Emergency bike wash

I washed my Yamaha FZ1 today for the first time in weeks. Months, probably. Cue shock and awe among the general biker population. What kind of a man? Not washing means not loving, means not caring, means, in the end, neglect. Poor Yammy.

My rear tire challenges this conclusion. 4,000 miles and it’s down to the steel belts. Neglect? We doubt this.

We say that driving the snot out of a highly-rated tire suggests enthusiastic usage of the machine – within, of course,  its recommended operating parameters. I drove that tire to the dealer carefully, paranoically, though that wasn’t my primary purpose there. The brake disks were getting replaced again. Problems at the factory with their lathe or something. I’m now on my third set on the front and second on the rear. I change them more than I do my tires.

But that’s not why we’re here. We were talking about not washing motorcycles.

The emergency bike wash was necessary to suck up to the head mechanic at the dealer. He’s given me trouble in the past. Says they can’t honour the warranty unless I look after it. A fair enough statement, but I don’t know. Have you ever seen what a bike looks like after two or three weeks of winter driving in Scotland? Not so shiny anymore.  But he didn’t see it quite the same way. Gave me a stern talking to.

This is the only Yamaha dealer any where close to me, so I need smiles and goodwill, especially as these warranty issues gather steam. So I did a quick rinse with the hose, a quick once over with a soapy sponge, another rinse to finish. Quick and lazy. I tightened and lubed the chain, too, while I was at it – he might really have had something on me if he’d seen the shocking state of it.

I washed the Dragon often and with due respect. Those lingering, soapy moments were perhaps my favourite thing about that beast. But this Yamaha is no dragon. She’s a beater. A fun beater, full of warts and cramps, freaky fast for sure, but certainly no looker. So why bother spending two hours of painstaking scrubbing of rims and spokes when I really just don’t care? Sure, I want her to last, so I spray her down with anti-corrosion when I think of it. I maintain tire pressures (at least semi-annually) and adjust and lube the chain. I may not trail my fingers over her like I did the Dragon, but that doesn’t mean I ‘m just going to throw my money away.

Some guys spend more time washing than riding. It’s the same with boats, too. Yachties down to the marina of a Sunday just to scrub and polish, leaving the dock maybe once in a season. Someday may have not always been the most polished of boats, but I kept all her systems in good working order. And I left the dock. Surely that’s the point?

Go to any bike meet. Aside from the grunge they picked up on their way there, every last one of them is spotless and gleaming, no matter what gutless thumper is cradled within. Car owners across the UK can relate. Here, if you have a motor, no matter how pathetic, you wash it. At least as often as your neighbour.

I used to ride with a guy* that brought two terrycloth towels with him everywhere he went. Once we stopped – for a coffee, a beer, a vista – he’d pull out the damp one and begin cleaning off mostly-invisible spots of dust, followed by a careful but furious polish with the dry one.  I didn’t understand. Me, I’d park my Vera within line of sight, then stand back and smoke, taking in the vista, my emotions heightened by her silhouette. She was something to look at, especially dirty. That was Vera’s thing. She was better dirty.

Bikes are for riding, not cleaning. But maybe, in most biker’s eyes, the one they’re on right now is their own Dragon. Who am I to say?

I used to drive a gorgeous Kawasaki ZRX11. I had her for five years and didn’t wash her once. It became, almost, a matter of pride. When I lived In South Carolina I’d park her on the dock close to Someday. Convenient, but salt water and metal fall madly, sickly, in love. A parasitic relationship going nowhere good. Sometimes I’d see another ZRX and I’d think, wow, that does look good. Seems every ZRX owner but me was obsessive in their worship. Oh well, I’d think. It was too late anyways, and surely not worth the effort.

Washing a bike is fundamentally different than washing a car. The innards are inside-out, so it’s not just body panels – it’s every metal bit, especially their fasteners. Nuts and bolts get fuzzed with corrosion, rusting at the faintest smell of rain. I ride every day, no matter the fickle Scottish weather. A proper wash is a compete detailing job that takes a certain sick level of devotion that I’m glad to be lacking.

In the end, the head mechanic didn’t say anything, at least not about her filth. It was the steel belts in the tire that caught his attention. I don’t think that impressed. And the parts man continued his gradual distancing – I think I make him uncomfortable. Too many questions, demands.

I understand the obsession. I’ve flirted with it myself. But for this bike – for all the bikes I’ve ever owned – I’d rather ride than polish. And besides, a little road spoodge speaks to the motorcycle’s true purpose, which is not about short skirts and lip gloss.  It’s about you, the machine, and the road. The spoodge is a bonus.

*Chris, if you’re out there, get in touch.

Children’s books

Our little Bruce is growing fast. He’s got loads of energy – running, climbing, yelling, shouting… especially the shouting. He likes asserting his ebullience and notifying his maker that he’s still here doing His good work. Sometimes he’s like a Scottish squall – you’re sitting there in a peaceful, thoughtful mood and all of sudden this fast, ferocious dynamo comes tearing through and completely shatters your ruminations. The only difference being that the squalls here aren’t anywhere near as amusing.

He’s only a year and half but his presence is constantly felt. He’s loud, sure, but I suppose I’m getting used to it. But the whining. Oh the whining. He just went through a phase (at this age a "phase" lasts at most a week) of constant whining. For something, anything. It was probably something else bothering him and he couldn’t tell us. He’s got loads of words now, but his monologues are still pretty much incoherent.

But there are quiet moments. You’d think these would be a god-send, a moment for me to relax and actually read an entire paragraph in one go. But that doesn’t work. It’s worrisome. It’s better when you can hear him, because you know more or less what he’s up to. Running around screaming lacks a certain serenity but at least you know all is well. Banging and smashing from the other room is also usually OK. And a few moments of silence, followed by a mad mirthful cackle? Usually not so good.

It’s complete silence which is the most concerning. He could be up to any amount of sneaky trouble. Climbing up onto the roof for instance. Or up in my room smoking. I wouldn’t put it past him.

But usually the sudden and welcome calming of the atmosphere is just him gone to his room to read. I watch sometimes through the crack in the door. He’ll go over to his bookcase, pull out a book, take it over to the one clear spot on the floor, sit down, and start reading.

Ok, so it’s not proper reading just yet, just looking at the pictures, following the story, pointing at things and talking in his own language with a few intelligible words thrown in. But that’s reading, right? Sure it is.

He’s got some good books. But he’s got some weird ones too.

Alligator Pie
If I don’t get some I think I’m gonna die. I like all the poems; they’re all silly and fun, and I remember them from when I was a kid. But the pictures are just one bad dream after another. The artist was clearly on acid when he drew them. Bruce is OK with the rhymes but struggles with the bad trips.

Bigger Digger
Now this one is just stupid. A little digger gets stuck, and then a bigger digger has to come – but guess what? It gets stuck too. Any guesses as what’s next? You got it – a bigger bigger digger. It’s all just idiocy. I cringe when Bruce chooses this one. Repetitive tongue twisters with no real story or good things to look at – it’s no fun for either of us.

The New Baby Train
New babies come from… trains. Kind of confusing when you think about it, but the art is excellent and there’s lots of choo choos. Always popular for that train-crazy kid.

My Seasons
The kids in this book are obviously retarded. Every last one of them has this dumb little smile on his face. This is not unusual in kids books, and I don’t like it. I don’t see the point in condescendence. The common denominator isn’t interesting to children. More blood and guts! I think he’s almost ready for Jacob Two Two and the Hooded Fang.

Scarface Claw
A good story but soon gets repetitive. Bottomley Pots all covered in spots – you’re made to say this about a dozen times through the story, not to mention all his buddies with their own personal rhyming nicknames. However, if you can slog through the silliness there’s an awesome scene at the end: SCARFACE CLAW! Very frightening, and always something to look forward to. It’s a great formula for kids books – some good and scary action as a focal point.

My Babies Faces (or something – you get the drift)
A Canadian picture book full of pictures of ethnically diverse babies. Annoyingly politically correct. I think there’s one white baby in there. It’s not that I mind black babies – some of my best friends are black babies – I just don’t like kids books that preach and teach as if they’re on some kind of mission.

Hop On Pop
Dr. Seuss has some good books, but they’re too full of tongue twisters. Maybe kids like them but I don’t enjoy reading them. There is one good lesson in this one though: You must not hop on Pop.

Goodnight Moon
A classic. I remember reading this to my little sister when she was a baby. Beautifully illustrated. But who’s the old lady whispering hush? If it was his/her grandmother, why don’t they just say so? I have suspicions.

The Tiger Who Came to Tea
This is a good one. There’s a playful whimsy about it and a distinct lack of preaching. Sure, it’s a bit dated now, with Mommy staying at home cooking and shopping while Daddy goes to work, but hey, doesn’t sound bad to me. I guess I’m a little old-fashioned myself.

Curious George Takes a Train
I used to love curious George books as a child. But the one thing I always wonder about is: who is Mrs. Needleman, and what is The Man in the Yellow Hat going to do to her when they get to where they’re going? There’s always something a little off going on in the background. This I like.

The Hungry Caterpillar
An excellent little baby book, with a good story, with counting and lots food items to learn and identify. I like this approach to combining a bit of learning with a good story – the story still comes first.

Pat the Bunny
This is one sick little book. Every page has some kind of obscene insinuation.
"Judy can pat the bunny. Now YOU pat the bunny. How big is bunny? Sooooo big!
Paul can put his finger through Mummy’s ring. Now YOU put your finger through Mummy’s ring."
And so on. You’ve got to see some of the pictures too. It’s downright dirty. Was the author having a little joke with us?

Writing a good children’s book is a lot harder than you’d think. It’s a careful juggling act, balancing children’s perceived intellectual capacity with adult concepts. There must be humour, and whimsy, and maybe a fright or two. Learning is a bonus but must come second to the story.

If I could find a willing artist, I might just give it a go.

Public Toilets

I hate public toilets. No matter how recently it has been cleaned there’s always a wee piddly puddle on the floor in front of the toilet or urinal. Fuck, I say, spreading my feet so I’m not standing in it. Sometimes, after I’m done, I notice more piddles than when I started. Fuck, I say again, then zip back up and go.

Or when I enter what I know to be a perfectly functioning toilet to find someone’s crap floating there, or worse – the seat all covered in splatter. Why can’t people sit down when they’re doing that? Sometimes it’s vomit, of course – not unusual in Glasgow toilets, no matter what time it is.

But this isn’t as bad as the urinals, especially in this country. They are often just a stainless steel trough, wide enough for four men to relieve themselves together in a jolly line. Here the piddle pools are everywhere. It stinks. It’s gross. There’s a stupid vandal-proof ad affixed just so on the mildewed wall. I hate ads. You can, if you like, look down at the goings on below, but there’s something off with that. When I see other guys do it I wonder what they think of it, their relationship with it. I prefer to stand ramrod straight, staring dead ahead, cringing if my peripheral vision catches a milker. I hate these guys. They make a big show of how difficult an operation it is to pull our their equipment, then take its length in their hand and start to pull. (Now, for you girls out there, you must remember that we’re not looking, oh no, that would be the worst imaginable breach of etiquette. We don’t look, but sometimes we just can’t help noticing, as we’re staring dead ahead, that the next guy is really getting into it.) At this point I know what’s coming so I’m hoping I can finish up first – but no, too late. He starts milking it, getting right into his disgusting ritual: milk, squirt, milk squirt – and he’s not even halfway though. Man. I just hate it. Why can’t you just let it flow? It’s not gonna come out any quicker doing it like that. Is it some kind of autoerotic thing? Is he getting off on this?

The thing with these guys is that if I’m still going (those last few pints can really build up) I’ve also got to witness the ending. I want to look the other way but there’s a new piddler just joined the festivities. I’m not going to look down like he is – this is a fucking public toilet man! – so I stare at the perfect Budweiser girl in her red and white bikini, this vacuous look on her face that reminds me of the women in South Carolina. My memories distract me for a moment, and now I’m just finishing up – but, fuck, so is he. Getting his shoulders right into it as he waggles it for all it’s worth. He’s gonna give himself whiplash at that rate, soil his clothes. Dude – what’s the deal? My imagination paints a picture for me, of what kind of man he is, with this friends, with his women. What kind of paper he reads, what he talks about. The picture doesn’t turn out pretty.

And then he tucks it back in – an even more elaborate a performance than when he brought it out. What is all that about, Sigmund?

I studiously avoid any form of interaction in a public bathroom. Eye contact is bad, but talking is even worse. There’s one particular type of offender which makes me shudder. “Hey! How’s it going?” the dude says, as he ensconces himself in a cubicle. I mutter something, trying hard to convey my discomfort at his verboten social faux pas. But he carries on, louder now, “Hey, that’s some bike you got there!”. Before I can respond he’s noisily started his proceedings. A disgusting squelching sound is echoed and amplified by the toilet bowl. He keeps talking, punctuating with groans and unmentionable awfulness. Oh, the horror.

A pubic toilet should be a quiet, calming environment where a man can enjoy some solitary down-time. A place to relax, read the paper, perhaps even mutter to one’s self quietly. Some people just don’t get it. Jovial frivolity and exhibitionism ahead of quiet contemplation.

Workplace toilets come with their own set of problems. For instance, there’s the washing of the hands dilemma. Me, a pee is just a pee and I’m fine just getting on out of there. But there’s an unwritten decorum in professional toilets: wash your hands, no matter what. Skip this frivolous ceremony and you’ll be the topic of office gossip forever more. Believe me, I know.

And can’t I just have a private moment? Please? I’m pissing here – or worse. And buddy there is asking for my thoughts on yesterday’s company meeting. Come on. I sit right next to you, why don’t you wait till we’re back at our desks? I can’t tell you how much this bugs me. It’s so intrusive.

I hate public toilets, but I suppose I can take comfort in the fact that they’re not all like the one in Train Spotting. Then we’d be in real trouble.

Rocking

I’ve recently joined a rock and roll band. Every rocker’s dream, right? Actually it is pretty cool – I’m really enjoying it. I’m wondering why I waited this long.

It’s a bunch a guys from work, getting together for a bit of fun. The plan is to put on a fund-raising charity show sometime around Christmas. Some of us are experienced musicians, some of us not so much.

It’s a bit of an odd group, actually. We’ve got people in their twenties all the way through to their mid-forties. Our tastes, musical experiences, and skill levels differ wildly. We’ll not be making any records I don’t think, but there’s a certain safety element in such a configuration. We all work together, we all like music, and we’re trying to create a passable sound that might entertain for an evening. At best we’ll be an entertaining cover band. At worst it’ll be a decent team-building exercise.

This being a bunch of workmates, there are additional professional considerations to keep in mind: the singer can’t throw a temper tantrum and walk out in a huff; you can’t just fire the heroin-addled guitar player; and the drummer can’t die by choking on someone else’s vomit.

Groupies are probably out too, as half of us are married. This is a serious bummer. Likewise, extreme drunkenness is probably a bad idea, as are hard drugs. What are we left with? The glamour evaporates. Maybe I’ll just knock over my drum kit at the end of our final set – surely that’s allowed.

I’ve been practicing the same six songs for weeks now. That’s all we’ve managed – six songs. Our goal is two 45-minutes sets, so that’s probably 12 or 15 songs all told. We have a lot of work to do.

The bass player is tight, which makes my job a lot easier – now I just need to reciprocate. Actually I thought I was doing ok until I recorded my practice last night. My favourite song from our set – The Clash’s I Fought the Law – sounded a mess. I was all over the place. The heart was there, sure, but it was a train wreck. Well, maybe that’s ok, maybe even a bit Punk Rock. A train wreck with heart.

It’s fascinating to me, how seriously I’m taking this. I know it’s just a lark really, but I have this drive to excel with this project. Realistically, all I can hope for is competence.

Fear of failure is a constant companion on most of my adventures. Sometimes it’s an expectation of failure, which ends with us both rolling in the gutter, blaming each other, but usually the fear’s presence motivates me just enough so that I can do what I have to with a certain kind of flaky competence, rough around the edges but the heart in the right place. Put another way, I can get by with most things I put my mind to, but I’m not particularly talented in any one discipline.

So, for me, any attempt at excellence takes a full and continuous commitment that must be nurtured and constantly renewed. I’m not much good at it, but I’d sure like to be.

Such it is for the drumming. When I first started I would just play the songs I enjoyed playing, cranking up the walkman and getting my ya yas out. And I suppose that’s been pretty much the pattern for the last twenty years. (twenty?? Where do they go?) I’ve been just playing for pleasure, once in awhile practicing a new pattern because I liked its sound. Yet despite always having a drum kit around, I don’t even know if I’m holding my sticks properly. I’ve never practiced the rudiments. I’ve never played to a metronome. In short, I’ve never really practiced. It’s all been about fun rather than hard, focused work.

I do have a certain style on the drums, developed over years of listening and hacking about. But it’s a messy style, and I’ve had to rein it way in for these rehearsals. Tight over flash. My number one priority here (as it should be any drummer’s): rock solid timing.

I think it’s mostly going pretty well, but only a recording of the rehearsal will really tell for sure. It sure is a kick. As we progress from week to week I’m offering suggestions, getting excited, animated, last time even showing the guitar player how to do a Pete Townsend windmill. It’s a weird layout, too… the drummer is at the back, but everyone sets up across the room in a wee semicircle, facing me. It’s cool. I’m the man. By the end of the session I’m energized, sweating all over like good sex in South Carolina, and near deaf.

Rock on, dude.

Lost in MaryHill

I got lost in MaryHill the other night. Well, maybe lost is the wrong word. I knew where I was, I just couldn’t find where I was going. Not that that’s anything new – I get lost all the time in Glasgow. And Edinburgh. And Sterling – any UK city really.

Part of the problem is the strange signage they use here, or lack thereof. There’s no norm, no pattern you can depend upon. Sometimes you’ll see a street name on the corner building, sometimes on a low sign on a little brick wall. But no standard signpost with one sign showing the road you’re on, and the other showing the crossing road. And even if you somehow find out the road you’re driving, its name changes every few blocks.

Roundabouts are worse. At least with the intersection you have a chance of finding a street sign, but on roundabouts all you get is either a numbered roadway (B707; A81) or the neighbourhood which lies beyond. If you take the neighbourhood sign, there’s no further sign to let you know you’ve arrived there. Just another inevitable roundabout giving you entirely new names, which means either you’ve just gone through it or you’re lost again. (Or both, which is my usual).

So here I was in MaryHill, my Google printout having directed me to an abandoned lot in the middle of a council housing estate. I was looking for our new rehearsal space. The rest of the band was waiting. I was already 15 minutes late.

MaryHill is not the worst place to be lost in Glasgow, but I can think of better. It’s a sad, run-down section of town, full of litter, boarded-up council houses, closed shops, and zombies. As I tucked my Google map printout back in my pocket, I noticed a mother with a buggy walking towards me. Well, sort of shuffling actually. She had this pinched, weathered look, as if her life thus far had been hard. Maybe I could ask her… but I thought better of it. It’s not that I didn’t think she could help – it was more selfish than that. I didn’t want her to confirm the rapid (and quite possibly unfair) judgment I’d already made of her.

So I tucked the map back in, zipped up my pocket, put on my gloves, and got going again. A tank bag with map pocket sure would help me now. But that’s just more kit you’ve got to secure…

I knew the place was close, I just couldn’t find the street. Up and down the side streets, creeping up on past the traffic at stoplights, frustrated at the interminable waits (this is a problem in the UK, the long red lights due to the separate pedestrian cycle), going up the same street again, down the other one, around and around, U-turns and everywhere the traffic.

Now, I did have their number with me just in case, so I headed back down to the high street in search of a pay phone. More stop and go, but finally, now miles away from where I think the place might be, a phone booth! But traffic is heavy, can’t get across, gotta keep focused – this is the worst time to get frustrated. I visualize what would happen if I lost my situational awareness. Drive enough on two wheels and this morbid visualization process becomes quite graphic. I see three tonnes of metal hurtling into the space that should be empty but is now occupied by me and my bike. I have made a mistake. Here comes the hurt.

I managed to keep my cool and got my bike up onto the sidewalk to park. More time wasted as I take off my gloves to hunt for the phone number and a handful of change. Pen might help – but fuck, it’s in my trousers, under my motorcycle trousers, so I gotta stand there in full view of everyone and unzip myself to get to it. There’s two rough-looking pubs just across the street with a bunch of MaryHill types standing outside smoking, making no pretence about studying my plight. Fuck you. Into the phone box. Wait – the helmet’s probably gonna have to come off… where to put it… Sometimes driving a bike can be a big pain in the arse.

The phone doesn’t work – says credit only. Good! Just what I needed. Ok, there’s another one right next to it, let’s try again. Prop up the helmet, put the change on top, get the pen and paper out for directions, and start again. Nope. This one looks like it’s working but the coins go right through it and the dial tone changes to a shrieking feedback loop. Nice.

Fuck it. Gather my stuff, back in the pockets, close the zips, helmet and gloves back on, find the key for the bike, back to play in the traffic again.

The next phone booth has its coin slot glued closed. Nice neighbourhood. That’s enough – I’ve given up on the phones. I asked a few people but no-one really knew anything or wanted to talk, except for the drunk I tried to avoid: "Whashe go at?" Ah, damn. I don’t want to be rude, so I say, "yeah, she goes pretty quick right enough." Not good enough, he wants to keep at it: "Shagood’un – washe top out at?"

I told him I gotta go, and I did.

It occurred to me that a mobile phone could really save the day here. All sorts of normal people have them, but I long ago swore an oath to remain mobile-free. They’re too annoying. Or rather, their users are. They can be entirely nice, interesting people, but armed with their gadgets they become selfish, rude, and obnoxious. I guess I could give in and buy one, but that would go against my principles. I guess I just like to make life difficult for myself.

By now it was starting to rain, though the sun was shining and what I could see of the sky was blue. The rain is actually falling from clouds several miles away, but the Scottish squalls send it far and wide, resulting in a thoroughly unpleasant horizontal assault. The top of my helmet remains dry; the rest of me is soaked within seconds. Just then there’s a rainbow…

Finally, I was given solid intel from a gas-meter guy in another wrong street. I still managed to fuck it up a few times, but finally, there it was: a shithole of an industrial complex called GLASGOW NORTH. I had found it, and I was only an hour late.

I grabbed my drumsticks and headed in to rock.

Attack mode

Motorcycling is always a highly enjoyable and rewarding activity, but you never really know what the next ride will bring. I tend to be a moody person, and this extends somewhat to my riding. My motorcycling moods depend (among other things) on the weather outside, the weather inside, the general state and health of the bike, and, of course, how recently I’ve had sex.

Sometimes I just tool along, going with the flow, not causing any ripples. Maybe a little faster than the official speed limit*, and perhaps an easy overtake here and there, but mostly just hanging back, daydreaming a little, letting the robot do most of the work. Sitting on the surfboard and letting the waves take me in.

But most of the time I’m more involved, engaging with the experience: frequent overtaking, looking for the good line, finding the best patterns through the traffic. This is my default riding mode. It calms me down yet keeps me awake and alive. I’m not taking any unnecessary risks, but I’m not bored either. It’s a happy compromise: a skilful and enjoyable ride with just a touch of danger.

But there’s this other mood that hits me, without warning, from time to time. It’s what I call attack mode.

Something happens in the centre of my driving cortex that shuts down the robot and leaves me fully in charge. I become aggressive, competitive even, driving like a man possessed. Everything is fair game – dry corners, wet corners, gravel, cow shit – the road surface doesn’t matter, as I’m now playing with a full deck. I am driving at my best and getting better throughout the entire run.

I can’t predict when this mood will take me, but it’s most often in the mornings. (Evenings, on the way home from work, my head is often full and my brain is tired. Computers do that – they take it out of you.) But some mornings I’m all bushy-tailed and ready to roar. It happens slowly at first, as I notice myself passing 20 cars in a row. Then the first roundabout comes up empty and I find myself having my way with it. Sometimes it will just stay at this level – a little more interested in the corners, maybe allowing the engine to breathe a little – but in full attack mode, things quickly begin to elevate.

I am soon riding at an entirely different level. All thought is focused on my dance with the bike as we keep pushing each other. Yeah? You like that? Let’s do it again, harder this time. Attack the apex, like last time, but more. Redline it, and again, as I pass a couple of cars on that long straight past the farm. Do you have any idea what redlining an FZ1 is like, in both second and third? Attack mode is like an ever-heightening crescendo. And instead of tiring me out, I just get thirsty for more.

There’s a feeling of not wanting to let the engine mellow out, or let the tires lose any heat. The bike is digging it and giving back beautifully so I just push it harder. This engine loves being revved, and the tires are now so hot and well-scrubbed that I can push it even further, so I do. There’s no slowing down at this point. We’ve reached ultimate attack mode, and every corner, every opportunity for red-line acceleration is grasped with my whole being, leaving me near-hysterical with a giggling, adrenalin-fuelled feeling of excellence.

All extraneous thoughts are blocked and sent back. It’s an interesting state of mind, as there’s no time for random thoughts to form and fragment and layer upon each other. It’s like some kind of turbo-mindfulness, where every part of the mind and body are focused on the series of events that unravel as we rapidly approach the next corner. Traffic, road surface, junctions, sight lines, body position. The eyes are everywhere but the mind is hyper-calm. We are impeccable.

In this mode, the attack-mode, there is only one voice, with a single purpose. Its directive is simple: More. Faster; harder; push.

Performing well at such an intense level brings a deep satisfaction. And every time I do it (which isn’t as often as I’d like), I become a better rider.

Hard braking, the front end compressing, feeling the road surface and the tires’ grip through my feet, hands, shoulders, and backside. Then on the power again, the front end rising as the back end squats, feeling the vibration and the screaming glory of 12,500 RPMs. And I am truly happy, fulfilled, even amused. Scared? Yes, a little, for fear keeps the rubber side down.

By the time I pull into work the engine is purring like a besotted kitten. The brakes are glowing; the tires are almost melting. And me, I’ve got a big silly smile on my face. I didn’t see that attack wave coming, but boy, I rode it as well as I could.

I used to ride like this all the time. Things were simpler then. I was out there for that reason only – to attack, to push everything as far as it would go. In my maturity I’ve (perhaps unfortunately) developed this annoying tendency for restraint, even safety. How boring!

But I’m still here, and once in awhile, when the mood strikes, I manage a good proper ride. And for me, that’s what motorcycling is all about.

*No laws were broken in the writing of this post.

Driving in Canada and the UK

Yeah, so, Canada, eh? This summer we all took a three week holiday to the Great White North. It was brill. (Hurts, doesn’t it? Even worse than “fab”. But, seeing as how we’re no longer in Canada, one must attempt to fit in, adapt, keep low one’s centre of gravity.)

Yeah, so it was good -  I hadn’t been back in ten years. It felt great. I was home. But it’s different in Canada. Have you noticed? Way different.

It was Ottawa’s road manners that struck me first. The drivers are all lunatics, speeding and swerving and tail-gaiting like crazed dervishes on too much coffee. It doesn’t matter which province you’re in, but Quebec is the most astounding. People careen across five lanes of heavy traffic, zipping off that last minute exit so suddenly it’s hard to tell if it really just happened.

Yet people are generally tolerant, as most of them drive with the same zeal. Witnessing driver reactions here in Britain is comedic in contrast. A guy changes lanes without signalling and everyone is beside themselves with indignation. Did you see that? That idiot just changed lanes without indicating!

Canada, it’s every man for himself. Only near-death experiences are commented upon (unless you’re my brother, who sees the whole activity as shout-therapy); the rest are just expected cross-lane orbit re-adjustments that neither surprise nor are worth comment.

Most drivers in the UK are sensible, respectful, and courteous. But there is one type that annoys me to no end. If you live here, you know the type: the text book driver, driving like he’s doing his test. He’s driven exactly like this for 30 years, without change. During that time he’s neither learned anything new nor has he come to enjoy driving. Does his faultless and anal execution of his driving tasks make him happy? Not in the way Canadians understand the word. To this guy, self-satisfaction trumps happiness. It’s obvious to see, and it’s infuriating.

These are the guys that put their handbrake on every time the car is stopped, even for what will obviously be a couple of seconds. And once they start going again, their only aim is to get that gutless and annoyingly spotless car into fourth gear as soon as humanly possible. This is at 30 miles an hour. Nothing gives them more pleasure, but it’s a distinctly English kind of pleasure – even in Scotland. A grim, joyless pleasure at being correct in a miserable morass of human untidiness.

Mirrors, signal, manoeuvre. Never, never over 29 mph in town or 45 in a national speed limit zone. He’s taking his driving test, day after day, and anyone else on the road who isn’t doing the same is an outright menace.

Of course, all British drivers are guilty of this obsessive behaviour to some extent. And that makes for good drivers. The traffic here is orderly and predictable, with a distinct lack of chaos. People actually watch where they’re going and pay attention to the road. There are exceptions of course, but it’s the rule here. And British people like rules. They thrive on them.

Canada-side, things work a bit differently. Any yahoo straight off the boat can get a license. What you end up with is a bunch of raving loonies trying to kill each other. It’s remarkable how different the roads felt over there – people cutting in, then across a lane or two, maybe coming back in again, all just to gain a few seconds. Then, when it’s no longer even possible to make their turn, they bully back through and make it anyways. Playing the game (and the game must be played, or you won’t make it off your own street) requires a heavy foot on both the accelerator and brake.

Here, driving is an exercise in correctness and lawful conformity. It’s the English way. In Canada, it’s a race.

There’s more to it than that, of course. The car culture in Canada is less Vauxhall and more Trans-Am. We North Americans like cars – real cars, and they are a big part of our coming of age. In Canada a young man has the real possibility of acquiring his first car on a minimum wage job. Things are different over here. Fuel is twice the price, there’s yearly MOT inspections (hence no beaters on the roads, and face it, the only car you’re going to afford as a youngster is a beater), there’s yearly road tax, there’s the steep cost of insurance, and then there’s the interminable driving lessons and tests, which take years and cost a small fortune. A kid would have to be seriously well-off to be driving here.

In Canada, you can legally drive after taking a basic written test. And that’s you – all you need now is a rust-bucket death-trap beater with functioning lights and a valid license sticker. No yearly inspections, no road tax, no ridiculous fuel tax.

Merging traffic over there is a wild free for all. Here it’s all orderly flow, people giving way, each car letting in another, high beams flashing you in, hazards thanking in return. Back home that kind of behaviour would just add to the general confusion. You want in, you just force yourself in. And that person you just antagonized just keeps going at the same speed, right on your bumper for awhile, until everything slowly separates again. People are used to this kind of aggressive driving, and their rage quickly subsides as they pull the same asshole manoeuvre on the next guy.

In the UK, roundabouts are a gorgeous choreography, man and vehicle at their best: all logic and subdued emotion, resulting in an eerie, satisfying fluidity. It’s not always so; but it happens more often than not. And then one gets greedy for it, wants it all the time, being able to approach without brakes or sudden movement, predicting the patterns well in advance. But you do see the paranoid nellies who don’t quite get roundabouts: they’ll brake hard at the last second, for no reason, actually stopping at the entrance, even with no-one coming round. This ruins it for me. But there’s usually a rhythm, such that all the way home – through Highways, A-roads, B-roads, and a dozen roundabouts  – everything turns out in my favour. The exact right gap opens up at the required moment. Those in front drive like they’re supposed to and I get through without braking and ire.

There are, however, a few welcome traffic conventions that North America does better. Right-on-red is both logical and awesome; so is the simultaneous green for both vehicles and pedestrians. Oh, and speaking of pedestrians, that’s another angle we’ve got going for us: the pedestrian always has the right of way. When I first began my pedestrian activities in Glasgow I was about dead.

Maybe we should cross-pollinate, with a view to creating a traffic utopia. Take the best of both, throw in a little Cairo chaos for good measure, and away we go.

The return of sanity

There was a break in the blog, a time when everything was chickens with their heads cut off, hallucinations in the night, panting and fidgeting and then sinking ever lower until I could barely filter my own thoughts.

And then my sister died, and I started smoking again. I won’t say too much more about my sister except that she was onto something, something good and spiritual, and I’ve made a promise to remember, to continue that good work on her behalf.

I will say something about the smoking though: it’s damn good to be back. Any guilt I feel is more than made up for by the return of my sanity. I suppose there’s a “right” time to quit for all of us sinners. This wasn’t it.

I’ve still got the Yamaha and I still drive it like Billio (whoever he is), and at some point I did finally bury that placenta in the garden. There may have been chanting involved but I’m not sayin’.

There’s something in the air recently, something that’s driving me forward, and my family too. It’s all about Punk Rock. Well, not all about Punk Rock, as there’s no spitting involved. Which isn’t really Punk Rock at all, is it? Suffice it to say (for now) that there are a lot of exciting ideas nudging me, and I’ve chosen to stop ignoring them.

Stay tuned.

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.