SOUNDS BAD.

Everyone can relax. It appears the Slovakian Mafia will have to finance its nefarious activities without my assistance. (Confused? Shame on you for not reading my previous post). Dan has emailed me back to tell me he got my cash and the bike is in the mail. The frame of the bike anyway....and he has claimed that he has sent me a 13” Pink Girls Bike...which I assumed was a joke on account of the smiley face but have you ever noticed how sinister those things start to look after you stare at them for a few minutes. Less of a ‘smiley face’ and more of a ‘maniacally cackling face’. See. I’m nervous again now.

Anyway...

In totally un-bike related matters – I have been in a play called ‘The Golden Ass’. The first play I have been in since 1985 in fact. Yes, I am aware this Blog is called ‘In Which I Ride A Bike’ not 'In Which I Massively Inflate My Own Ego In A Play' but hell, it’s my Blog and I can write what I want in it. I could attempt to make some kind of tenuous link between getting in a play after 28 years and getting back into riding but that would be, as I have already noted, tenuous...so I won’t.

Short synopsis – Lying goat gets innocent children kicked out of home by abusive goat obsessed Father. Children make good through application, hard work and the Fairyland TAFE system. Magical severance packages are distributed. Intelligent talking Goat gets whacked and eaten in an act of bloody revenge.

So it’s a kid’s play.

And it’s been a hoot. Almost like playing a Grand Final every night but I know I’m not going to need an x-ray afterwards and barring a fuck up of truly awesome proportions it’s impossible to lose.

There are, granted, some plot issues – The magical gifts granted to the three daughters seem quite powerful given they are crafted by otherwise unremarkable tradesmen (unremarkable except for the fact that they are played by me) and the Golden Ass’s ability to both vomit AND defecate gold seems like it might be an issue from an inflationary point of view.

Likewise, the idea that 3 young females might be able to successfully get and complete apprenticeships in Medieval Europe in a trade other than that of dutiful wife or concubine seems to fly in the face of most contemporary depictions of that era vis a vis the plight of women in what was an oppressive patriarchal system....

Also, the Goat can talk. And none of the characters remark on this AT ALL.

Thanks very much to Craig and Robyn for talking me into it.

NEXT: Is it here yet? Is it here yet?

20. DOLLARS AWAAAAAAY...

Woot. So I finally collapsed and sent off the cash for the frame I have had sitting in Stanton Bikes warehouse (in my head it’s a warehouse like at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark – more likely it’s been taking up space in their tea room in such a way as to cause all the employees to curse my name as they try to make a cup of tea around it) for the last couple of months.

At least I hope I sent off the cash. I never realised just how many different numbers and menu screens are involved in the seemingly simple task of transferring cash from one English speaking country to another English speaking country (England in fact – arguably the most Englishiest speaking of all the English speaking countries).

What the fuck is an IBAN number anyway? You may consider that a rhetorical question. I did know what an IBAN number was at about 0800 this morning when I transferred the money – there was a long, veeeery detailed pop up box that gave me the full story. Very interesting it was. I could not of course tell you right now what an IBAN number is if you held a gun to my head and threatened to pour a box of those really angry red ants down my trousers.

While I am confident in my ability to follow onscreen instructions, I was still dubious enough to email the nice people at Stanton Bikes to let them know I had sent it and could they please be nice enough to email me back when they get it...or if they don’t. Just so I can silence the niggling feeling that I got one of the 875 account numbers wrong and accidently sent my 400 odd pounds to some Slovakian Drug gang (assuming Slovenia does drug gangs).

I also made a polite request for details on their planned means of delivery on account of the difficulties many couriers have finding our house given that our street address - while perfectly legal and clearly on the data bases of all the various Government organisations seeking to levy charges on me for everything from the protection of my (non-existent) livestock from Ecuadorian Sheep Blight to the possible inspection, if we feel like it, but probably not, unless it’s at the most inconvenient time for you, of our septic system – does not seem to appear on any maps held by anyone else.

We have an A4 page of very explicit instructions we send out to anyone who is seeking to locate our house and even then, most of the time I swear the despatch guys use them to wipe their arses on. I can only assume there is some kind of McCoy/Hatfield (look it up) style, multi-generational delivery company feud going on between the drivers and whoever it is we send the instructions to. One of these guys dropped off a pair of shoes I ordered at the local wine bar once and the only reason I got them at all was the staff happened to remember it when I dropped in to get some milk.  

I’m sure it’ll all go perfectly fine.

NEXT: Golden Ass My Arse.....

19. AND CHECK THIS OUT. THE BASTARD EVEN PEDDLES FOR YOU....

Given that at least in part this Blog documents my movement towards buying a new bike largely on the grounds that my current one has been overtaken by technological advances (overtaken and then lapped.....and then lapped again....but this time with attendant rude and belittling jokes) what I am about to say may, I am prepared to admit, come off as slightly hypocritical.

I was reading an article today in one of this country’s leading Mountain Bike magazines, that was discussing some of the technological advances we can expect, or are already seeing applied, to the bikes presented to us for purchase by the Industry. All very appropriate. It is, I would say, the job of such a magazine to keep me appraised of exactly this kind of stuff. But then it started to talk about some things that gave me pause.

Electronic gear shifting. Hydrostatic suspension control. On the fly tyre pressure control. Remote controlled nanotech seat integral buttock massagers.....ok, I’m not certain that last one was in there. All being spoken about as if it was an entirely positive thing. I guess I can kind of understand it from a ‘gee whiz, isn’t that shiny’ kind of thing but seriously, how far do you take it.

Don’t get me wrong. I ski (and would ski a lot more were it even remotely responsible from a budgetary point of view) and the idea of walking up the hill with my skis so I can ski down it again is frankly insane. Chairlifts – top idea. And like I said – I’m totally down for better forks, bars, brakes and the idea of gears that don’t decide to change themselves just as I’m heading up a really big fuck off hill is just peachy.

But assuming you’re not cycling purely as a form of cheap transport - and let’s face it, anyone owning a bike with this kind of stupidly expensive, cutting edge stuff on it, is hardly going to be locking it up outside the train station while they zip off to the office for the day - then isn’t a large part of the ‘thing’ here to take a fairly basic tool then apply your own talent to it to do things you would not otherwise be able to do.

I’m not saying it’s not tricky. But take Downhill bikes as an example. Make them really strong to take the hits. Give them bullet proof suspension to soak up the bumps. Better wear a whole lot of motocross gear for when you hit that bump a little too hard and end up on your arse though. Of course now they’re so heavy you have to stick ‘em in a car or on a chairlift to get up the hill again (don’t laugh – it’s pretty well accepted in the biking community).

Or.

Just get a motorbike. Ride up the hill. Go just as fast down it. Probably won’t cost all that more either.

Just doesn’t feel entirely. Right.

NEXT: Blarrrgh.

18. WHY I WILL NEVER SURF....

Beyond the fact that I look less than flattering in a wetsuit.....or boardies....or anything beach related for that matter. Insert jokes about whales being rolled back into the ocean etc. Very funny.

I have a fear right, of appearing not competent. Which is different in my mind to being incompetent. When you’re incompetent you more or less know you’re going to be bloody hopeless at something before you get into it. That is of course, if you have any insight into your own abilities at all – something the perennially incompetent lack almost by definition.

Like dancing for instance. I am fully aware that I am an incompetent dancer. Something I tried to point out to the directors of The Golden Ass (‘Family friendly COMEDY HIT of the School Holidays! Tickets on sale NOW at your local Wine Bar and General Store!) without success. Awkward does not even come close to describing it. I’d rather do nude runs through the snow than dance – at least then the punters are laughing WITH me.

Appearing NOT competent is a more complicated issue. See, I reckon I might have been good at surfing if I had started early enough. I do have balance and have always liked the t-shirt as a clothing mainstay. It’s fine to be arse at something when you’re a kid – it’s expected even. When you’re 45 there is an expectation (in my head at least) that you should have sorted out that kind of stuff years ago. My concern is looking stupid for whatever period it takes me to get good enough that people stop posting videos of you on YouTube.

In the case of surfing I, perhaps unfortunately, had this confirmed a couple of years ago when a group of us had a surfing lesson on the NSW Central Coast. The board they gave me was big enough to have a 4 person, sit down dinner party on. I sank that bastard like it was the Titanic. In the hour long lesson, held in massive 21cm swell, I managed to get vertical once, for exactly the amount of time it took me fall immediately into the ocean.

The problem with this particular character flaw, is it does tend to stop you trying new things that might turn out to be fun.

Recent case in point – I never realised that there are trails specifically built and maintained, to ride mountain bikes on, less than an hour from where I live. I passed a network of them every time I went to work for 6 years. Not fire trails or dirt roads either. These things have loops and jumps and berms and all the good stuff that is frankly more interesting than kilometres and kilometres of wide and boring fire trail or road. Brilliant.

So when I found out about this, did I race immediately down there and start riding on them. Not at all. What I did, was drive by about a dozen times, deliberately identifying a time when I could be almost certain no one else would be there so I could have a go at it without anyone else seeing me make an arse of myself.

Cause I’m an idiot.

I finally had a go last week and it was a hoot. I even, as previously mentioned, had a very nice stack. I could however, have been having a go at it AND having a hoot for at least two months now. As I say – character flaw. 

Maybe I should try dancing.....

NEXT: Diggity.

17. LETS TALK ZLOTY’S

I guess sooner or later this thing is going to cost me some money. So far my expenditure has been limited to the magazines that I’ve been consuming with gusto and the $80 deposit I put on the frame I have chosen as the one around which I hope to build an impressively functioning trail eating machine....current mechanical knowledge deficits notwithstanding.

But as I say, unless I plan to use the bare frame as some kind of spectacularly un-aerodynamic dirt toboggan, I’m going to have to invest in stuff like wheels and handlebars and seats and brakes and Jesus, when you write it all down (which I have - here) it’s really quite a lot of shit.

On a side note. You know your mid-life crisis is ticking all the boxes when you start to use words like ‘invest’ about things which in no way represent anything you will EVER make any financial return on EVER.

One of the upsides to the path I have chosen to go along (buy a frame and build a bike) is that I manage to spread the pain over a longer period. Like the plucky British POW’s digging a tunnel and distributing the dirt by the pocketful under the noses of their Nazi guards (and if you don’t know what I’m talking about here then shame on you, you undereducated philistine) I can hopefully fool even myself into thinking that ‘Wow that only cost $50....and $75....and $35 (but I’ve already forgotten about the first $50 – see how the delusional mind works).

I have been sensible enough to work out that I’m not going to end up spending ridiculously more than if I just went out and purchased a bike off the rack....I’m not stupid....and the extra level of customisation I get to indulge in, as well as the joy of finishing up with something reasonably unique that I built myself, in my mind at least, more than compensates for any extra financial cost (again – the delusional mind at work).

Alternatively I could keep riding what I have, pick a third world country and buy a whole lot of wells or seeds or fishing rods to teach people to fish....so they have food for a lifetime...assuming they have rivers with fish in them as opposed to chemicals from the local multi-national conglomerate’s fertiliser factory which is pretty much a dead certainty so I’d just be wasting that money right?

Again....the delusional thing.....

NEXT: Why I will never take up surfing....

17. SHOPPING LIST....

Special bonus post (which is why it’s appearing on a Tuesday night instead of on the usual release schedule) – Below is a list of the bits and pieces that I need to get to build a complete bike.  As I get the bits it is my plan to expand on the basic descriptions that you will find below....so I guess this post could get pretty big.....stay tuned.

FRAME

Stanton Slackline 853

CHAINSET/DRIVETRAIN

Crankset

Chain Device

Pedals

Bottom Bracket (BB)

Rear Mech

Cassette

Shifters

Chain

WHEELS

Front

Back

STEERING

Forks

Grips

Stem

Headset

Handlebars

BRAKES

Front

Rear

Rotors

THE SITTING DOWN ON IT BIT

Seatpost

Saddle

Seatclamp

16. IN WHICH I STACK MY BIKE....

Stack. Such a descriptive word.  I had this stack once. I was at a mate’s house, this was when I was still young enough that my friends were determined by who my parents happened to be hanging out with....which may or may not be relevant....whatever. They lived in a dead end (cul de sac for the upmarket) with a big hill leading down into it that was really excellent for riding bikes or scooters down. Apart from the small issue of stopping room.

On the afternoon of the stack, we were riding scooters, which back then had inflatable tires and were a fair bit larger than the shiny metal affairs the kids get around on these days. Quite fast also. To brake these things, you simply stamped on a piece of metal that rubbed against the rear wheel and consequently slowed you down. I have a distinct memory of being catapulted over the handle bars of a scooter that had brakes that worked a bit too effectively on one occasion.

The reverse however, was the issue on that day. I think the tyre may have been a bit flat so the piece of metal didn’t push hard enough against the rubber...or something. Faced with the rapidly approaching curve of the dead end’s gutter I bailed out, ran about 3 steps, stumbled, and slid along on my guts for what I am sure was about 3 kms, removing a fair amount of skin in the process. I did that crying thing that kids do where they keep trying to breath in, and in, and in and then......everything gets very loud.

The other day I went for ride on an actual bike trail at Ourimbah (as opposed to the dirt roads and fire trails I have ridden on so far) and had the first honest to goodness stack I have had for quite some time.

I was riding along this beautifully crafted trail that wound through the bush down on the valley floor feeling very pleased with myself and thinking - ‘Oh this is what they mean by trail riding. This is brilliant. I’m going to do more of this.’ - when my bar end hooked itself around a small tree. Then I was on the ground and my arse was hurting quite a lot.

 

This is a bar end. I like them because they give you more options for hand positioning and because they make climbing hills a lot easier. I had read that they can hook passing trees while riding trails and was dubious. This situation is now rectified.

Nothing broken. Quite a sore arse. It was fantastic. Like when you play footy and get a cut or a slightly black eye and you get to go to work with it just to remind people how hard and tough you are. Plus I’ve ridden two wheeled transport enough to know that sooner or later you WILL take a fall off it. So when it happens and you get to reset the probability counter without breaking anything serious it’s all for the good (and yes, I am aware that that is not how probability works).

Of course it did occur to me that I hadn’t told anyone I was going to engage in this kind of stupidity and could therefore have lain on the ground for quite a long time waiting in considerable discomfort had I injured more than my right butt cheek so I may take that into account next time.

And there will be a next time.

NEXT: I don’t know. It’s all out of order now....

15. IN WHICH I RIDE A (MOTOR)BIKE...

Risky move this, on the part of my wife - giving me a ride on a motorbike for my last birthday. Not entirely unlike dropping in on your friend who used to have the really serious drug habit to suggest – ‘I know you’ve been off the gear for 20 years but check out this baggie of Guatemalan Brown Beetle Sugar (or whatever the (drug addicted) kids are calling it these days) I’ve got for you –what could possibly go wrong?’

I rode motorbikes for a few years in the late 80’s until the upward line mapping my last bikes repair costs crossed the decidedly downward line mapping my available cash reserves and it ended up getting sold. I wasn’t that cut up about it at the time. The constant mechanical issues had me more than ready to push the thing over a cliff and I probably thought I’d go bikeless for a couple of years, get a job and upgrade to something more in line with my manly, rugged and individualist image.

Got a Corolla instead. Which was very reliable and all, but not exactly Tom Cruise racing an F14 down a runway to Kenny Loggins (I wonder what would happen these days if the US military spotted a helmetless lunatic racing along beside an F14 on a motorcycle).

The ride my wife got me was with a local outfit called Time Travellers (THIS is a link to their website).  They provide bikes (and all the stuff you need to not die riding a bike) to people like me who still have a licence (can you believe I am still licenced to ride a motorbike despite not having swung my leg over one for about 15 years? How insane is that?) but for whatever reason are without the means to ride.

Quick disclaimer – I have not been paid in any way shape or form for the following.

What a hoot. And that was with the rain pissing down on us for most of the ride. Christ knows how much fun it would have been if the weather had been nice. They were even able to provide me with all the gear I needed , including waterproof pants that actually kept my nuts dry and a helmet that I was able to fit my massive melon into (I went to buy an Akubra once – they had to go ‘Out The Back’ to the ‘Special Storeroom’ to get one big enough).

I was I admit, a little worried given my long layoff, but it turned out that riding a motorbike is a lot more ‘just like riding a bike’ than riding a pushbike was (though I did have to be reminded to turn off my indicators on more than one occasion). Plus – totally didn’t die in a horrible and tragic accident that would have left my wife crippled with guilt for the rest of her life.

Cannot recommend it highly enough. For a limited time only use this entirely non-existent bonus offer code (       ) or mention my name when booking for a party of between 17.00567 and 17.006798 on a day ending with a ‘Q’ and Milly or Arthur will give you absolutely nothing off the usual very competitive price.

NEXT: In which I stack my bike....

14. WEAR AND TEAR.....

See what that is. That’s a picture of my very nearly worn out back tyre. Do you have any idea how long it is since I’ve had to replace a bicycle tyre because it wore out. I had to replace the tyres that were on it when I started riding again but that was because they were unable to provide grip enough in the loose gravel of our access road to stop me ending up on my arse every 3 seconds. It’s not the same thing.

That’s nearly a year of constant exercising right there. I’m quite happy about that. More to the point I can see an actual improvement in my level of fitness which is no small feat. I managed to play rugby, which most people would probably say is a fairly physical game, for 20 odd years and still managed to manufacture a net loss of fitness over that period.

Probably had something to do with the amount of beer and crappy food consumed immediately following the games (in later years sometimes before and even during the games). In fact, and I’m sure there’s some kind of mathematical formula that could be applied to this, the longer I played, the shorter the games got, the less I trained and the more beer got drunk.

In the early years I would generally say, at whatever end of season function the Club was running, that I planned to get fit ‘in the off season’ which, while it started off as a serious expression of intent on my part, gradually turned into one of those jokes you tend to make whenever you find yourself in the company of a certain group of people, until it stops being even a little bit funny and instead just becomes a way of saying ‘I have no intention of getting any fitter and wouldn’t know how to start even if I did so let's all laugh about it hahaha....I hate myself’

Not this time though. For one thing – cycling has no off season (at least in this part of the world). It also does not require the participation of 29 other blokes and merely doing it for more than 2 weeks doesn’t make my shins feel like someone has hammered nails into them while I was sleeping (like, for example, running does).

I have come to the conclusion however that it is possible to do quite a lot of exercise and still not lose weight if you continue to eat things you shouldn’t. Which I may have started to do again. Can I just say to anyone who is reading this blog, knows me and, sees me eyeing off the bag of chips while I’m getting some milk or whatever – please feel free to whack me over the head with whatever stick like object to have handy.

It’s for my own good.

NEXT: Sooner or later I’m going to spend some money...

13.5. IN WHICH I GO TO THE EASTER SHOW....

Ok. See the little box to the right there where it says ‘Statement of Intent’. Read down a bit and there’s some dots and another bit and then I say – ‘and some other stuff’. There will be no riding of bikes in this post and I will not be referring in any way to 36t cranksets or the comparative benefits of long v short cage derailleur’s. Um. From now on.

On Saturday, we went to the Easter Show. For those of you who don’t live in Australia, The Sydney Royal Easter Show has been happening in Sydney since 1823 and was in the beginning at least, an opportunity for those who lived in the country to show those who lived in the city all the excellent stuff that made them want to keep living in the country.

It’s big, it’s shiny, it’s loud, it has show bags and it has animal pooh.

The climax of a day at the Show when I was a kid, was to grab a handful of whatever fried thing-on-a-stick was handily available and get an early spot in the Main Arena for the night time show. We then watched that show, which generally consisted of stunts on motorbikes, followed by stunts in cars, stunts on animals, sometimes stunts with axes and then a shitload of fireworks, while grazing on the contents of the dozen or so Show Bags we had amassed during the day. It was simple. It was brilliant.

So it was my intention to do the same thing on Saturday night right? Well.

As mentioned – I was looking for cars, bikes, fireworks, animals, fireworks, possibly some axes and more fireworks. What we got, was Darcy’s Quest. An hour long all (veeeeeerrrrrry slowly) dancing no singing ‘environmental’ fable starring not one but two giant puppets unconvincingly manipulated by cranes and a mass of desperately scurrying human beings.

I put the word environmental in quotes above NOT because I do not believe in environmental responsibility but because I question the wisdom of opening your ‘environmental’ fable with 15 minutes of Monster Trucks and motorcycles going round and round the arena in a fashion that was clearly meant to make the punters think ‘WOW THAT’S COOL!!’ (and if you want to have the Mad Max Arena Spectacular just bloody call it ‘The Mad Max Arena Spectacular’).

15 minutes of that - and a total of 9 motorbike jumps awkwardly shoehorned into the narrative as a means of choosing the ‘Navigator’ to help Darcy on her quest to.....um....do some f**king thing or other – and the giant puppet Darcy lumbered its way into the arena over the course of what seemed like about 3 hours (but according to my lying bastard of a watch was 10 minutes).

‘Christ I hope that things not going to do a full lap’ I whispered quietly to my wife.

A full lap later, plus two (GUARDIANNNNS OF THE WAAAASTELANDS) guys with some electrical doo-dads and some fire dancers.....bloody fire dancers, and just as I’m thinking I won’t have to fake a heart attack to get the hell out of here it’s giant horse puppet time.

Gaargh.

At least the giant horse puppet was attached to a crane too large to move around the arena so it could only move within the radius of the cranes (very long) arm. Whinnying through the P.A. every 20 seconds it lumbered slowly to its re-union with Darcy.

Universes formed and were extinguished.

Have you met my daughter? She is quite possibly the MOST ENTHUSIASTIC PERSON ON EARTH. About just about everything. Even she was bored.

Finally. Fireworks. Proper fireworks.

Deep breath.

I know ‘narratives’ are all very fashionable these days but PLEASE Mr Easter Show organiser man – Cars. Bikes. Animals. Axes. Fireworks. Please.

NEXT: Our normal service returns....