Is there a smoking car on this train?

OK, so I quit smoking, right? And? So what? It’s hard and things suck and I can grumble and whine or I can just get on with it.

And that’s fine, life changes, we move on, and so I keep trying to get on with things, to make life bigger, and I am, but it’s an imaginary life I’m leading. Which is fine, if the illusion is honest, but it isn’t.

And as I’m no good at writing lies, the blog remains empty. This blog was full of promise (to me); a place for me to sharpen both thought and pen. Knowing something will be read by at least a few others had been really motivating.

But I can’t seem to do it anymore. I’ve tried but it all comes out shit and I can’t find the energy to continue.  Sure, it almost always comes out shit anyways, but I used to just roll that smoke and then just keep writing. The ashtray was always overflowing. And then somehow during the editing process I would find a way to make it stink a little less. I like that part – always liked it – but now even editing is shit.  Nothing good is happening. There’s nothing on the page to work with.

There’s just no enjoyment. Real deadlines have passed; imaginary self-motivational ones are constantly slipping, eating away at my peace of mind. I don’t have to write, but I used to want to. I still feel the need but the process only reminds me of smoking. I get all kinds of reminders throughout my day, but the most enduring and melancholic reminder is this, now: me at my keyboard.

* * * * *

I remember every cigarette I’ve ever smoked. Each had a look and a feel, each its own taste. Freshness of tobacco, temperature of heater. Each its own character. Some were annoying, or brutish, or too chemically; others were works of art, a sublime meditation on pleasure. Quality of the paper, smoothness of the roll. Lips damp to keep the paper from sticking, but not so wet as to sogify.

Smoking was a serious and complicated business, and there was a truth to it that everyone now ostensibly denies. Even smokers themselves have a hard time talking about it now. I was driven from my work to smoke outside, then from people’s houses, and finally from the restaurants and pubs. There was no place left to actually enjoy my cigarette. I had to huddle in the cold, rushing it, getting my fix, while my now non-smoking friends relaxed back inside.
But I found a sanctuary here, up here in my writing room, the only place in the house I could go. I could relax, do what I wanted, smoke when I wanted, and enjoy it I did. My special spot. And now that’s gone too. I am now a non-smoker, and I’m mad as hell.

It’s true that smoking kills. This is acknowledged and accepted and I have no argument.

But.

It’s also true that smoking can bring the two halves together, both calming and stimulating at the same time. But we can’t speak of this exquisite pleasure that smoking can bring. (I’m not stirring up my head here, I’m not talking any kind of bullshit, I’m just saying that life is not always about the long run.)

There’s a truth to smoking that is denied and spat on everywhere I turn. Denied, and denied again. But the sick irony is that it turns ex-smokers into assholes.

“Oh, you quit? Yeah, it’s tough, I still get the pangs. Some people hate the smell of smoke but I still love it.”

Notice that encouragement.

Then you’ll get:

“Yeah, it’s hard, but you’ll make it. You’ll always want one though, I know I still do! That’ll never go away! Keep at it dude!”

Cheers. Thanks. That helps.

There’s an anger there but there’s no easy target so I sit here and stew, while I wish instead I could sit and stew and smoke.

I saw this guy the other day, sitting on the park stairs looking at the River Clyde. It was a beautiful day and he had one hell of a view. Guess what he was doing while he was sitting there, pondering life’s tricks and tangents?

Man, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. That’s the thing, the thing right there, that’s the smoke that makes those moments all the more excellent. It’s that reflective smoke, the one you roll very carefully, getting it just right. The one that means so much but also nothing at all.  And for a moment, that man sitting there on the stairs was king.

Admire the moment. Accentuate it. This pause — this thing that happens between the inside and the outside — there’s no bank for it, and you’ll never, ever get it back. You can’t plan it, you can’t avoid it – the best you can do is be ready with a fresh pack of Drum and a dry pack of papers.

Can these moments have meaning without the cigarette?  Yes, of course. Sure they can. But fuck they taste so much better with.

* * * * *

I did the right thing by quitting. You can’t argue with the health benefits. And maybe the emotional and spiritual benefits will come in due time. But just now it feels like something has broken off somewhere, like my keel has hit a whale. Core stability is gone. Houston? Hello?

As far as the writing goes, I’m probably just making excuses. I’m sure I’ll be back to motorcycles, roundabouts, and placentas before you know it. But in the meantime, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.

Quitting smoking with Allen Carr

I’ve quit smoking. I’m now on Day Five, and it sucks, really, really badly. I can’t imagine anything more physically uncomfortable or mentally excruciating. It is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I sit here trying to type, but all I can think about is the smoke that’s lacking. So I think of things less painful, like sticking a knife into my temple. Slowly, so I can enjoy it.

Every swallow of beer causes some level of anguish. Sure, I want the beer – that’s not going to change – but I don’t want that after-taste, that taste that’s just screaming for a drag to make it whole.

(I could give up the fight. But Allen Carr tells me I’m not even supposed to be fighting. He says there’s absolutely nothing to give up!  Hah! How silly of me to be thinking otherwise!)

My discomfort has stretched past the painful now, reaching a terminal monotony that has me glumly fantasizing about rolling up one last smoke while I prepare the noose.

I’m long-time smoker, a heavy inhaler, and it was a full-time habit  – witness that trapped look in my eyes, see my stained teeth and hands. I used to drive myself crazy at work, smelling that tarry goodness on my fingers, winding myself up until I could contain myself no longer. Somehow it helped my concentration – or seemed to – by breaking it, then making it, then breaking it again.

(An illusion, Allen says. All an illusion. Must keep this ailing brain well-washed)

It’s now Day Six and the physical addiction is supposed to be gone. But how can it only be psychological now? So it’s just my brain after six days which is wanting to stick an ice pick into my eye? It’s really my brain doing that? How can that be?

That last sip of beer there just about killed me. Just as it was sliding down my throat there was this full-body need for fullness, wholeness, one-ness with self. There’s no one without the other. How can this non-smoking even be remotely possible? Please, someone, help me help myself. Load up that gun; pass me the cyanide; do something useful.

Allen Carr can go fuck himself. If this is the EASY WAY I’d hate to see the hard one. If you’re exceedingly stubborn (check) and actually loved smoking (check) then what are you supposed to do? The very problem with Allen Carr is that he tries throughout that stupid book of his to convince me that I didn’t enjoy it. Sorry Allen, I did - I genuinely did enjoy smoking. In fact, I fucking LOVED it.  I knew this long before I quit and knew it would make for a difficult time. But there’s no help from bullshitting dead-from-lung-cancer Allen, no-siree, cause he’s positive I didn’t enjoy it. Well fuck you, Mr. Carr.  I’m glad you’ve helped so many people stop smoking, but you’re wrong. Getting out of this duplicitous agreement I’ve been living with for so many years is going to take a little more than telling myself even more lies.

Oh, I would smoke one of those beauties right now. Nice fresh Drum, rolled slowly and with care. And just happily smoke away until the ship sinks under me…

I loved smoking, but I hated what it did to me. I can’t even climb a flight of stairs anymore without worrying about a heart attack. What kind of a life is that? I have a family now, and I love them dearly. But I fucking love smoking too. Tough shit, eh? These thoughts need to be answered. Sometimes you gotta choose what’s important.

Allen Carr’s instructions state specifically not to use any form of nicotine replacement therapy. This, I think, has made it more difficult that it had to be; but at least now I don’t have to spend months trying to get off the gum, the lozenges, the patches.

It’s Day Eight. I’ve now been through a whole week of this torture. But the longer I go the more I realize how important it is that I succeed. I do not want to go through this again, not next month, not next year, not ever. There’s no point in going through all this and then just giving in.

Suicide no longer interests me in the same way it did earlier in the week. Now I want to hurt things. I want to hit and kick and pummel. It’s tiresome keeping it all for myself.  But I won’t hurt my wife, nor my boy… how about my cats? Maybe I can get away with just a bit more of my loving torment than usual. Like strangling them until their eyeballs start to bulge and their throats twitch and pulsate. Their back paws start making pathetic defensive gestures, but they are getting weaker and weaker, and their eyes start glazing… um, wait. It’s still just fantasy at this point, right? Fantasies about killing my kittens?

Ah fuck.

To help allay my depression I bought a video game. I couldn’t immediately figure out this one particular section so I just wandered around the game’s landscape for awhile. I found a nice oak tree with some shade, away from the melee, so I sat myself down for a rest. I still heard the screaming in the distance, but in my immediate space things were tranquil. I sat for a minute, enjoying the summer afternoon, but then, in a flash of inspiration, I dropped all my grenades at once – right at my feet. Big bang! And there’s me, all torn to shreds on the grass. What a hoot! So I kept at it, trying more and more creative and violent ways to kill myself, but the more satisfying it became, the more I wanted a smoke. It’s like that with everything good. One satisfying moment begets another, and a moment is nothing good without a smoke.

I think I’m going a bit nutso. I didn’t think I would get nasty but I have zero patience at the moment. My boots just got a kicking cause they looked at me the wrong way. The thing is, I hadn’t even realized they were looking at me, let alone me caring about it one way or the other. Then all of a sudden I’m in a rage.

I think I’m doing ok with Bruce but I’ve noticed my wife is now choosing the chair nearest the door.

My soul is on a plate but the plate has been left fouled at the bottom of the pile for months now so it’s stinking something rotten. And so the writing of this requires a pause here and there, n’est ce pas? A wee moment to roll it up while the words form. A drag or two to incubate that bon mot. The writer lets the smoker roll up another of those beautiful little cancerous muses; the smoker obliges, lights her up and inhales like we’re getting through some kind of crisis. But maybe the words start coming, and so it’s back into the overfilled ashtray, and now life can go on as it should until the next dragful moment. How in the hell can I ever make it work without this ritual? How can I ever feel alive and effective without it?

I understand how shit it is, the smoking – how it ruins me.  This is no way to go about life, especially now that I’ve got a young family wanting me to stay around a few more years.  Yet at the same time I know I can be happy and so me if I just allow those evil smoking instincts to take ahold. I will go with thee, and gladly.

Bullshit.
It’s all bullshit.

Day Nine.

And now I find the things that used to just make my lip curl, or my feet clench, or just make me type these keys that much harder – these minor irritants are starting to hurt my knuckles. I must be careful with myself, walk quietly, whisper. Maybe wear a helmet. I’m not trusting my fists.

Day Ten.

This is easy! No problem! Now, can I have a fucking smoke please? This is getting ridiculous. This depression has taken hold again; the violence interalized. Instead of sparkling eyes and boundless energy I am cloaked with a listless emptiness. I have lost something very dear to me, and I am missing it profoundly.  The usual bright spots in my life – my wife, my boy, my bike – these are still lovely but are no longer punctuated, italicised, underlined.

Day Fifteen

Surely day fifteen is a magic day. It is getting easier – or, more precisely – less difficult. I had my first genuine moment of pleasure today when I realised I was a non-smoker.  I think some part of me was still just taking a test-drive down this evil path, and maybe I’ve finally realized that this really is my choice. The three weeks – the hardest bit, they say – is almost over.

The revs; the roads; the schizophrenia

I’ve not been posting as much about my new Yamaha as I did the Dragon. Sure, she’s not so new anymore, what with 2,000 miles on her and looking like she’s just been through the Dakar, but I do believe an update is in order.

The Revs
The amount of pull she has between 8,000 and 12,000 rpm is just freaky. I feel like a little kid on one of those crazy rides at the fair. Holding on for dear life, laughing like a lunatic, but foaming at the mouth a bit too, wanting desperately to get off. What – it’s gonna spin around again? And upside down this time? No, no, no, it’s too much to take. At that point you’re just holding on waiting for this carnival ride from Hell to be over, but of course once it’s done you just jump off and run to the back of the line so you can do it all again.

That’s what it’s like playing in the power band. It’s just insane.

I’ve driven fast bikes before. The ZRX11 had some good pull. The Dragon was dangerously quick. But this little FZ1 is just sick. The thing about that kind of acceleration is that you get a taste for it, and soon this stupid little voice in your head starts thinking about more. I have a feeling I’ll be making a few tweaks here and there over the coming year.

But this Yamaha, she ain’t pretty. The GTR14 took my breath away every time I looked at her. My Yamaha has more of a work-horse look about her, especially with all the salt and road filth from winter driving. I’ve always liked that dirty look, always had bikes like that, but I do miss the Dragon. (It’s not that I miss driving her, not really – I just miss having her).

It’s difficult to give a proper break-in report with all the crap on the roads. It’s winter, and though I enjoy my daily commute though the varied local terrain, I’ve not yet been able to throw this bike around properly. I got her just as winter started, and here we are (maybe) just approaching spring. That’s three months of shite roads. Three months of owning a (possibly) excellent bike, without yet really knowing.

The roads
The roads, they’re slick. All winter long they’re slick. It’s like a lottery. This is my third winter in Scotland and I still can’t tell from a glance what kind of traction I’m going to get. Sure, I can see that the grip is going to be poor, but how poor? Corner number one was a gripper; corner number two is a slipper. The paranoia grows, but somehow, so does the confidence.

The roads here are slippery all the time, even if it hasn’t rained in days. Part of it is the salt they put down in a cold spell; part of it is just the general shittiness of Scottish winters. The road surfaces are a winter-long gloop of retained moisture, absorbed gas fumes, salt, sand, and various other road-snot.

I could write all day about the various surface conditions you find around here. They change every day, every moment.  In the winter I actually enjoy the rain  — that hard, heavy rain that comes down all day. All the crud and slime gets washed away. Now it’s just clean, wet pavement. Bring it on.

But mostly it’s a freezing fog followed by a miserable drizzle. The pavement loves this combination – it gleefully soaks up all that oil and gassy exhaust, every day giving the finger to us two-wheeled die-hards.

I have different moods when I’m riding in these conditions. Sometimes my every nerve ending gets involved with finding the perfect way through: hips off the side, head and shoulders into the line, arms relaxed, my soul on the high-side peg. But then there’s a straight bit in front of me, clear of traffic, and I forgo the finesse and twist that throttle until it feels like I’m entering some other dimension. Hoo boy. Gotta be careful. There’s a whole boatload of hurt in that power band, but like my one-year old son asserting his will, I just can’t stay away from it.

I have a feeling that this little bike I have here is going to be a right blast once me and the road surface are seeing eye to eye. This is a good winter bike, but it’ll be some weeks before I can say whether it’s the bike for me.

The Schizophrenia
It’s getting schizophrenic: danger and boredom come together to form an adrenalin-fuelled ennui. I talk to myself about it on the way to work. I dream about it.  I’ve had enough. I’m ready now for the long long days, the dry B roads, the confidence to take my best line through a hard corner without this constant obsession with wiping out. I want myself to scare myself rather the slip doing it for me. We’re almost there, oh I hope we’re almost there.

Take heed you young whippersnappers, and take care. Keep it slow and easy for just a little while longer.  We’re almost there.

Yamaha on ice

I almost came down this morning. I did my usual survey on the way to my bike, looking for frost and ice, but everything looked nice and wet and grippy. It was cold though, so I pulled a careful little turn out of the driveway. No problems: the road surface seemed fine. I made it a block down the street before I realized that not was all as it seemed. I was going around 30mph in a straight line, with no load on, and suddenly the bike got really snaky. I corrected a couple of times with balance and steering, but there was nothing, no grip anywhere. The front end began fishtailing – shit, maybe I’ve overcompensated. For a second I thought for sure we were going down. I checked my mirrors, looking for bonus danger as I got ready to go tobogganing. My heart beat faster, but I kept my cool and remained loose. Somehow we remained upright.

Stupidly I kept going (slower now), hoping the main roads were in better shape. I needed to get to work. Indeed the main roads seemed fine at first, but I started noticing that the pavement on the edges of the normal driving line looked a little darker and not as wet. It wasn’t shiny or white like normal ice – this was the mythical black ice looking at me, not offering even a glint of a wink of reflection. Right! We’ll just stay on the main driving line! No problem. Two wheels is always do-able.

I love living in a climate where year-round riding is possible. It’s a good reason to get up and go to work. I don’t mind the cold (if my electrics are working right) and I enjoy the challenge, the buzz, the control. Driving on two wheels is now such an ingrained part of my day that I feel lost when I’m forced to take the car. But sometimes it gets tricky.

I stopped for gas. On the way back out I put my feet down as I waited for a gap in the traffic. The pavement under my feet was slick as snot. The slightest readjustment of weight and I would have dropped the bike right there. I was glad I wasn’t on the Dragon.

My concern was growing, but my stubbornness couldn’t be quelled. A little ice? Pah. I’m gonna drive this bike till I get where I’m going. Sure, maybe we’ll slide around a little, but I’ll get there, in style, just like I always do. But all that bravado couldn’t deny the growing certainty: these conditions were not biker-friendly.

Naught for it, gotta get to work, so I accelerated onto the A8. I soon pulled out to pass, taking it very gingerly. A mistake. As soon I crossed the white lines the rear end came out. What? I put my foot down and slowly let off the gas until we reacquired stability and some semblance of traction. Fuuuck. On a dual carriageway? Where were the spreaders? It showed 5 degrees on my browser widget when I left. Surely the ice was melted by now? Maybe I need a better widget.

I should have turned back long before, but I stupidly kept going. Hell, I’ve driven in icy conditions before. You just have to pay attention. Sure, on this morning I couldn’t even see the ice, but as I puttered along in the slow lane (an unusual and somewhat humiliating experience), I was starting to glean its intentions. I could see slightly darker patches of pavement, lacking in shine, and there: barely visible frost crystals around the perimeter. It wasn’t full-on ice – just thick invisible frost pulling that old masquerade. Slippery trickster.

Less than a mile later I spotted two lanes of stopped traffic ahead. Someone off the road, no doubt the ice. I snaked my way through the middle. Not the best move – the ice was thickest here, and mostly undisturbed. And still invisible. My feet were down, going slow, let’s just get past. I kept thinking about the rest of the roads on the way to work. I could take my usual B-road, but surely it would be even worse – much worse. Every other option I could think of left me with a bad feeling.

So I decided to just get through that accident and turn the fuck around and go home. I should have done just that after my first heart failure on my own street. When I finally made it through the traffic I could see the carnage: one small car up on the guardrail, side and front smashed to hell; another car facing backwards with a few scrapes; and a big 18-wheeler with no apparent damage. I saw a woman leaning against one of the cars talking on her cell phone, so I just kept going. There was broken plastic and crap all over the road – aha! – finally some traction! No cops or ambulances yet, and what with only a short line of traffic, it had probably just happened.

So I got on by, made a U-turn at the roundabout, and slowly headed for home. Well, not always slowly – there was some good traction here and there, some good continuous texture on the pavement – what, like I wasn’t going to let that engine breath a little? There’s a relationship between a man and his ride. She needs to be let loose at every good opportunity, lest we lose the passion for each other. I gave her what she needed for a few moments and then settled down for a crash-free ride home.

I was glad to finally slot my Yamaha into her little spot. I’d made it. It was still only 9:30 am but I was knackered. I called in to work and told them I’d be working at home for the day. Nice if you can get it.

The thing is I enjoyed that ride. I liked the challenge of learning the ice’s tells. I liked my movements, I liked how the bike responded. It was a ridiculous exercise of course, and I’m lucky to have not dumped her. But next time I think I’ll just take the snowmobile.

Update
The accident I saw on the M8 turned out to be lethal. An off-duty police officer had lost control of her car and was killed. I sure didn’t see that kind of carnage as I passed by, but I wasn’t rubber-necking – I was studying the surface and trying to remain upright.
Spooky, tragic, sad. Maybe it’s a message: I made the right decision in returning home.
To my wife: I promise that next time I’ll make that decision sooner.

My disgusting boy

I have a ten-month old boy, and he’s utterly disgusting. He’s tolerable straight out of the bath, but this baby-fresh loveliness only lasts as long as his first drool. It gets steadily worse from there.

If Bruce is exclusively in my charge I make sure he’s squeaky clean at all times – especially during mealtimes. I put on his full-body bib (the best baby gadget I’ve come across) and clean up after each spoonful. A full pack of baby-wipes is nearby, along with a face cloth and a roll of paper towels. I do not give him finger food or allow him to feed himself. No toast, no biscuits, and especially no bananas.

But it still doesn’t matter. Even what looks like a perfect open-mouth opportunity goes awry: he’ll swat the spoon away at the last second, spraying both us and the general area with gunk. And when my wife is feeding him – forget it. I won’t touch either one of them until they’ve both been in the bath and changed their clothes. I’ve actually seen her spoon up bits of food dribbling down his chin and then put that spoon into her own mouth. It’s horrifying.

Sometimes, for “fun”, she’ll even allow him to feed himself. This is thoroughly revolting. I can’t say how much it grosses me out. He grabs handfuls of this nasty-looking creamed vegetable puree and just squeezes it through his grubby little paws for awhile, before finally spreading it all about the general area of his mouth. What little makes it in gets spit out in a disgusting trickle down his chin, neck, and into the inside of his vest. Beautiful.

Bruce likes his toast. He takes a soldier and squeezes it through his fingers, then forces an end into his mouth, leaving the bulk of it hanging out. He then proceeds to “blah blah bah bah mah mah mah”, chewing and babbling and spitting all at the same time. The highchair tray is soon covered with half-masticated goo, as is his face and nasty little fingers. He then gets this purposeful look on his disgusting little face and starts hurling foul bits of half-chewed toast onto everything.

His high chair is permanently covered with a shiny sheen of dried-up goo, mottled with petrified bits of banana and assorted slimy lumps. Between mealtimes he likes to crawl around under it, picking up left-over crumbs and solidified bits of fruit and munching on them. I’m feeling sick just thinking about it.

We try and share mealtimes together, but I’m finding it increasingly difficult. It’s hard to eat when you’re struggling not to throw up.

I’ve taken to carrying around some extra paper towels in my back pocket, just in case. I get panicky when I run out.

It’s not just that he’s inherently messy: it’s also his mother. She seems to think it will help him develop naturally if we allow him to eat how he wants. Sometimes she’ll just leave us, right in the middle of his dinner. My anxiety rises as I notice he’s fully soaked in some kind of nasty green puree. Bib-less, and not a wipe to be seen. And I’m still trying to eat my own meal. And, right on cue, he starts screaming, done with his high chair and demanding to be let out, and now I have to be the one to do it. I love this boy dearly, but the thought of touching him in this state makes me nauseous, so I yell out to my wife, “HONEY DON’T LEAVE ME HERE WITH THIS REVOLTING BOY!”

The mess is not just confined to the house. I went to roll down the window in the car the other day. The window switch was covered in some kind of half-dried mucous-like grunge. Fucken hell. Probably yoghurt with live banana chunks. My old self would have just kept going – and going, and going, as fast and as far away from this gooey nightmare as I could get. But instead I just sighed and wiped my finger on my jeans. Fucken gross, but what are you going to do?

The Vendée Globe: heartbreak in the fifties

The Furious Fifties

The leading pack is now half-way around the world. The race now is through the Pacific, around Cape Horn, then back up the Atlantic.

It’s a big ocean to sail on matchstick boats. There are only eighteen left from the thirty that started. I suspect we’ll lose a couple more in the Pacific.

There is more to be experienced in the Vendée Globe than waves, sea and sky. There’s a constant fight with the physical elements, but the heart and mind become the principle combatants in this the most solitary of battles. Confidence ebbs and flows with the waves. The heart gets heavy and despondent, the head overrun with the lengthening job list. Where’s the time for sleep, where’s the time for even racing? How in the hell can this possibly work?

Rarely do we see such a helter-skelter of physical and emotional hardship as we do in a race like the Vendée:  Passion. Agony. The deep satisfaction derived from impeccable seamanship. The respect for and breathtaking awe of such terrifying seas. The excitement of surfing such a brittle piece of kit at thirty knots. The shattered heartbreak of a boat broken, busted, and fucked beyond repair.
And those still with us are still only half-way around.

They are well into the southern latitudes now – well into the fifties. “Below forty degrees, there is no law,” it is said. “Below 50 degrees, there is no God.”

Among the first to retire in this latest period of attrition was Unai Bazurko (Pakea Bizkaia) with a broken rudder. The Open 60’s have two rudders to obtain the most effective steering, but as Unai heads home to Spain, he will have but one, forcing him to stay on a single tack for most of the journey.

Loick Peyron (Gitana Eighty) was in third place when he was dismasted on December 10th.  Good timing, too: he’d just climbed his mast the previous day to fix a halyard problem. Loick had previously been in the lead longer than any other skipper. He’s also the only skipper to have raced in the first Vendee back in 1989. He has managed to construct a jury rig and is now gamely making his way towards Australia.

At this point the boats are starting to seriously surf at 30+ knots of boat speed, often with only the aft quarter of the boat still in the water. This involves careful placement of ballast (stacking and water tanks) as well as full trust in one’s autopilot. Autopilot repair is a frequent maintenance issue for the solo skippers; most carry several for redundancy. Without an autopilot the skipper would always be tired and wet and never be able to race at the level required.

By the middle of December, Mike Golding (Ecover) was up to fourth, and Mich Desj (Foncia) all the way up to third – after having been seven hundred miles behind due to his early return to Les Sables. What a sailor! Mich is so nonchalant about it as well – doesn’t feel he’s pushing particularly hard, but he must be.

Icebergs are now being spotted by some of the skippers, from boat-size to four hundred metres in length and as high as a mast. Wildlife is causing problems too, as Safran hits a whale but somehow escapes damage.

.

Sam enjoying herself in the South

Sam Davies on Roxy seems to be really enjoying her race. Huge surfing; sometimes co-operative seas; the right attitude. She of all the skippers seems the most willing (or able) to express the magic and beauty of sailing such a boat in such an ocean.
Her McGyver side has also been busy – she’s been doing what sounds like some extensive rewiring, what with bypassing solenoids in the keel trunk.
Last week Sam hit her elbow so hard that she passed out with the pain. Thankfully she now seems to be ok.
Her quote about icebergs in my last post was eerie and frightening and beautiful…

Cheminées Poujoulat beached

The two Swiss skippers suffered badly in the Indian ocean. The keel head on Dominique Wavre’s Temenos II broke, leaving the keel swinging out of control under the boat. He diverted to the Kerguelen islands to try and effect a repair.
His compatriot Bernard Stamm (Cheminées Poujoulat) also had issues, discovering his rudder bearings were crushed by the excessive wave forces. Wavre, already anchored in the Kerguelens, tried to guide Bernard into the tricky bay so he could also attempt repairs, but Stamm ended up running aground after getting caught in a patch of weeds. His boat was badly damaged, but they eventually got her re-floated and she is now loaded aboard a supply vessel, bound for Reunion Island.
Meanwhile, Wavre continues on to Australia after making a makeshift repair to the keel head.

Golding dismasted

On December 16th, Mike Golding managed to gain first place. He was sailing quickly and seemed to be managing the boat very well, but then… CRASH. Tragedy. The mast came down. Again. This is Mike’s third dismasting in four consecutive round-the-world races. Ecover was very powered up at the time, though apparently in the wrong configuration. He was just heading out on deck to deal with an unexpected squall when it all came down. It’s just heartbreaking. I thought Mike had a chance at first place this time around.

That’s three injured boats now headed for Perth.

Iceberg!

Vincent Riou (PRB), always up with the leading pack and a favourite for this Vendee, had to slow down for a while due to an injured foot. Last week he hit a glancing blow to an iceberg but somehow avoided injury or damage. The Vendee safety team has enforced a series of ice gates that forces the fleet out of the known danger zones, but this far South, there is still no avoiding the odd growler or iceberg. What an utterly frightening and humbling experience that must be!
Vincent’s foot is now on the mend and he thinks he can catch the rest of the fleet in the Pacific.

Jean-Pierre Dick (Paprec Virbac) – a front runner for most of the race – experienced rudder damage after hitting a UFO (Unidentified Floating Object). He then headed North into quieter seas to effect a complicated repair. Although not fully satisfied with it, Riou is now back on track after having lost 600 miles. I have a feeling he’ll find a way to keep that rudder working and make his way back up to the front.

Jean-Baptiste Dejeanty (Groupe Maisoneuve) finally decided to abandon the race after suffering from a series of equipment problems. These included autopilot failures, a ripped genoa, and a damaged mainsail halyard. He was one of the original boats to return to Les Sables for repairs. He must be gutted.

And of course there’s Yann Elies, who suffered for two days with a broken leg, waiting for rescue. He’s now safe and sound in a hospital in Fremantle.

Mich Desj in the lead

The comeback kid continues to astound: after a seven hundred mile deficit Mich Desj (Foncia) has been in first place since Golding’s dismasting. He’s still going strong and seemingly not bothered by the pace. This is typical French mastery in action.

So – eighteen left, and more serious weather about to hit the entire fleet. Let’s hope the excitement continues without any more injuries. It’s a tough race, on a tough ocean, but these are tough skippers. God speed to all of them.

The Vendee Globe: in their own words

On the work it takes to keep an Open 60 sailing:

From Steve White, (Toe in the Water):
“I signed off last time about to do a sail change in a building breeze. I had to roll up and take down the Code 5 in what was by the time I got on deck about 35 knots of wind, which is over the limit for an old sail! This is a perfectly normal procedure, I started rolling the thing up but it got jammed half rolled up and half unrolled! There it was, flogging itself silly at the front of the boat. I went up the front to try and free it up, but the furling drum is right at the end of the bowsprit – I was not going out there I can assure you – there was a big sea and we were surfing at nearly twenty knots sometimes! I taped my big kitchen knife to the deckbrush handle and went up to deal with the problem, which was that the cover of the furling line had wrinkled up like Nora Batty’s stockings (a character in a British sitcom-editor) inside the drum, got caught on a cunningly placed spike and wedged itself up very very tightly! Whilst hacking away I took my eye off the ball missed a big wave which we surfed down, and got hosed down the deck, knife in hand, as we buried the bow in the wave in front at high speed – everything went dark, there was a whooshing noise in my ears as they filled up, and I held my breath as water went down my neck right down to my boots, up my nose, up my arms, everywhere. I took some sizeable pieces out of my fingers as I tried to grab stanchions and guardwires on the way past – the force of the water was incredible and I still have the bruises to testify! When I came to a stop at the mast I had managed to keep hold of the knife luckily! I had several goes at cutting away at the drum, rolling and unrolling the sail; I cut forty five metres of cover of the rest of the line with a pair of scissors on my hands an knees, and still it was up there, half in, half out and flogging like nobody’s business. After nearly three hours I decided it had to be dropped on deck as it was whilst I still had a mast! I sailed as far downwind as I dared without gybing, and went for it – first time I aborted and winched it up again before it went in the water, then second time I had it on an “inboard roll” of the boat – it was there on deck, coming down, coming down, then,outboard roll – whoosh, over the side, in the water. The boat stopped short and rounded up into the wind with a parachute handbrake over the side. There followed another two hours of struggling as I tried to get the thing back onboard, but things were going badly wrong – bent stanchions, then the first rip, then around the keel – the stuff of nightmares. I finished up dragging the thing off the bowsprit after trying to save the boltrope for my poor old broken gennaker, but I couldn’t get the thing out of the middle of the partially rolled sail. In the end I had to let the thing go before I had to get in the water and get it off the keel. I watched it sink. A twenty thousand pound sail lost because of a hundred pound piece of string with a loose cover. All I had left was the swivel and two thimbles and a ten inch piece of the head………I don’t mind admitting that nearly killed me, I was fairly well beaten up and bruised, and soaked to the skin, and rapidly becoming cold. It was 1400 when I went on deck, and 1915 when I came back down.”

On being reasonable:

From Dominique Wavre (Temenos II):
“Forcing your way through these types of seas isn’t reasonable. You have to try and weave your way through gently when the sea state is poor. As soon as the boat’s making more than 20 knots the rudders scream creating a fairly stressful, sharp noise. I tune the I-pod into my anti-noise earphones and that tones down the noise well and it becomes more bearable.”

On icebergs:

From Sam Davies (Roxy) :
“I just passed an iceberg less than 0.5nm on my Starboard side. Size C2 – around 100m I think, big enough to show up on the radar easily. SO beautiful, intense blue at the base, gleaming white top, waves crashing off the sides, SO dangerous. I hope it’s the only one.”

On the balance between speed and safety:

From Mike Golding (Ecover):
“All of us are playing the knife edge as to what we can physically cope with and what the boat can physically cope with. The reality is, if we push on too hard there’s a risk of breakage and we certainly don’t want to be turning left too soon.”

The Indian Ocean awakens the warrior in Yann  (this was a few days before his injury):

From Yann Elies (Generali):
The adventure has turned into a hand to hand fight over the past few days. The Indian, the Apache, the Mohican is a brave warrior. And we’re the poor cowboys, who under-estimated the wild natural instincts of this ocean. We racers with our brand new silver dream machines, are no longer grouped together, but have spread out. The battlefield that appeared in the naked light of day revealed damaged multihulls and downhearted sailors.  This description may appear exaggerated, but talking it over with people around here and looking at my own condition and my boat, that’s how it feels this morning.  The Indian Ocean is in the process of granting or refusing permission and the toll is expensive.  Waking up this morning was like coming out of a nightmare. I’m stunned, not to say reeling from the violence.  The Indian, which was sleeping in me, has awoken.  I’m fed up simply putting up with it.  As I write this letter, as I try to find the right words, I can feel the rebel appearing in me, rather like an adolescent facing his father.  Now I’m going to fight head held high, intent on gaining revenge for you, my blood brother, for your gang in the Abers (in Brittany), my friend Bernard. The Indian deserves a lot of respect  and you need to remain humble when crossing it.  But I have even more respect for you and your family. The fight goes on.  For not much longer now, but I’m holding out.”

Some of these quotes are eerily prescient, as we shall see in my next post.

The Vendée Globe: Yann’s rescue

This has been a rather eventful week in the Vendée Globe, to say the least.

The biggest story – eclipsing other big news which I’ll get to soon – was Yann Elies’s injury and subsequent rescue.

Generali drifting under reduced sail with injured Yann below

Yann was on deck making a sail change when Generali slammed into a big wave. This is by no means an unusual event in this part of the ocean; it was just bad luck that he was working up at the bow when it happened. He was thrown to the deck, breaking his femur and probably several ribs.
He somehow managed to crawl back into the cockpit and then below-decks to radio for help.

For the next forty-eight hours he waited on his bunk at the nav station, in too much pain even to move across the cabin to open his medical kit (which contained morphine).

The two closest boats were Marc Guillemot’s Safran and Sam Davies’ Roxy, which were both asked to divert from their current course to Generali’s location. They wouldn’t be able to do much once they got there: the sea is very rarely flat enough to allow two yachts to tie up together. Their presence there would be more for emotional and psychological support.

Generali as seen from Marc Guillemot’s Safran

Marc Guillemot arrived within twenty-four hours and was able to stay close by and chat with Yann as they waited for rescue from the Australian navy. Marc put together some packages containing water and morphine and tried to toss them though Generali’s hatch, but the seas were too difficult.

Eventually, Guillemot was able to talk Yann through each movement across the cabin to get at his medical kit. He finally got some painkillers into him and was able to sleep for a while.

Forty-eight hours after his injury, HMS Arunta, an Australian navy frigate, managed to extract Yann from his yacht using a RIB (Rigid Inflatable, like a Zodiac). He’s now resting comfortably aboard Arunta, under medical care, and is heading for a civilian hospital in Perth.

The story is all over the BBC just now. This is the first time they’ve even mentioned the Vendée Globe. Well done, BBC. Wait for the big tragedy then cycle it repeatedly.

I’ve been thinking about Elias and what it must have beeen like out there, by yourself with a broken leg, not knowing when help will arrive. The pain was sure to be excruciating. He must have been so grateful to have Marc there for him, even if conditions were too rough for any physical assistance.

The rescue as observed from Safran

It’s the risk you take with such a race. The boats are so fast, the ocean so rough and unpredictable, that a broach or a nose-plant are in no way avoidable. With traditional cruising yachts, your speed is such that the impacts against the waves (and the waves against the boat) have much less force. Water is hard – the impact can be incredibly loud and shake the whole boat, even at just five or six  knots. Image at four times that speed. The impact is unbelievable, even to the racers themselves.

I got thrown around a few times during my time at sea, usually when I had to use both hands for some operation like changing a sail or making tea. I would try and time my activities with the trough of the waves, but the sea is rarely orderly. The waves take on the general pattern of the wind, but when it changes direction (as it does), the seas can take many hours before they are once again in harmony with the wind. In the meantime there’s a lot of chop – waves crashing together from all directions, causing an even higher and more dangerous swell. It’s during this sea-state where accidents happen.

It was one of these cross-waves that probably got Generali.  Head down for one second, working on getting that halyard on, and SLAM.

Much of the rest of the fleet has gotten a little spooked over this unfortunate event. Some have reduced speed, others are now wearing helmets. Elies’ injury will now be part of their decision making process. The ocean is capable of dishing out bucket after bucket of nastiness and misery. It’s not that the ocean is mean or cruel. It’s that there is no way of beating it. One can attempt an understanding though: it’s the only way to get home.

***

More on the rest of the Southern Ocean carnage coming soon….

The quiet barber

I got my hair cut today. I abhor getting my hair cut. It ranks right up with going to the dentist, but at least my dentist offers me good strong drugs. I go to the Glasgow Dental School, which is actually a pretty creepy place. Behind the receptionist you can see one of their classrooms. There’s row upon row of ancient dental chairs, complete with banged up instrument trays and filthy overhead lights. It’s like a bad dream. And not a mannequin to be seen – they practice on live patients. But who would volunteer?

What makes my visits to this horror-film setting so pleasant is the Sedation Suite. This is where they administer the excellent drugs: liquid Valium on a continuous drip. It drowses you out, but you still remain awake. Awake but not giving a shit. When I’m under that Valium spell, they could do anything they want in there and I just wouldn’t care.
The other nice thing about the dental school is all the pretty nurses, assistants, and trainees, all in white and blue uniforms. There’s something about a woman in uniform…

And maybe that’s part of the problem with the hair cutting. Lack of uniforms. It’s also the difficulty I have with telling them what I want. I never know how to describe it. What if I’m wrong? What if my head ends up looking really stupid because I didn’t use the right terms? ‘Medium short’ can be interpreted in so many ways.
My favourite hairdresser – indeed the only hairdresser I even felt comfortable going to – was Cass, back when I lived in Ottawa. We were friends too: we used to drink at the same place. We had an understanding, me and her. Nice and quick, knew what I wanted, and no excessive chatting.

That’s the main problem: the chatting. I don’t enjoy small talk, and it’s impossible to avoid it at the hairdresser’s. Especially with my accent.
“So where are you from?”
Oh shit. Here we go. I try my best unapproachable mumble.
“Canada.”
I’m not excited about it, I’m not leading into anything, and I’m careful that my inflection drops on the final syllable in a bid to discourage anything more.
“Oh, nice! Whereabouts? My Aunt lives in Edmonton.”
There’s always the aunt in Edmonton. In fact, it’s not just hairdressers with Aunts in Edmonton. I’ve met hundreds of Scots who make the same claim. It’s not that I doubt them. It’s not even that I don’t care. It’s just that I don’t like being stuck in that chair subjected to a forced interrogation.

Please, can’t you just cut my hair and leave me alone? But no, just by sitting in that chair I’ve effectively waived my right to privacy.
At some point comes the inevitable “So what brings you to Scotland?” question. Sometimes I feel like just making something up, but even then it would just lead to more questions. Maybe next time I’ll just say: “I’m on the run from the law. I murdered a hairdresser.”

It would be so much easier if I got my hair cut more often. I’d be more fluent in the language of hair; they’d have less hair to cut; maybe I’d even end up finding one that would just cut my hair and not interview me.

To any hairdressers that might be reading this: I mean no offence. You are obviously interested in people and maybe you’re just trying to make your day more interesting. But how do I tell you to stop asking me stuff and just cut my hair, without offending you? I’m nervous and irritable in the barber’s chair. I’m trapped. There’s nowhere to go. I am held captive in a forced one-sided social situation that should have only been a haircut. If I growl you might retaliate: nick my ears, or mess up my hair so badly it takes another year before I return.

And then there’s the mirror. I hate looking into a mirror for that length of time. I hate seeing my awkward attempts to disengage from conversation. This time I made an effort to avoid looking at the mirror at all, hoping that it might also signal my desire for internal reflection and meditation. It didn’t work, of course.

At one barber in Charleston, SC, they sat you in the chair backwards, looking out. I think it was so that the customers could watch the college football on the seven plasma TVs they had there. It felt really strange but it made a heck of a lot more sense. Too bad I’m not a football fan.

I’ve had ear-nicking barbers; I’ve had flaming gay barbers. I’ve had the hairdressers that rub their tits against me at every opportunity, which makes life more interesting but still doesn’t make me any happier being there. I’ve had good barbers and bad barbers. But they’ve all got the curse of the gab.

Please, can you tell me: where is the quiet barber?

Dragon in the showroom

I saw the Dragon today. I was at the Yamaha dealership getting the Fazer’s first service. There was no missing her – there she was, striking a pose in the middle of the showroom floor. A real looker, that bike. I walked past her a number of times as I waited. Each time there was some other emotion there, creeping up around my edges like some new but familiar smell. I knew this bike, knew it well, done some good things with it. I looked for envy, I watched for lust, but I didn’t find it. Of this I was glad. I still admire the GTR14, still think it beautiful, and I was happy to see her. But I surprised myself – I didn’t so much as touch her, let alone trail my fingers in a lingering, wistful stroke.

She was sporting an expensive-looking new front tire. I knew that if I drove her now that some of the handling issues would be solved, that she’d turn so much easier, might even have some of that throwability I so cherish. But I had no doubts.

I could feel myself there. It was strange. Not so long ago that bike was me. It was like seeing an old photograph of myself in some long-ago setting. A feeling of recognition, even warmth. It was a life solidified on the showroom floor. Seeing her there was seeing a reflection of myself in a way that no mirror could ever do.

Only 5,000 miles on this beauty, but now she seemed very much used, a bit scuffed up and not worth a second thought. I saw flashes of speed, of competent carving, of heart-racing mistakes. I saw too the downside, the parts that came before, the emotional conflict.

The experience of seeing her there, down off her pedestal, was fascinating. It was my own story sitting there in that room. The wee scuff marks on the seat, on the tank, on the rear tire – they were all still there. That bike was no longer a machine of its own. For whoever rides her next I’ll be there too.

The strangest feeling was the sense of maleness she now seemed to broadcast. She was always a female to me, but now, it was more like seeing me than seeing an ex-bike. I felt my wife there too, in the background, looking at me in that way she does, even missing me in a way, but I wasn’t even gone.

The Dragon was obviously an important event to my motorcycling self. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything quite like this. Usually, when it’s time to sell the stuff that has touched me in some way, the buyer takes it and is gone. This is different, being able to see her anytime I want. I’m almost feeling lonely just thinking about her in there. I’m here, she’s there, but we used to be the same.