The start of the week is heralded by more crapola getting into London for work, this time it’s a jam on the M4. I don’t know how people who have to do this every day cope. The only guys who seem immune to it are on two wheels.
I’m supposed to be finishing off air leakage testing at One Hyde Park – the most prestigious residential accommodation in London, or Europe, if the publicity is to be believed. Residents will have a private leisure suite, including pool, gym, spa, racquet courts, cinema and party room at their disposal in the basement. They really won’t have to mix with the great unwashed, for anything, even vehicle access involves using a drive in car lift. It’s the ghetto-isation of the rich.
The news reports double digit growth in sales of luxury products. Ferrari, for example, has sold out of the newest model, at £375k a pop! The majority of customers are from the developing economies, like Brazil and China, and I wonder what their countrymen think of this kind of fortune from the other side of the big divide. The irony is they would probably aspire to the same material goals, given half a chance, as opposed to doing something for the greater good.
The poorer masses are learning what we are in many ways trying to unlearn. They’re gearing up while we attempt to downsize. Everybody wants a car that says something about them, a holiday abroad and a home they can call their own; shopping on Saturdays, lie-in Sundays, a manicure, pedicure, fat-cure, thin-cure, flat screen, iPhone, WiFi, ringtone. Big boobs, wet room, fly drive, high five, credit worthy, plunge pool, lo-cal, theme choon.
When I was younger and more idealistic, I thought that in a world of finite resources it surely follows that when one person has more, another must have correspondingly less? And when those that have less have so very little, like a shack with no power or plumbing, a Ferrari must represent some kind of insult? It seems not. What my dream guitar represents in all this is anybody’s guess – a small fart in somebody's general direction...
Years ago, in a small diving resort in northern Bali, I bought a bottle of local whisky to share with the young Balinese guys managing the cafe. I needed the company, having denied myself the opportunity to join half of Australia on the south coast, and we got slowly drunk as night fell. I tried to convince these guys that I too was a poor man – to give this some context, I was a despatch rider in London living from hand to mouth. I had borrowed some money from my girlfriend to get out there (to visit an old school friend, in Java), so my story carried some weight as far as I was concerned.
They listened politely but were having none of it. Never mind my camera being a crappy instamatic, my rucksack being the one my mum bought me when I was 16 to go to the Reading Festival. Just being there, thousands of miles from home, put me in a different league. It was a pretty miserable trip in the end, because I wanted to travel but hated being a tourist. It was OK while I was with my friend, Mark, but as soon as I went my own way I became a tourist and the mood changed. Something wasn’t right, though, I mean being miserable in paradise? What a knob.
When I get to the end of the jam I can see that there’s no obstruction on the London bound side of the carriageway, the hold-up is due to people slowing down to gawp at a car mashed up on the other side. You’d think people would be sick to realise this, having sat in a jam for the last hour, and make a point of looking away as they swiftly pass by.
Well, get ready for the developing world, we’ve had our fun and it looks like they want their turn. Let us hope they at least have the decency not to gawp at our crashed economy as they pass us by.
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Sunday, 24 October 2010
The Black Bullet 3.7 – Miles Covered 71.2
My first road legal outing on the Black Bullet was to the petrol station, for gas and air, and then, somewhat prosaically, to Blockbusters to return a DVD. From there, we took the Newbury Road as far as The Ridgeway and came back via Pete’s place. This comprised four starts in total and, much to my relief, the unenviable situation of struggling to start the bike under public scrutiny didn’t materialise.
The bike handles much better on the road than the farm tracks I’ve become used to, it just lacks a bit of top end. Pete had an AJS and reckons the Bullet should do 65mph, no problem. I got 50mph with the bike in its raw, un-tuned state, so there’s some work to do. But even at 50mph it was glorious.
The section into town was about listening, looking, weaving (a little) and braking, testing things out basically. After filling up and dropping off the DVD I piled on the revs up Chain Hill. At the top is what Jane calls The Money Shot, where the hedgerows drop back and a panorama of the Berkshire Downs suddenly opens up, in dramatic fashion.
It has been said that in a car you look at the world through a screen, a bit like TV, even with the window down it’s in a frame, the weather can’t touch you and you don’t necessarily feel the speed. On a bike you’re no longer a spectator. If it rains you get wet, if you fall off it hurts but it blows the cobwebs away and you do get to enjoy an unrestricted view.
The Money Shot was spectacular this afternoon, a late sun bursting through broody low-slung cloud, the landscape all gold and green. It was cold but the old bike jacket and new gloves worked a treat. A long shadow on the way back emphasised how up in the saddle the riding position is. Unlike a modern bike, which you effectively sit in, you’re on top of this old iron, getting a faceful of whatever’s going on.
I had the old girl wound back to the stop on a couple of curves. Again, as you’re not sitting in the bike you’re not really connected to the centre of gravity and the effect of shifting bodyweight on the handling is minimal. I’d like to think it’s a more dignified position but I do recall the pleasure available to the person who gets it right on a bendy B road in a modern sports machine. We’re not comparing apples with apples, however, and I’m not about to bolt on a pair of rear-sets.
In the spring I might get some panniers for the laptop have a go at commuting like this, meantime I’ve got the Redditch trip to organise.
The bike handles much better on the road than the farm tracks I’ve become used to, it just lacks a bit of top end. Pete had an AJS and reckons the Bullet should do 65mph, no problem. I got 50mph with the bike in its raw, un-tuned state, so there’s some work to do. But even at 50mph it was glorious.
The section into town was about listening, looking, weaving (a little) and braking, testing things out basically. After filling up and dropping off the DVD I piled on the revs up Chain Hill. At the top is what Jane calls The Money Shot, where the hedgerows drop back and a panorama of the Berkshire Downs suddenly opens up, in dramatic fashion.
It has been said that in a car you look at the world through a screen, a bit like TV, even with the window down it’s in a frame, the weather can’t touch you and you don’t necessarily feel the speed. On a bike you’re no longer a spectator. If it rains you get wet, if you fall off it hurts but it blows the cobwebs away and you do get to enjoy an unrestricted view.
The Money Shot was spectacular this afternoon, a late sun bursting through broody low-slung cloud, the landscape all gold and green. It was cold but the old bike jacket and new gloves worked a treat. A long shadow on the way back emphasised how up in the saddle the riding position is. Unlike a modern bike, which you effectively sit in, you’re on top of this old iron, getting a faceful of whatever’s going on.
I had the old girl wound back to the stop on a couple of curves. Again, as you’re not sitting in the bike you’re not really connected to the centre of gravity and the effect of shifting bodyweight on the handling is minimal. I’d like to think it’s a more dignified position but I do recall the pleasure available to the person who gets it right on a bendy B road in a modern sports machine. We’re not comparing apples with apples, however, and I’m not about to bolt on a pair of rear-sets.
In the spring I might get some panniers for the laptop have a go at commuting like this, meantime I’ve got the Redditch trip to organise.
Saturday, 23 October 2010
The Black Bullet 3.6 - Miles Covered 60.4
A picture worth a thousand words - The Black Bullet has risen!
I cut a stencil at work yesterday and sprayed the number on a few minutes ago. When its dry I'm going for a spin, out on the main road.
I tried to download the official number plate font for this job but the Evil Corporation's IT department won't even grant priviledges to change the time on work computers, let alone install new fonts, so I checked the rules on alphanumeric dimensions and did the best I could with the fonts to hand.
It will be a very picky PC that to pull me over for non-conformity but a classic number plate is just shy of £40, and that would have to bolt over the original, so I'm going to make do with this arrangement for the time being.
The registration document states that the bike is, Rebuilt - assembled from parts some or all of which were not new. It's a bit of an insult to the old girl but the DVLA have played fair by their own rules and I can't slate them for that. The notification of registration came with a tax disc, I'm going to slot it into the holder and get out there. Nuff said.
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
The Black Bullet 3.5 – Miles Covered 60.4
It was bloody cold this morning and I couldn’t help but think of Bob’s brother-in-law picking his bike up off the bank and jumping it down the lane. I’m still waiting for a letter from the DVLA, so sadly the Black Bullet hasn’t seen the light for a few days. The summer’s gone and those bright days of autumn are in short supply.
Back at the Olympic Park today, witnessing testing to cladding systems. The savvy London commuters have shuffled me to the back of the pack and I’m looking at standing on the train all the way in. Even the buffet car is chokka, every surface guarded by elbows and sullen morning faces (if I could see them, they’ve all got their backs to me).
I wander up through First and find a place on the floor in a lobby, by the bin. It’s one better than by the toilet and I can sit on my site helmet and use my laptop - First Class indeed.
When I get my registration number and tax disc, I want to do an inaugural ride to Enfield Road, Redditch, where this bike was made. I thought about Cairo to Cape Town but straight away I could see difficulties. The wife would never sign my timesheet. The likelihood of enduring some terminal breakdown, roadside banditry, or kidnap scenario en route dawned only afterwards.
It was the same adolescent tendency for exaggeration that led me to think I could make it across the Sahara, un-escorted, in a 1962 SWB Petrol Land Rover. I thought I was over it but as I watch my son at play I think perhaps it’s a boy thing and we never really get over it.
Certainly my girlfriend at the time wasn’t on the same wavelength when we launched ourselves down the M20 to Dover some 25 years ago. I didn’t realise this at the time, but I found out when our 4WD failed on Perpignan beach and we had to be rescued. “You and your stupid bloody adventure,” she shouted, storming off. I knew then that I should have listened to her dad and taken her camping along the Riviera. “What’s wrong with Europe?” he’d said. I had no immediate answer to this, except it wasn’t the Sahara.
Kenichi saw this in me and called it ‘e-conjo’, which means courage, or something, but then he was a drinker of Banzai spirit and perhaps not the best role model for an impressionable young man.
There was a distinct lack of any adult guidance present in my life at the time of the Africa trip and headstrong though I was, it wasn’t until a ragged ex French Legionnaire grabbed me by the throat at a campsite in southern France and spelled it out to me that I began to understand the enormity of the undertaking.
The guy was rough and he held a knife to my throat to demonstrate how easy it would be to divest me of all my worldly goods, I was truly helpless and the blade burned my skin. He then pushed me back down by the campfire and laughed, clicking the lock knife shut and waving at our roof rack stacked with petrol cans. “You need a diesel anyway,” he said (imagine a thick accent). “Zat way, when you run out you can beg some off ze truckers. Ze gaz is sheeet anyway.”
The next morning our new trip advisor had gone, leaving all his worldly goods behind. “He was on the run from the legion,” shrugged one of the French boys. “said we should take all his stuff, like he was not even here.” I bartered with the lad for the knife and kept it for many years. I think my mum eventually found it among my things in the loft and threw it out.
In the depths of a recession, a trip abroad, out of the way if you like, is an attractive proposition. But these days it’s not wholly my decision and to be honest I’d cry by the roadside for missing my family. So Redditch it is. I might give The Redditch Standard a call and see if they’re interested in a photo opportunity.
Back at the Olympic Park today, witnessing testing to cladding systems. The savvy London commuters have shuffled me to the back of the pack and I’m looking at standing on the train all the way in. Even the buffet car is chokka, every surface guarded by elbows and sullen morning faces (if I could see them, they’ve all got their backs to me).
I wander up through First and find a place on the floor in a lobby, by the bin. It’s one better than by the toilet and I can sit on my site helmet and use my laptop - First Class indeed.
When I get my registration number and tax disc, I want to do an inaugural ride to Enfield Road, Redditch, where this bike was made. I thought about Cairo to Cape Town but straight away I could see difficulties. The wife would never sign my timesheet. The likelihood of enduring some terminal breakdown, roadside banditry, or kidnap scenario en route dawned only afterwards.
It was the same adolescent tendency for exaggeration that led me to think I could make it across the Sahara, un-escorted, in a 1962 SWB Petrol Land Rover. I thought I was over it but as I watch my son at play I think perhaps it’s a boy thing and we never really get over it.
Certainly my girlfriend at the time wasn’t on the same wavelength when we launched ourselves down the M20 to Dover some 25 years ago. I didn’t realise this at the time, but I found out when our 4WD failed on Perpignan beach and we had to be rescued. “You and your stupid bloody adventure,” she shouted, storming off. I knew then that I should have listened to her dad and taken her camping along the Riviera. “What’s wrong with Europe?” he’d said. I had no immediate answer to this, except it wasn’t the Sahara.
Kenichi saw this in me and called it ‘e-conjo’, which means courage, or something, but then he was a drinker of Banzai spirit and perhaps not the best role model for an impressionable young man.
There was a distinct lack of any adult guidance present in my life at the time of the Africa trip and headstrong though I was, it wasn’t until a ragged ex French Legionnaire grabbed me by the throat at a campsite in southern France and spelled it out to me that I began to understand the enormity of the undertaking.
The guy was rough and he held a knife to my throat to demonstrate how easy it would be to divest me of all my worldly goods, I was truly helpless and the blade burned my skin. He then pushed me back down by the campfire and laughed, clicking the lock knife shut and waving at our roof rack stacked with petrol cans. “You need a diesel anyway,” he said (imagine a thick accent). “Zat way, when you run out you can beg some off ze truckers. Ze gaz is sheeet anyway.”
The next morning our new trip advisor had gone, leaving all his worldly goods behind. “He was on the run from the legion,” shrugged one of the French boys. “said we should take all his stuff, like he was not even here.” I bartered with the lad for the knife and kept it for many years. I think my mum eventually found it among my things in the loft and threw it out.
In the depths of a recession, a trip abroad, out of the way if you like, is an attractive proposition. But these days it’s not wholly my decision and to be honest I’d cry by the roadside for missing my family. So Redditch it is. I might give The Redditch Standard a call and see if they’re interested in a photo opportunity.
Thursday, 14 October 2010
The Black Bullet 3.4 – Miles Covered 60.4
Still no word from the dudes at the DVLA - it’s been months since I started out on this project. I called the local office and listened to all of the options, the robot on the other end said, “If it is over four weeks since you submitted your application, press one.” It isn’t over four weeks, so it seemed pointless to 'press one'.
All that talk about Japan got me thinking; I was incredibly lucky to get under the skin of the place, thanks to Kenichi and family. I saw stuff and went places many of the other English teachers never did. Having a bike made such a difference, more than a car would have with the off-road opportunities added in. It was difficult to navigate, not being able to read the road signs, and there was no satnav or online journey planner in those days. For a trip of any length I would have to study the road map and transcribe the kanji characters of the key places along the way on a strip of paper, which I’d tape to the tank.
Kenichi, being a solid working class boy and confident in his element, suggested I stop at any mechanic’s workshop to ask directions, should I get lost. It was with a typical lack of appreciation of the enormity of the undertaking that he offered this advice. I did actually do this, however, and got help several times but if Kenny had been a hairdresser it probably would have been the same thing, only stopping at salons. People are funny like that, determined to stay within the boundaries of the familiar.
This was precisely what I wasn’t interested in at the time, it sounds like bravado but oddly a lot of it was down to insecurity. Since I was 18 I had heard of school friends taking off, going travelling, and this seemed like the biggest adventure to be had, the ultimate right of passage. While I applied myself to gothic punk in Bristol, my best mate took off for foreign soil. When he came back he seemed different and I got all defensive about it. “I travel in my mind,” I told myself, but the country of the mind tends to shrink when you stay in one place.
Eventually, after a panicky attempt to make up for lost time - involving a failed attempt to get to the Sahara in a rickety old Landrover - I got a call from a girl I’d worked with in a restaurant in Bristol. “Fancy a job in Japan?” she said, all crackly and distant. “I’ll give you a call next Sunday, when you’ve had a chance to think about it.” Next Sunday came round and I hadn’t really given it much thought. I’d moved back in with my mum and dad and was working in a music shop in Exeter, and I was severely depressed. When she rang back I said I’d go, mainly because the consequences of saying no were intolerable.
It was the best thing I ever did. It was challenging and sometimes downright scary, but I got out of the hole I’d dug for myself and after a while, when I stopped missing my friends, I didn’t look back. Every school holiday I’d jump ship for China, Thailand, Taiwan, eager to see more and join the ranks of my well-travelled peers. The fact that I’d grown up in Africa didn’t count. This was me alone, coming to terms with life with the world at my feet.
All that talk about Japan got me thinking; I was incredibly lucky to get under the skin of the place, thanks to Kenichi and family. I saw stuff and went places many of the other English teachers never did. Having a bike made such a difference, more than a car would have with the off-road opportunities added in. It was difficult to navigate, not being able to read the road signs, and there was no satnav or online journey planner in those days. For a trip of any length I would have to study the road map and transcribe the kanji characters of the key places along the way on a strip of paper, which I’d tape to the tank.
Kenichi, being a solid working class boy and confident in his element, suggested I stop at any mechanic’s workshop to ask directions, should I get lost. It was with a typical lack of appreciation of the enormity of the undertaking that he offered this advice. I did actually do this, however, and got help several times but if Kenny had been a hairdresser it probably would have been the same thing, only stopping at salons. People are funny like that, determined to stay within the boundaries of the familiar.
This was precisely what I wasn’t interested in at the time, it sounds like bravado but oddly a lot of it was down to insecurity. Since I was 18 I had heard of school friends taking off, going travelling, and this seemed like the biggest adventure to be had, the ultimate right of passage. While I applied myself to gothic punk in Bristol, my best mate took off for foreign soil. When he came back he seemed different and I got all defensive about it. “I travel in my mind,” I told myself, but the country of the mind tends to shrink when you stay in one place.
Eventually, after a panicky attempt to make up for lost time - involving a failed attempt to get to the Sahara in a rickety old Landrover - I got a call from a girl I’d worked with in a restaurant in Bristol. “Fancy a job in Japan?” she said, all crackly and distant. “I’ll give you a call next Sunday, when you’ve had a chance to think about it.” Next Sunday came round and I hadn’t really given it much thought. I’d moved back in with my mum and dad and was working in a music shop in Exeter, and I was severely depressed. When she rang back I said I’d go, mainly because the consequences of saying no were intolerable.
It was the best thing I ever did. It was challenging and sometimes downright scary, but I got out of the hole I’d dug for myself and after a while, when I stopped missing my friends, I didn’t look back. Every school holiday I’d jump ship for China, Thailand, Taiwan, eager to see more and join the ranks of my well-travelled peers. The fact that I’d grown up in Africa didn’t count. This was me alone, coming to terms with life with the world at my feet.
Thursday, 7 October 2010
The Black Bullet 3.3 - Miles Covered 58.4
After a time of teaching English in Japan in my 20’s, I started hanging out with a Japanese family, and if this seems at odds with the formality normally associated with the Japanese, it was. Kenichi wasn’t mainstream, but at the same time he was very Japanese, and completely nuts. Photo: Kenichi, me (note ripped bloodstained trousers), Miki & Jim
“Biru San” (Mr Beer), he used to say, puffing out his chest, “we are super Japanese, daiyo.” With that he would rabbit punch the air, to drive the point home.
He was working class Japanese done good and, like Roy, he owned a motor repair shop, called Phenix Garage. Misspelling in English is not considered a mistake in Japan, hell, the discussions in class about how to represent any word or meaning in Kanji just ran and ran. There was a brilliant 5m long neon sign in Yachiyo Shi advertising ‘Harmburger’.
It was Kenichi who decided I was to be a motorcyclist. “Biru San, let’s go lindo,” (trail riding) he announced emphatically one day after class. I was 24, alone, about as far away from parental disapproval as I could get and, crucially, I was ready to fall off anything I could get my hands on. We started gently by going motocrossing in Narita the following weekend.
After the grazes healed and my ankle stopped looking like an aubergine (from falling heavily off kenichi’s daughter’s bike), it was decided that I would enrol at motorcycle school. Trail riding inevitably included some sections of road, linking up the trails, so I would have to get a Japanese licence.
Every week, Kenichi’s wife, Kimiko, would dutifully pick me up at my apartment and drop me back afterwards. In retrospect, I can’t help wondering what she thought of her husband taking this foreigner under his wing. I was the only blonde 6ft male for miles around, hard to miss, and the Japanese principal of the English School would not have approved of the plans he had for me.
If I was to be uncharitable, I suspect he sold her a line about free English lessons and looked forward to some righteous motorsport with his mates, using me as an excuse. Kenichi always had a grand plan, though, and eventually he revealed that his was to fly to the states and buy certain desirable cars at knock down prices. Employing the services of a bilingual negotiator, at knock down prices, was a key part of his plan. To be honest, I was more than happy to be paid in advance in sushi, beer and motocross. I would have gone on my first trip to the States for free.
Motorcycle school was fun. It was also safer than being taught by Kenichi. Looking back I was lucky to come away with just a bruised foot from my first go on a bike, ever, at Narita. What was Kenichi thinking, giving me a bike and just sending me out into the motocross melee? It was a question that cropped up with alarming regularity.
The school had a dummy road system which we would snake around on, kindergarten fashion, on 400cc Honda Reveres. The instructors would strut about in police style jodhpurs, barking instructions, which I just about understood. Otherwise I just copied the guy in front. I did well at the practical exam but when they put a written paper in front of me I just looked at them and said, “Impossible, daiyo.” My spoken Japanese had got quite good but I could never read or write it.
I guess they just didn’t know what to do with me from that point on. The examiner took me to the department head, who looked annoyed at being presented with an impossible problem. The department head took me to the school principal, who fumed back at him for the same reason. In the end I was ejected unceremoniously, but with a certificate in my hand. Probably the first and last gaijin to go through the Yachiyo school.
Kenichi found me a Honda XL250 single, it cost me a month’s wages but he had one of his mechanics replace the road tyres with knobblies and drive it over to the school on the day I graduated. “Biru San, let’s go!” he shouted, helmet on, eyes gleaming behind thick lenses. The ride home was nothing like anything I’d learned at school but if I was to keep up with him I quickly realised I’d have to break a few minor traffic regulations. The banzai spirit is intoxicating and foreigners don’t know any better, I told myself.
We had an expression, ‘gaijin value’, which took care of any difficulties related to cultural faux pas. Jim, who’d joined me in Japan by then, went out on my bike to fetch booze one Friday night, with a pissed yank called Daniel on the back. They were stopped by the law and Jim gave my name, Daniel wobbling on the back brandishing a bottle of bourbon. The cops let them go, which is crazy, but they just looked like too much trouble for a couple of small town policemen – the wonder of gaijin value.
I had a small accident soon after that and went to the police station to report it. Jim had omitted the detail about giving my name that night and these coppers were like, “yeah, we wondered how long it would be before we saw you in here...Mr Beer.”
I’ve had so many damn accidents since Japan, which is not in the script anymore, I hope. The story is supposed to be; westerner goes east to learn from Japanese master, not Japanese nut-job. It wasn’t just Kenichi either, there was this kid Miki, who worked for him, who wrung the neck of a two-stroke four until it spat him off. “What happened?” we asked, on a hospital visit. He couldn’t say, except it all happened on the expressway at 250kph. He was probably watching the clock instead of the road.
They love their speed the Japanese but an idiosyncrasy of licensing regulations means that big bore bikes are only ridden by old men. It’s hilarious to see these little prunes on giant bikes - good on ‘em though, go for it grandad. This is why they’re so intent on making pocket rockets, or were in any case, for Miki and his adrenalin crew. It would be nice to know what’s come of them.
I’m hoping the DVLA will get their shit together next week and send me a reg for the Black Bullet. I don’t even know what I’m missing but I’m missing it bad, ever since that evil corporation wrecked my inner peace. I even put the guitar up for sale. I know, it’s crazy, but achieving your dreams by UPS isn’t right somehow. It’s hard to explain. I need to get out on the bike and soak up some rain.
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
The Black Bullet 3.2 - Miles Covered 58.4
Awoke after terrible dreams, interesting plot but really quite mortifying. A truly evil spirit, manifest in a church (I guess for reasons of melodrama) had latched on to my family and brought the most unforgiving curse upon it. Anything truly loved by us would be destroyed - this was the spirit’s sole purpose. There were three phases to the dream:
- The first phase was about denial. We tried to hide our son away from this malignant spirit. It looked into our hearts and found our love for him and popped his head off with a thumbnail, like a pimple. I won’t describe the act in any more detail, it was utterly appalling.
- The second phase was sacrifice. We wrecked the church in grief and anger and tried to instil hate in our hearts for each other, to protect each other. But as we screamed and struck each other it saw love as the primary motivation and as it was my dream, of course, it killed my partner.
- The final phase was even more unpalatable. I realised that the only way to destroy the demon was to learn to love it. If I could only dig deep enough, find a way to convince myself, to really believe it, feel it in my heart, then it would turn on itself and be consumed by its own vengeful, single minded purpose.
Christ, no word of a lie, I woke up gasping and in a sweat. Love the thing you hate the most? It still makes me dizzy just to think of it. Who could do such a thing after the havoc already wreaked? Surely it flies in the very face of being human?
Thankfully it was only a dream but it did not auger well for the week ahead and the parallels with what comes next are hard to ignore. Yesterday the boss called a special meeting to announce something important. Now you remember what I said about taking a photo of the Black Bullet with the family and the guitar all posed in front of the house? It was the 1st October 2010, the day I realised I had everything I ever wanted. Well, be careful what you hope for, it lasted barely a week.
To explain this I need to backtrack momentarily. We can only afford to live in this house in this village because it is part of a charitable housing trust, set up to save the landowner property tax. The trust requires that occupants qualify for charitable housing status by working on, or for, the Estate. It’s a legacy of more patriarchal times and we have benefited from this arrangement since I moved here to take the job.
Now our new parent company has decided to close our office and combine two offices in one, in North Oxfordshire, which effectively means we’re going to lose our home. It a crushing blow, make no mistake about it. We’ve built a life we love out here and some fool with a sharp pencil has just crossed it out. Simple as that.
There’s always been a sense of crossing over into the pastoral, as you drive down into the village from the main road at the end of a long day. The mobile signal fades and the chestnut bordered horse paddocks buzz with insects, picked out against the shadows by the low evening sun. The swallows go crazy for them, darting past ducks on a lazy flap over to the lake.
So it’s hard not to be really angry about this, but in the meeting rooms of a Cheshire Travelodge, or wherever it may be, it must be quite easy to ameliorate the bank manager by describing how you’re going to streamline your operation and pay back what you’ve borrowed by cutting this and rationalising that. I’ve been on the end of this kind of thing before and the funny thing is you’ll never find anyone directly responsible for making these decisions. It’s spineless bullshit, in my view, not ‘hard business decisions to match hard times’ as the people responsible would have you believe. These crackers don’t know hard times.
It reminds me of a telling scene in a kids movie where all the ants stand on each others’ shoulders to allow the ruling ants to climb to a leaf out of danger. When the last of the ruling ants steps to safety the ant at the top of the column pulls at the leaf to steady a wobble and the ruling ants nearly fall off.
“Let go,” shouts a ruling ant, “it’s for the good of the community!”
The top ant looks up and pleads, “but we are the community.”
We can only conclude that the new company has no interest in ‘the community’ and even if we survive this change and get to stay put, I’m not sure I can continue to work for them in the way I used to. there was no spring in my step this morning and I'm spending lunchtime in the pub, fuck them. Change is daunting but not nearly as scary as damnation.
Anyway, the final tranche of paperwork for the Black Bullet has been submitted. I posted it in this time, I’m not sure there’s anything more I can do or say to sway the decision. I headed the letter, Application for an Age-related Registration. Now we await the final outcome.
Friday, 1 October 2010
The Black Bullet 3.1 - Miles covered 58.4
Roy puts in the call I was waiting for and I fidget the rest of the way through a training session at work, looking out of the window like a bored schoolboy at the ebb and flow of the rain. By the time the discussion turns to safety method statements I’ve really had enough, but there's no easy way out.
It’s typical in these sessions for people with ambition to hijack centre stage, once the agenda has been covered, and try to out-shine each other. Old rivalries are thinly disguised by the veneer of debate, one to which you’d best not be fooled into thinking you’re invited. After 20 minutes or so of being an audience member, I slip out, leaving my notebook and jacket behind. This way it looks like I intend to return, which I don’t, not right away.
It’s not just me who feels surplus to requirements and when one person leaves it often breaks the spell. Pretty soon I’m joined in the back office by John, a young lad from North Wales. He’s a good lad, John, and he agrees to give me a lift up to Roy’s garage to retrieve the Black Bullet before they close up for the weekend. The rain is lashing down when we jump into John’s old Golf, which mists up immediately. He asks about the bike over the roar of the demister.
“You going to do it up?”
“No, don’t think so, I like it like it is.”
“You could do it up and sell it for loads.”
“S’pose so, but it’s not like that.”
I’m distracted, the combination of pooling water and conker mash on the road looks lethal. Must remember to take it easy under the trees on the way back.
John switches to chat about cars.
“When I sold my other car, it was a nightmare. Idiots calling me up day and night with stupid questions. I couldn’t relax at home, I hated it. I mean what would happen if I suddenly said "a thousand pounds", or something, without thinking?”
“Was there a danger of that?”
“Yeah, well, when you’re relaxing...”
“You think you might have sold yourself short just to put an end to it?”
“It was like they owned me. They were calling when I was asleep. One bloke from Manchester called and said, ‘how fast does it go?’ I said, ‘it’s a Focus 1.6, you know...’ he just didn’t get it. He said he wanted a fast car but they wouldn’t insure him for it. What do you say to that?”
We pull into Roy’s yard and ‘Yo’ Stuart and Kevin, his main mechanics. Kevin in particular comes over for a chat. He’s usually on the shy side, no shrinking violet, but quiet. He’s got this light in his eyes though, behind his glasses, the Black Bullet has got him all sparky.
“We didn’t think we’d see you til Monday, what with the rain an’ all.”
I pump myself up as this all-weather rider dude and to some degree I do mean it. Christ I’ve done some stupid things - riding in ice and snow - the only thing is, I’m old now and don't bounce like I used to. I’ve crashed every bike I’ve owned, the truth be told, and part of the Bullet’s attraction is its lack of out-and-out speed.
It’s nice to find genuine enthusiasm for this thing that I’m doing and I ask Kevin & Stuart to pose for a photo.
I pay as the boys wheel the bike out front. The rain hasn’t really let up and I’m hoping the damp doesn’t make her hard to start. I get a kickback after three strikes and then she goes, with the throttle held wide open. Appreciative faces look out from the dry, a few slightly embarassed man waves, and we’re off.
It’s good to be out on the road after a day cooped up in the meeting room, needle raindrops etching away the boredom. I shouldn’t be out here with no plate but it's back roads all the way home and I have pretty much everything else. John drives behind and tells me later that I was doing 55mph along one stretch - propelled by sheer exuberance.
Now I’m sitting in the front room looking at a long brown unopened box! My guitar has arrived and I've waited, a little anxiously, until the house is quiet to open it. The thing about dreams is they shouldn't really turn up in a box and confront you. It's probablty best if they don't. The longer and deeper you lust after something, the greater the potential disappointment, so I'm not going to open it now. Maybe do a grand opening tomorrow to show Poz what this 'present' really means to his dad and then of course I'm going to have to tell him he can't play with it. Shit. But what do I do?
It’s typical in these sessions for people with ambition to hijack centre stage, once the agenda has been covered, and try to out-shine each other. Old rivalries are thinly disguised by the veneer of debate, one to which you’d best not be fooled into thinking you’re invited. After 20 minutes or so of being an audience member, I slip out, leaving my notebook and jacket behind. This way it looks like I intend to return, which I don’t, not right away.
It’s not just me who feels surplus to requirements and when one person leaves it often breaks the spell. Pretty soon I’m joined in the back office by John, a young lad from North Wales. He’s a good lad, John, and he agrees to give me a lift up to Roy’s garage to retrieve the Black Bullet before they close up for the weekend. The rain is lashing down when we jump into John’s old Golf, which mists up immediately. He asks about the bike over the roar of the demister.
“You going to do it up?”
“No, don’t think so, I like it like it is.”
“You could do it up and sell it for loads.”
“S’pose so, but it’s not like that.”
I’m distracted, the combination of pooling water and conker mash on the road looks lethal. Must remember to take it easy under the trees on the way back.
John switches to chat about cars.
“When I sold my other car, it was a nightmare. Idiots calling me up day and night with stupid questions. I couldn’t relax at home, I hated it. I mean what would happen if I suddenly said "a thousand pounds", or something, without thinking?”
“Was there a danger of that?”
“Yeah, well, when you’re relaxing...”
“You think you might have sold yourself short just to put an end to it?”
“It was like they owned me. They were calling when I was asleep. One bloke from Manchester called and said, ‘how fast does it go?’ I said, ‘it’s a Focus 1.6, you know...’ he just didn’t get it. He said he wanted a fast car but they wouldn’t insure him for it. What do you say to that?”
We pull into Roy’s yard and ‘Yo’ Stuart and Kevin, his main mechanics. Kevin in particular comes over for a chat. He’s usually on the shy side, no shrinking violet, but quiet. He’s got this light in his eyes though, behind his glasses, the Black Bullet has got him all sparky.
“We didn’t think we’d see you til Monday, what with the rain an’ all.”
I pump myself up as this all-weather rider dude and to some degree I do mean it. Christ I’ve done some stupid things - riding in ice and snow - the only thing is, I’m old now and don't bounce like I used to. I’ve crashed every bike I’ve owned, the truth be told, and part of the Bullet’s attraction is its lack of out-and-out speed.
It’s nice to find genuine enthusiasm for this thing that I’m doing and I ask Kevin & Stuart to pose for a photo.
I pay as the boys wheel the bike out front. The rain hasn’t really let up and I’m hoping the damp doesn’t make her hard to start. I get a kickback after three strikes and then she goes, with the throttle held wide open. Appreciative faces look out from the dry, a few slightly embarassed man waves, and we’re off.
It’s good to be out on the road after a day cooped up in the meeting room, needle raindrops etching away the boredom. I shouldn’t be out here with no plate but it's back roads all the way home and I have pretty much everything else. John drives behind and tells me later that I was doing 55mph along one stretch - propelled by sheer exuberance.
Now I’m sitting in the front room looking at a long brown unopened box! My guitar has arrived and I've waited, a little anxiously, until the house is quiet to open it. The thing about dreams is they shouldn't really turn up in a box and confront you. It's probablty best if they don't. The longer and deeper you lust after something, the greater the potential disappointment, so I'm not going to open it now. Maybe do a grand opening tomorrow to show Poz what this 'present' really means to his dad and then of course I'm going to have to tell him he can't play with it. Shit. But what do I do?
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