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.

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.

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.

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?

Time

I want this clock. I really, really want this clock.

Grasshopper clock

It’s called the Chronophage.  (Greek for ‘time eater’). Every five minutes it displays the real time, but in the midst the evil grasshopper eats at time, at the pace of his choosing.

The grasshopper clock slows down, speeds up, even pauses… then finds its rhythm again. Isn’t that exactly how we experience time?

Time is big, scary, and subtle. Time doesn’t care. Time doesn’t wait for the peak experience. It will click clock your soul to hell if you don’t keep an eye on it. Time is a gooey, fluid substance that you can let flit through your fingers – or, if you keep your wits about you, it can be shaped into usefulness.

The mind cannot hold every moment; the best and the worst become blurred and blinded. Sometimes this is just the need to keep the continuity of one’s character in focus. Without this we would lose our footing, our very grasp of the life we lead, and time would have us.

Time treats with indifference both the silliest of wasted moments and the momentous events of human history. It is a resource that we can choose to hoard or spend frivolously. But how do we fill the emptiness between the clicks?

I like this clock because it’s both technically perfect and artistically compelling. They don’t have to be separate things, science and art, logic and poetry. I think the most visible example of this fusion is great architecture, where a passerby’s mind and heart are taken with form and function on a grand scale.

I love such unions, but I always want to see inside and underneath. I want the plumbing, the service shafts, the meat behind the veneer. I want to understand how the architects and engineers solved the design issues. This to me is the greatest thing worth doing – combining the left and the right hemispheres to produce an excellent thing that inspires people. Not a stick over the head, but the subtle inspiration than can leave people smiling inside without knowing why.

The Vendée Globe

I’ve always been fascinated by the Vendée. I was fascinated even before its first edition in 1988.

The Vendée Globe is a single-handed non-stop sailing race around the world, the only of its kind. It is the toughest sailing event there ever was – perhaps even the toughest sporting event, period.

Around all three capes. Non-stop, solo, unassisted.

There are other round-the-world sailing races, but the Vendée is the only one that is done alone, unassisted, without stopping. The Volvo, the Velux 5, the Barcelona World Race, the Global Challenge – these all have stopovers, and most are fully crewed. In 1998 Lock Ferguron actually did a faster 24-hour ocean sprint on his own that any of the crewed teams from the Volvo race. Of course, weather always plays a part, and perhaps he got lucky. Impressive nonetheless.

The Vendée Globe was actually born much earlier than 1988: 30 years earlier in fact, during the first ever non-stop round the world single handed race: the Golden Globe. Sailors everywhere (particularly single-handed sailors) had been inspired by Chichester’s famous voyage in Gypsy Moth IV, having sailed alone around the world, stopping only once in Australia.
Surely it could be done without stops? There were many who thought it possible, who thought that such an accomplishment could be theirs for the trying. A few were already preparing for the attempt when the Sunday Times came up with the idea of a race. Due to the yachtsmen being in various stages of readiness, they offered two prizes: a trophy for the first one around, and £5000 for the fastest.

From the start it seemed clear that there were two main contenders: Robin Knox Johnston, the quiet Englishman on his home-built ketch Suhaila; and the Frenchman Bernard Moitessier, on his steel ketch Joshua.

There were seven others, including ex-submarine commanders, Royal Navy officers, and Atlantic rowers. Many had no sailing experience whatsoever. And then there was Donald Crowhurst, the dark horse. In retrospect maybe the signs were already there, but at the time no one expected the tragic events that were to soon unfold in the South Atlantic.

The race started officially in June, 1968, though there was no starting gun. Entrants had to leave England any time between June and October, and the rules were simple: sail below each of the three capes eastward, to return to England. The first one back wins.

Alex Thompson's Hugo Boss

The Vendée Globe 2008
The Vendée has been going every four years since 1988, but this year offers a level of competition not seen before. Still all the same rules, but we now have an unprecedented thirty skippers from seven countries. About half the skippers have done the race before and have an idea of what’s coming. The other half must be scared shitless.

The Vendée (and most single-handed sailing events) are dominated by the French. The English have been challenging for years but just can’t seem to get it going.

The French just get out there and sail. They don’t moan about it, they don’t agonize over every decision. They just go. They sail like no-one’s business. There’s a deep complicated skill involved at this level of racing that the French have got a hold of somehow, but they’re not telling the rest of us how they do it. They are inscrutable. It’s in their blood.

The battle of the seas between England France has gone on for centuries. And so it goes still, with the French once more holding the upper hand.

Attrition
In the Golden Globe of 1968 four sailors retired before leaving the Atlantic, a fifth just after the Cape of Good Hope.

That left four:
Four: Donald Crowhurst went mad and threw himself overboard.
Three: Nigel Tetley sank only 1,000 miles from finishing. He later committed suicide.

Moitessier's Joshua

Two: Bernard Moitessier, the legendary French single-handed sailor, was happy at sea. He’d found his nirvana aboard Joshua, somehow forging an alliance with the fickle and cruel Southern ocean. He could have won the race if he had chosen to finish it. But he didn’t. Nor did he retire. He just decided, after rounding the three capes, that the race was sullying his experience at sea. So, after rounding Cape Horn, instead of heading north, Moitessier just kept sailing east, making another half circle of the globe before he eventually made port in Tahiti.
One: The Englishman Robin Knox Johnston was the only one to finish, thereby winning both the trophy for the first to finish, and the £5,000 for being the quickest. He still races to this day, and still wins.

The ultimate challange
I still want to do it. I know there is no salvation. I know the Southern ocean offers no hope. I know I don’t have the mettle. But I would still like to see it. The sea still runs through these veins.

It was Moitessier above all that sparked my passion for solo sailing. I still love it, though I’ve not done much of it lately. His book about the Golden Globe, The Long Way, is a melding of mysticism, poetry, and sound seamanship. He knew the way. He knew how to sail. He’s still revered in France. Last I heard, his boat, Joshua, was being used to teach kids the joys of sailing. I long to see her. Maybe one day I can.

Britain's Mike Golding

Vendée 2008: The Characters
I know a lot of these guys from previous Vendée Globes. There are a lot of veterans, particularly the French. We also have our own Mike Golding, Alex Thompson, Dee Cafferty, and four other Brits. There’s also an Austrian, a Swiss, a Spaniard, an American, and Canadian to boot.

There’s a distinct separation between the seasoned hacks and the new guys. The weathered sailors have a good idea what to expect, so they’ll be a little more relaxed, at least in theory. The rookies won’t know what hit them, but if history is anything to go by, they’ll get the bug, vowing to come back and do it again.

There are two women in this edition, both Brits: Dee Cafferi on Aviva and Sam Davies on Roxy. I enjoy following women in this race, for they tend to add a certain honesty and realism about their lives at sea that the men hold back. Catherine Chabaud; Anne Liardet; Isabelle Autessier – the legendary French female sailors that overcame so much and added a much-needed human element to the adventure. The men are usually so circumspect, especially the French. They will not tell you how they are feeling; to them this admits a weakness that another might capitalize on.

Dee Cafferi's Aviva

The Boats
Think of a nice comfortable family cruising yacht. Then think again. There’s very little in common between the two, except that they both float and get their power from the wind. The IMOCA Open 60’s are basically just huge surfboards. (They’re called Open 60’s to differentiate them from One Designs, the latter being built to a single specification by a single designer. The Open 60 is a 60-footer, and can be of virtually any design or construction, so long as it passes the rigorous safety tests, including self-righting ability).

My yacht, Someday, was a 37-foot cutter with loads of room below. Two could (and did) live comfortably aboard. All the mod-cons you might expect.

Vincent Riou's PRB

In contrast, the 60-foot boats used in the Vendée Globe are spartan below. Think of the inside of a race-car – all the creature comforts are removed for weight and safety. The navigation station is the main hub, with a serious amount of electronic displays. Radars, weather fax, GPS, plotters, wind data, boat instrumentation, computers galore.
There’s a small bunk nearby where you can catch a few winks – usually only 20 to 45 minutes at a time. Most boats don’t even have a working head. Just a bucket.

Their top speed is around 30 knots. In comparison, Someday’s top speed was 9.5 knots. Her only electronics were GPS and radar.

Very fast boats - and very wet

The Open 60’s are awesome machines. This time more than half the fleet are purpose built for this edition of the Vendée. This means faster, lighter, stronger: all around high-tech boats, worth millions of pounds each. And at least half of them are going to break. Keels falling off, rudders breaking, or, the most popular breakage: dismasting.

In order to even get around – and that is the paramount goal (except for the French – each and every one of them is in it to win) – each skipper has to balance a number of factors:

Racing
Most will be happy just to get around. Most of the rookies and those on older boats fall into this category.
The rest of the fleet are fiercely competitive. They will do anything within their power to get ahead and stay ahead. Especially the French, though don’t count out Mike Golding from England.

Broken keel

Breakage
You want to go fast, but the faster you go the more you risk breaking something. You are alone, at times thousands of miles from any port. To break something – even a halyard – can not only mean losing places but perhaps losing your life. This is not like driving a car, where road conditions are relatively predictable. The ocean is a fickle and ferocious animal, and conditions can change very quickly. Pounding through a 15 foot swell or surfing down 50-foot waves can really take their toll on a boat. The competitors will be flying the maximum amount of sail for the conditions, and then some.

The solo racing sailor is in a constant battle between keeping the speed up and saving the boat. Those whose goal is to finish will consider the boat in the first instance; those who are out to win will constantly be making difficult decisions: we’re going very fast, we need to keep going fast, but the boat’s taking a beating; will she hold up? Maybe I should change sails or drop a reef… When the (prudent) cruising sailor finds himself asking these questions, he changes sail. The racing sailor, on the other hand, will psyche himself out, play a battle of wits, all sail up while the barometer drops and the swell grows – there’s miles ahead and boats right behind. But the cost of waiting just slightly too long to make that sail change can mean the end. The wind gusts just as the bows dive into a trough, the boat accelerating so hard that the bow slams into the wave rather than riding above it. And maybe this time the crash is little louder than usual, for the rig – all 30 metres of it – has just snapped. And now it’s survival mode. Sailboats aren’t very stable without their masts…

Are these boats designed to be sailed full speed in treacherous conditions? Yes and no. The winners of the previous Vendée’s will say yes, if you look after the boat. The skippers dismasted will still say yes, but with a caveat: I was pushing too hard.

Only experience can instruct on the balance.

The sound below can be deafening, especially when beating to weather. The hulls are very thin, with no insulation, and everything is flexing and groaning. Windward, everything is crashing, no matter how well you stowed the lockers. It’s like the whole boat (and everything in it) is lifted up and then slammed back down – again and again.
You get used to which sounds are ‘normal’ and which are warnings. You can be fast asleep but your senses will tell you something has changed. Instantly awake, a moment later knowing either exactly what it is – and so charge into action – or, less welcoming, not knowing what it is. The heart beats faster, the adrenalin starts pumping. You’re in the middle of the ocean and it’s middle of night, pitch dark, and you hear the sound of water gurgling. There’s always water splashing past the hull and over the decks, but this sound, this sound shouldn’t be there. This is where we win or lose.

The solo racing sailor isn’t just a master sailor. Nor is he just a survivalist. He must also be an engineer, quick on his feet, ready to repair, rebuild, and outthink every single system on his boat. And there are a lot of them. Hydraulics, electronics, carbon fibre repair, generators, sail making, making something out of nothing. These sailors must also be master engineers.

Physical Survival
There are thousands of miles in the southern ocean where rescue is not an option. Almost all rescues during previous editions have been by other competitors rather than any Coast Guard. The route through the Southern ocean is too far from Australia and Chile for any hope of air rescue; help must come from the sea. Most times the only people remotely close by are your rivals.
Pete Goss’s rescue of Raphael Dinelli in 1996, and Mike Golding’s rescue of Alex Thompson during 2004’s Velux are two dramatic illustrations of how remote this area of the planet realty is.

Mental Survival
For me, this is probably the most intriguing challenge of solo sailing. In 2005, I sailed Someday solo across the Atlantic, a dream I’d had for years. That dream was fuelled by the likes of the original solo sailors – particularly Bernard Moitessier. Among other things, I was curious to see how I’d handle it mentally. I think I was striving for a Moitessier-like mystical existence on the open ocean, appreciating and using the voyage as a means to a deeper spiritual understanding of myself and my place in the world. I was fully rewarded on that front, but those moments were few, relative to the time I was out there. I also experienced a lot of frustration, fear, exhaustion, and seasickness. In the end it was just a matter of getting to the other side rather than relishing the adventure. There was no serenity in the adversity.

The sailors in the Vendée all have their own hopes for adventure, glory, and maybe even salvation. Some are back to overcome past failures – (Golding and Thomson come to mind); others to see through the final hurdle in their professional sailing careers. And then there are those who are doing it because they have to. It’s in their blood. (Bilou, Mich Desj, and Riou come to mind).

Sponsor's logos and colours

Sponsorship
Most of the sailors that participate in the Vendée are professionals. This is how they make their living. Who pays for it? Same way most successful athletes are paid: sponsorship, speaking engagements, book deals, media.

These are very, very expensive boats, with a lot of very expensive equipment that takes huge supporting teams and prepateurs to ensure they’re ready for the starting line.
Their commitments to sponsors continue through the months and years of preparation, right up to the start day. Sponsors have guests, they have commercial (and sometimes philanthropic) ambitions, and their investments must be shown a return. So sailor must smile, even though in these final days before the start he would much rather be home with his family or making miles out at sea.

In the Golden Globe back in 1969, sponsorship was both harder to come by and much less lucrative. It wasn’t the polished money-making media machine that it is today, or at least not for sailors. And their boats were most certainly not named for the money-men. But then again, many of the boats in the Golden Globe were home-built, or at best one-off designs targeted at the cruising sailor, and so much less expensive.

A French Sponsor for Canada

As you look at the Vendée boats leaving Sable d’Olonne, you may not recognize all the logos – that is because most of them are French. The French excel at this game. It’s in their nature. But rest assured, every boat out there is named for the company who sponsors her. Some say this is progress, that this will bring greater media attention and therefore more excitement from the general public. That must be good, but I have trouble justifying the means. Whatever happened to naming your boat after something meaningful to you, to you, the solo sailor who will spend three to four months alone aboard your boat, your constant and only companion?
What happened to Suilhila, Joshua, Gypsy Moth, Spray?

Attrition
Typically there’s a lot of action in the Bay of Biscay (between France and Africa). The Atlantic storms roll on through unimpeded until Biscay, where the land below shallows quickly. Combine this with a strong current and you’re up for a challenge. Many a Vendée boat has had to retire, turn back for repairs (allowed within a 7 day window from the start), or just throw in the towel.
It’s going to be brutal. Those that make it around the Cape of Good Hope under Africa will now be heading through the Indian and then the Southern oceans. This is where we’ll see even further carnage. The Southern Ocean is the loneliest, scariest, most dangerous place on the planet. Storms rage across thousands of miles of open ocean, unimpeded by land masses, growing in strength. Wave heights of 50 or 60 feet are the norm. This is serious sailing.

Dismastings. Capsizes. Catastrophic failures. Icebergs. Daring ocean rescues. The Vendée Globe makes for an excitement-packed three months. Although the danger is real and serious, every boat is equipped with redundant communication systems, electronic beacons, life rafts, and other safety gear. But even the best technology is no match for the southern ocean. In 1992 the Canadian sailor Gerry Roufs was lost. His boat disappeared, and no signal from his automatic beacon was ever received. A year later part of the wrecked hull was found on the Chilean coast. To date he has been the only Vendée sailor to perish.

Not so for the Golden Globe of 1968. Two lost their lives.

Well, some say one, but I say two.

The most well-known story of that race is that of Donald Crowhurst, the dark horse. He lacked off-shore sailing experience, and his boat, Teignmouth Electron, built specifically for this race, wasn’t ready for such a voyage. She hadn’t been tested properly; much of the necessary equipment had been left back at the dock; and Crowhurst himself had serious reservations about the voyage. But he felt he had to go. His business, his home, his reputation all depended upon a good showing.
Turns out that instead of sailing southwards down the Atlantic and then round Africa to the Indian Ocean, Crowhurst just sailed in lazy circles in the middle of the Atlantic, sending false position reports, faking his log, slowly going crazy with the effort of his duplicity.
He eventually jumped overboard, leaving his trimaran a-drift. His body was never found.

The second casualty of the 1968 Golden Globe was Nigel Tetley. He had sailed under the three capes and was within 1,000 miles of home when his ailing Trimaran finally sank. He was in the lead at the time. He was rescued, but the experience preyed on his mind. A year later he hung himself.

In past Vendée Globe races the attrition rate was about 50%, so this time, out of the 30 boats starting we can expect to see 15 making it home.

What is it really like?
I’ve not sailed an Open 60, nor have I sailed the Southern Ocean, so I can only extrapolate based on my own experience and my close interest in the event.
Solo sailing is richly rewarding, especially offshore at night, the wind 15 to 20, the sky dazzling with stars, the water swooshing past the hull, the boat happy, well-heeled, moving.
There’s a rich feeling of connection. All there is is boat, water, and sky. They all come together, and for a while you know them like nothing you’ve ever known before.
That’s the pleasant part.
But the wind picks up, and the seas build, and there’s nothing anywhere to stop the swell. The waves get higher and more fierce. At this point I heave-to – essentially putting the brakes on and calming the boat’s motion.
The Vendée sailors will not heave-to unless in a survival situation. There will be no rest. Their voyage will be both physically and mentally exhausting, every day, for 3 to 4 months. Even just sitting below on a heaving yacht takes energy; moving about to even more so. You are constantly battling the boat’s movements though the waves.
I went offshore for the pleasure and the challenge; these crazy fuckers are racing. I was never too tired to take in a reef – I am a very conservative sailor – but I was often too tired to shake one out. This dialog cannot happen for the Vendée skippers. Everything is about making the boat go as fast as possible within the boundaries you have set for yourself.

The Sailors
There are too many sailors to go into here, but I will mention a few that I will be following in the coming months.

Michel Desjoyeaux / Foncia
This is “Mich Desj”’s 2nd Vendée Globe. The “Proffessor” won the Vendée in 2000 (barely beating Dame Ellen Macarther), and is basically the most successful and highly regarded single-handed sailor in the world.
“In a single-handed race I consider that the boat makes one third of the result, two thirds is from the man”

Vincent Riou / PRB
Very cool and collected – very wise about ‘not asking too many questions’.
Winner 2004.

Roland (Bilou) Jourdain / Véolia Environment
3rd time(3rd in 2000, retired in 2004), A Favourite. A mentor and friend to many of the other skippers.

Mike Golding / Ecover
One of the 7 Brits, Golding finished 3rd 2004, after somehow completing the last 500 miles without a keel. I’ve been following him for awhile – I hope he does well.

Jean-Pierre Dick / Paprec Virbac 2
This is Jean-Pierre’s 2nd time around, finishing 6th in 2004. He is another favourite to win.

Jean Le Cam / VM Materieaux
Finished 2nd in 2004, only six hours behind Vincent Riou. You can bet he’s out to win this time.

Sam Davies/Roxy
One of the two female contenestants, her ability to fix things explains her nick name: Ms. MacGyver. This is her first time around.

Brian Thompson/ Bahrain Team Pindar
The most extreme boat. It is heavier than the others, with a taller mast and heavier sails. The idea is a more stable boat, with fewer sail changes, while still remaining competitive. It will be very interesting to see how she performs.
Also interesting is the fact that Pindar is sponsored by the Kingdom of Bahrain.

Derek Hatfield / Algimouss Spirit of Canada
The only Canadian on the 1st Candian-built Open 60. I think he’s sailing more for the adventure rather than to win. He’s also working closely with Earth Rangers, an environmental charity.

Rich Wilson / Great American III
A successful mathemetician, oldest sailor in the fleet. Not a favourite to win, but I hope he finishes.

Bernard Stamm / Cheminées Poujoulat
A highly regarded sailor with many records to his name, Bernard has been around twice. 3rd time lucky?

Dominque Wavre / Temenos II
3rd time around. A swiss to watch.

Raphael Dinelli / Foundation Ocean Vital
Had to be rescued in 1996. 4th attempt. Another one to watch.

Alex Thompson / Hugo Boss
Alex is the one I’m rooting for. Some tremendous bad luck the last two times, and just two weeks ago was struck by a fishing boat off of Sables. The boat has been repaired, so hopefully he can still remain competitive. Most important will be Alex to get his head back into the right place.

Dee Cafferi / Aviva
Sailed the “wrong way” around, the first woman to do so. If she completes this race she’ll be the first woman to sail non-stop around the world in both directions. Aviva is purpose-built for this Vendée, and is a sister ship to Mike Golding’s Ecover.

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The race had already started!
See the Vendéeglobe website for full coverage, including an RSS feed.
Most (if not all) competitors also have their own websites with feeds or email lists.

Recommended reading:
A Voyage for Madmen, by Peter Nichols
A well-written account of the Golden Globe of 1968.
The Long Way, by Bernard Moitessier
The master’s account of the same race.

Election day USA

Tomorrow’s a big day. Not just for America, but for the whole planet. I’m a bit nervous to tell you the truth. The people have a decision to make, but people are funny. We don’t always make the right choices.

I’m tempted to stay up for it. It’ll probably be the wee hours of the morning before we know for sure, but the choice each and every American makes in the voting booth tomorrow is going to have a long-lasting effect. The U.S. is already on a fast train to moral, financial, and constitutional bankruptcy, and it’s bringing the rest of the world with it. McCain thinks it’s a good ol’ train, cause, hey, it’s an American train.

Now, I’ve heard McCain speak in the past, and have at times found him to be thoughtful and eloquent. But during this past year he seems to have wandered into some kind of geriatric la-la-land. All I see now is a washed up old fart trying anything to get into the White House.

Obama, on the other hand, keeps getting better. What a speaker! Politics needs more people like him. He keeps talking of change. And you know what? I believe him. He’ll have his hands tied of course – all the congressmen and senators and lobbyists have their own needs (pockets) to consider, so his options will be limited. But he’s smart, politically astute, and even a little bit liberal. America (and the rest of the world) desperately needs a change. Obama is the first serious candidate in a long time that really does offer change.

Surely everyone agrees a change is needed? So what’s the deal, America?

And just imagine it: a black man as president! Only in America could this happen.

Only in America, too, could a moron like George Bush be elected. Twice! America is a funny place.

And don’t get me started on Sarah Palin.  Good God.

Speaking of God, both Obama and McCain pepper their speeches with the good ol’ “God bless America”. Look guys, I hate to tell you this, but God has nothing to do with it. Solving the problems of the U.S. is going to take hard work, creativity, and, most of all, a long, unflinching look in the mirror. If God ends up lending a hand, well, good deal, but it’s going to have to begin with some decent leadership, the kind of leadership that’s been sorely lacking.

People of America, this is your most desperate hour. Help me, undecided voters; you’re my only hope.

There’s something about American trucks

There’s something about American trucks. Now I’m not talking just any American truck here. I’m talking pickup trucks, Jimmy’s, Suburbans, like that. The old Suburbans especially, before they squared the headlights.

Pretty much what Mable looked like, except for the faux wood

I used to drive a 1978 GM Suburban by the name of Mable. Huge beast of a thing. Shitty gas mileage, yes, but this was a proper truck. And she just seemed to fit me so well. The day I got her I felt like I’d already been driving her for months. She had this classic look, evocative of the 50’s, like a combination of a station wagon and a big ol’ pick-up truck. Huge bench seat in the front, another in the back, and acres of cargo space behind that, all enclosed by a burgundy steel shell with big, long windows. Add the big barn doors on the back? Classic.

So what was I doing with such a big truck? The usual answer is that the man with the big truck is trying to compensate for a perceived lacking. Maybe, but I did have a pretty good excuse. I’d just bought a trailerable 24-foor sailboat, weighing in at about 3000 pounds, so I needed something to tow her with. Something hefty, something big. (I ended up living on that boat for 6 months, sans truck, but that’s another story).

1969 Suburban

The thing was, she was just a fucking pleasure to drive. The seats were comfortable, and you were up high where you could see all the traffic. The power was nice, and the exhaust had this eager, throaty note to it. I mean she’d purr, no matter what you were asking of her. Once you’ve driven a V8 it’s very, very hard to go back. I miss it.

Mable was the rear wheel drive model. This made winter driving rather interesting, but I coped – happily. When she was warming up she had this condition of revving too high for too long: a sticky choke. If starting off on snow you had to leave her in neutral, then give the shifter (on the steering column, naturally) a gentle tug towards you, down to first, then back to neutral, back to first, alternately spinning the wheels and gaining momentum. I only once got stuck over the two winters I had her, and that was a snow-plow’s fault.

Worthy payload

When I lived in South Carolina there were pick-up trucks and SUV’s everywhere. And some of them actually used their trucks for real. You know what I’m saying here: hauling tools, timber, and other worthy payloads from here to there. The most righteous of these drove old workhorses, splattered with mud and road debris. They left the windows rolled down when they went in for their 6-packs and smokes. Often you’d see confederate flags on the bumpers, and, if out rural, a shotgun rack in the cab. These were real trucks, driven without pretension.

But then you had the trucks that most people drove. Guys showing off. Not hauling anything – just driving it to work, and then out to the bars where they’d get tanked up and then just drive that baby on home, no bother. Sometimes they’d find a mud puddle somewhere and get the truck looking all bad-ass, but you could tell it was just for show. They’d be washing it off at the weekend.

Speaking of which, what’s this obsession with washing your truck? I supposed I can see it if you had a shiny new candy-red sports car, but what’s with the truck? A truck is supposed to get dirty. It’s a rough and tumble situation. Like a rock.

There’s actually something to those American TV commercials. Big tough construction men hauling God knows what through all manner of muck. All in slow motion, usually at sunset. You could be that man.

But it wasn’t just the guys that had their trucks. You’d see mums, too, getting into their SUV’s to drive the kids to soccer practice. Have you see the Lincoln Navigator? It’s bigger than a Hummer. Women like driving these. I’ve seen it. I guess they feel safer, though study after study shows otherwise. What can I say? It’s America. Size matters.

This one guy I knew in Ottawa got himself a new Xterra. This is a big off-road 4-wheel drive, like a Pathfinder. His monthly payments were $700. Insurance on top of that. I once convoyed with him up a dirt track to a friend’s cottage. He stayed under 10 mph so he wouldn’t pick up any stones or brush against any trees. I was flabbergasted. Still am. Why on earth did he buy it?

1962 Suburban

I never once washed my Suburban. I did drive her fast though. I don’t know what her top speed was – I think I probably got her up to about 180 or 190 kph, which doesn’t sound fast, but in a big loose 1978 truck-mobile you’re going to feel it. I would drive her pretty hard, especially on the back roads. You could drive this thing as fast as a sports car if you knew how to do it.

All this talk of Suburbans (especially the 1978 model) makes me want another. I still get to see them, quite often actually, in American movies. Even the old models, with the round headlights, the gentle curves of the cab, those big windows and the barn doors. No fuss. Just nice straight lines brought softly together. Pretty and mean at the same time. And a V8 under the hood.

1972

I don’t see those kinds of trucks any more, not over here. They’re just not sold here. But back in Canada they were everywhere. CBC used to use them all the time. It’s a perfect vehicle for getting people and gear pretty much anywhere.

I can almost see the designer drawing it on his draftboard, almost hear the welders and machinists putting it all together. The result is something rather special. When I look at a classic American truck I see strength, style, even virility. I can identify with that. And I’m not even American.

If I ever move back to Canada I’m gonna get me another. But this time around I might find it hard to justify the outrageous gas consumption and other associated impacts on the environment. It would be irresponsible.

So I guess I’ll just have to buy another boat.