A day with the Dragon

The Ferry to Dunoon

I took the Dragon over to Dunoon today, looking for some fast roads. I found them, and I had a most enjoyable day. But I didn’t end up driving fast.

Well, I suppose it depends on what your definition of fast is. This bike can supposedly do 170 mph. That’s fast by any definition. However, I’m pleased to say that I got nowhere near that today. There was plenty of opportunity, but it wasn’t the right time.

I’ve been through this before with other trips. Once I’m out for a bit, I get into this nice rolling mode, full of movement and excitement but lacking in danger.

The hills on Loch Eck

A triangle forms: the bike is one point, the road and my own self forming the others. This moving triangle shifts and morphs such that one point is seldom ever further forward than the others. It is fluid geometry.

There’s a lot of road memories out on a trip like this, but I also find new patterns in my thinking, and the very meaning of life becomes tangible. Life is about change, about becoming something other than you are right now. Whether you like it or not. On a day like this I found that entirely acceptable.

Loch Eck

The weather sure helped. It was a classic summer day, the kind we get all summer long in Canada but are all too rare here in Scotland. The drive was entirely different from my commute. I am not due, nor am I stressed or tired, nor thinking about other things. I was thinking about the drive, but at the same time not at all. It was as calming as walk in the woods, and as invigorating as you might imagine 1400cc’s to be.

I guess what I’m really saying is: it was really good to clear my head.

The Dragon awaits more

My original intention today was to find some fast roads and let this Dragon fly. I was surprised and ultimately pleased that I found a different (and much more rewarding) experience instead. This Dragon is no 650. She’ll flip ya, flip ya for real. I’ve decided (after 2000 miles) that I will not get into a battle of wits with this bike. Once the threshold is crossed – and it changes, based on moods and conditions – the danger becomes so real that it’s not even fun any more. It becomes about proving something, and I have found that I no longer need to, even to myself.

Inveraray Castle

I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I wasn’t Grandpa out there. I was driving considerably faster than you would in a car. It’s just that there was a distinct lack of the need to push. And maybe that’s what I’m learning with this bike – you don’t have to push her, she’s there for whatever pace you want. I was expecting time-warping adrenaline, but instead I got a beautiful drive at a nice pace. Overtaking, to be sure, and very quickly at that, but I wasn’t on a mission. I’d hang back and look around just as often as trying to get in front. But for most of my drive the roads were clear and empty. Just me, the Dragon, and all that the road can bring. For miles.

A nice pint was had at the Argyll Hotel

I’ve done a lot of two-wheeled road trips, but I’ve forgotten how much it centers me. It’s not like every mile is a peak experience; rather it’s a smooth and comfortable groove where thoughts and personality are both throttled and let loose at the same time.

On the ferry back to Gourock

Smoking

I’ve been wanting to quit smoking for some time now. It’s always there, a dark cloud wrapped around my future, squeezing it dry of any enjoyment, promising that each and every day without cigarettes will be a miserable depressing hole from which I can’t see the sun or indeed any ray of hope.

I quit once for a good while – almost a year – back in 2004. I felt both happy and bereft at the same time. I’m pretty sure I was more happy than bereft, and that the dark clouds of toiling self-pity were actually just fleeting shadows. But it’s much easier to stay smoking if you remember the bad bits, exaggerate them even, such that any thought of quitting again can be conveniently dismissed with ridicule and contempt.

But those bad bits existed. My selective memory may exaggerate their frequency, but they were unforgettable. It’s a yearning for something you know you can’t have, and it’s always there.

Patches, gum, lozenges – I tried anything I could get my hands on. Then one night I was offered a cigar. Oh boy. A stinker it was, but I could feel all the soft wet cells in my mouth just soaking up the smoke and starting to tingle and dance. Then the nicotine hit the critical organs, and I smiled.

I started smoking cigars regularly. I was still quit mind you – no cigarettes – so I wasn’t really smoking again. Except I started buying packs of them – my favourites were the Honey Blunts – and bringing them with me when I went out. And inevitably I started inhaling as well. Oh, the smoothness of those blunts, that smooth buzz I’d get in my forehead between my eyes – it was lovely. But I knew I was just kidding myself on. I knew I was back to it. Surely smoking five cigars a day – and inhaling them with a wanton hedonism – is going to be far worse for my body than my usual 20-30 cigarettes?

The mind plays tricks. The mind wants one thing. The mind wants something else too. There’s a clear and recognizable dialog of bullshit that takes place during these episodes of rationalization. Recognizing it didn’t seem to make any difference however – one day I simply found a way to buy myself a pack of cigarettes, and boy, did it feel good to smoke again.

The problem I’ve always had (and will continue to have) is that I thoroughly enjoy smoking. Well, most times, anyways. I don’t like that I have to go outside at the pub, I don’t like that I have to interrupt our DVD, I don’t like that I can’t sit through a two hour meeting at work without fantasizing about clawing my eyes out and splatting them all over the idiot chair who refuses to keep to the agenda. I don’t like how filthy my study becomes… but most importantly I don’t like how easily out of breath I get, how thoroughly unfit I am, how much I cough and hack in the morning before my first cigarette. But I love the taste, the feeling of the smoke hitting the back of my throat, even the exhaling. A buzz is a bonus; usually the first one in the morning does it, or my middle-of-the-morning smoke at work. After that it’s all about satisfying the craving.

I do take my smoking seriously. I need fresh Drum tobacco, preferably rolled with Styx papers. And I want the 25g or 50g packets – the 12.5’s just won’t do. A full packet of tobacco gives me a warm content feeling, that all is good in the world, that all will be well. No matter what happens in the immediate future, I’m set for some excellent smokes, as many as I want.

I’ve started to read Allan Carr’s EASY WAY. He likes caps. He likes himself, too – or at least he did before he recently died of lung cancer. I love that irony.

It’s badly written and I can see what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to brainwash me. He’s not being subtle about it either. But I’m going to try and go along anyways, and (against my instincts) allow myself to become brainwashed. I need to stop – I acutely feel how pathetically unhealthy I am. I can feel the poisons in me. This is an entirely irrational way to treat my body.

I don’t have a quit date yet, but I’m reading a few pages every day. I’ll try to follow his instructions, and we’ll see how it goes. Hopefully it will more about the beginning of something good rather than the eradication of self.

GTR14 update

I took the Auchmountain road again today, but got there from another direction, giving me all sorts of new winding corners along the way.
It was good, really good. I am now speaking fluent Dragon, at least in terms of the meandering back roads around here. I’m looking forward to further bonding on the sweepers found farther North.
These local roads are exciting for their variety. Tight blind corners followed by all sorts of room, then a first-gear hairpin, opening up to a straight incline towards a blind summit. Over the summit could be a tractor, some horseyback riders, a herd of cows – who knows?
On the Versys you go full tilt – no matter what the shape of the upcoming corner, then back off on the way in. It was a blast – wringing that bike’s neck, red-lining, next gear, then the corner, now backing off, then clean through the corner. Approaching the apex you just jam it open and go.
You can’t drive the Dragon in this fashion around here. You need to mind the power band, leave it for when there’s a little (more) room. But it’s no fun just cruising these roads, so I keep nailing it, leaving her in second gear where we’d both be better of in third. A little twist of the wrist and things happen very quickly. Everything remains balanced though, the chassis so solid, the feedback constant but never alarming like on lighter bikes, the suspension soaking up the rough bits, the tires so weighted that we’re glued. It’s crazy.
I scraped my boot for the first time today. Good wholesome fun. She’s just so powerful and forgiving and smooth and sexy. I checked out the chicken strips on the tires after getting home yesterday. The rear showed hardly anything; a little more on the front. Always like this.

I’d love to still have the Versys though, to do a timed run on the same road in the same conditions. With video. I honestly don’t know which bike would win. The GTR is not designed for this road – she’s too fast. The Versys was designed precisely for this road. Same rider, same road, two different bikes – I’d love to see it.

As much as I love the Dragon, I do miss the Versys. One day I’ll have a stable. Throw in a Z1000 and a Triumph Thruxton and I’ll be ready for anything.

Soon I hope to drive her up North for a weekend, looking for fast roads and loose women. (Oh, wait – I’m married with children – strike the women part). This bike was built for long rides, so it’s high time I get out of tractor country and let this Dragon fly.

My writing room

I think I just realized why I’ve not been writing much lately: my writing room has declined from a disgrace to a veritable shit pit. (Thanks to my wife Sharon for that oh-so-descriptive phrase).

The Guardian has been running a feature on writer’s rooms in their Saturday edition. Some of these rooms are gorgeous. My room has nothing in common with them.

One problem is that my writing room is multi-functional: it also serves as a music studio, a computer room, and a general dumping ground for junk that we have no room for elsewhere in the house.

Another problem is that I’m a disorganized slob who smokes and drinks too much. Smoking is a messy, disgusting business, especially if you roll your own. Bits of tobacco and a layer of ash cover every surface. The keyboard probably contains enough bits of tobacco to roll an entire cigarette. It started off as beige; many of the keys are now almost black.

I’ve been sick the last few days, so the floor is littered with snotty tissues. I don’t even have a trash can in here. From where I’m sitting I can count 5 empty scotch tumblers, 3 empty beer cans, and two used cups of tea.

Papers are strewn everywhere amongst the music mixers, microphones, speakers, and other electronic devices. Wires criss-cross my desk. The blue-tack has come unstuck; maps and posters hang in a crumpled mess.

My tools have nowhere to live, so they sit in a disorganized pile in the middle of the floor, ready to trip me when I come through.

My desk is against the window, so at least I can usually ignore the horror behind me. We just raised the ceiling in the front hall, thus losing valuable storage space in the attic. All that useless crap now sits in untidy piles behind me. I keep meaning to go through it but the thought is depressing.

The sick family that lived here before us had painted everything in various shades of blue and purple. We’ve since redecorated the rest of the house, but the walls in my writing room are still a nauseating baby blue. But I can’t just paint them; I’ll need to strip the wallpaper too. The floors are a kind of cheap prefab synthetic pine laminate that leaves me cold. I’ll have to get a carpet in here too. I keep meaning to get on with it all but the thought is too depressing.

Surely a nice, clean, organized space would do wonders for my motivation and peace of mind. Surely I could summon the effort for even a wee once-over? Everything tidy, in its place, a few nice things on display, all ship-shape and ready to go. Surely the words will then come flowing out in a joyous click-clacketing symphony. Scrumptious paragraphs will arrive whole and fully evolved. Entire pieces will form beautifully without any of the pain, self-doubt, and other dark thoughts that are the staples of my process.

Hey, a little optimism can’t go wrong can it?

Wimbledon 2008

I like watching Wimbledon. It’s unfortunate that many of the best matches occur during the middle of the day when we’re all at work. This can’t help but serve the perception that it’s a rich man’s country club sport, like golf. Only the best of British society can participate, indeed only the upperest of classes can even speak of tennis as if they know what they’re talking about.

But aside from all the petty English classist nonsense, I do enjoy Wimbledon. For the past couple of years I’ve been watching BBC’s excellent coverage. They always have a good selection of matches (and lengthy replays for us toiling middle-class working folk). And their multi-screen option is impressive – I look forward to seeing more of that during this summer’s Olympics.

But it will be the same with the Olympics. Once I start watching I’ll wish I could take the two weeks off so I could catch all the good stuff. There’s nothing like watching it live, you know? The whole thing. I guess I could start thinking about recording, but it’s just not worth the hassle. Configuring electronics exhausts me. And even if you think you’ve got it all set up, it will always throw up on your shoes at the most inopportune moment. I think you’d have to have the stamina of a grinning demon to set up a MythTV box.

The rules of tennis seem easy, but I still can’t always figure out who got that last point. Maybe it’s different if you’re watching on a wall-raping HD plasma unit, but from where I’m sitting I just can’t tell if the ball was in or out. So I (stupidly) look at the score in the upper left of the screen to see who’s point it was. But I’m damned, damned by the BBC. As soon as the ball is no longer in play they drop the scoreboard. Usually before it changes. Meanwhile the commentators are saying “Excellent point – her follow through was astounding”. Now I thought both of their follow-throughs were astounding. So who got the point? The umpire announces it but it’s not always audible. And even if it is, maybe by this time I’ve forgotten who’s serving. “40-love”. Yeah, but for who? Just because I’m watching tennis doesn’t mean I’m riveted to my seat. I’ve caught myself saying aloud, ‘Federer’s serving. Federer.’ So I’ll be able to interpret the umpire if I’m lucky enough to hear him.

It’s frustrating. The more I watched (and I watched a lot over the weekend), the more frustrated I got. Ninety-five percent of the footage is between plays, so no scoreboard. Maybe I’m playing with Bruce. Maybe I’m browsing through the paper, or trying to catch a few points while I’m doing chores around the house. I’ll hear a cheer and look up. No scoreboard. No visual indication about what the hell just happened or what’s happening now. I could wait for the slow motion replay, but I’ve lost patience with them. Why not replay it at normal speed? Because then the BBC wouldn’t be able to show off their fancy HD slow-motion technology. I admit it looks fantastic, but it simply does not convey any meaning or add any value. How about once or twice a match? Why every single point? Why do I want to watch Nadal tuck his hair behind his ear for twenty seconds in slow motion?

Please. Just replay the rally, OK? And keep the score on the screen, like real blue-collar sports do.

There’s a lot of things about televised sporting coverage that irk me up that tree, but I’ll leave it to tennis for now. A few more things:

Umpires
I know where the main umpire is. You can’t miss him in that chair. But what does he actually call? I think he just oversees the line umpires, but where are they stationed? There’s so many officials behind the baselines, which one is responsible for calling it? What are their instructions? And do they just watch and then yell whatever they want, as long it’s more or less just the one syllable?

Tie break
I’ve probably watched 10 full games of tennis this Wimbledon, and lets say another 10 the year before. That’s a lot of tennis. Enough to pick up a few rules, just by repeated observation. Why then do I still not know how a tie-break works? Maybe I finally figured it out yesterday (after 6 points, you have to win by two? maybe?) but what if, just what if the commentators reminded us? Or are they worried about insulting the average tennis watcher? Who do they think is the average tennis watcher?

Ball boys
What’s up with the ball boys? All their crazy over-emphasized gestures. It’s a little nutty. I’d love to see a wee feature about the ball-boy training camp. Draw me in. Give me information.

Hawkeye
What’s up with this eye in the sky gizmo, Hawkeye? How can that possibly work? I’ve seen probably forty or fifty challenges in the last two years, yet not once has the commentator explained how the technology worked. Come on, there’s geeks out here, watching tennis! And I know who you are.

…

Here’s an idea. How about just once – good God, just once – they show a five minute segment during the rain delays outlining the basic rules of tennis. Tennis is covered by the BBC but once a year; it’s not like other real sports like Hockey which you’ve been watching your whole life. Many people I’ve spoken to are as mystified by the details as I am. We are the proletariat, but sometimes we like tennis too. Educate us. Instead of all that stunningly-boring analysis between games, why not show us a little of how tennis works?

So if the whole broadcast package annoys me so much (and it does), why do I continue to watch it?

Because in spite of the BBC’s attempts to exclude me, I still like the sport, and watching athletes at the top of their form is one of the great pleasures of being alive. It reminds me that great things are possible, sometimes from unlikely heroes. I enjoy some team sports (ok, just one: hockey), but I find the intimate and adversarial nature of tennis inspiring.

I was sorry to miss my favourite female players this year. Justine Hennin-Hardenne retired this year as the world number one-ranking player, at the age of twenty-five. I saw her play at the Family Circle Cup in Charleston. She was magnificent. She says she no longer feels the passion. Fair enough. But I miss her. And I missed Sharapova’s grunts this year: she went out so early I didn’t even see one game. I was also sorry to see Jankovic go out. She blamed it on the court she had been assigned. Grow up girl. I thought I liked you, but I’ve changed my mind.

The Williams game was good, but not extraordinary. They looked ready to keep going. The female players have now achieved par with the males in terms of prize money. Good, I say. Good for you. Now give us par in return: five set matches instead of the current three. Both Venus and Serena weren’t done out there.

But of course the big game yesterday was the Federer-Nadal game. Although a tad long (5 sets, rain delays) it was highly enjoyable. They both tried everything they could think of to get back into their games and score that one more point. I think Federer is a lot like Justine: they both have this fluid style, floating around the court, making huge hits look effortless. Think Wayne Gretsky. Sublimely graceful and intensely powerful: a winning combination in any pursuit.

Enter Nadal. This is a sweating, fighting athlete that doesn’t give up. No country club memberships for this Spanish lad.

So who did you root for? Federer, the gracious, well-mannered gentleman, with his snazzy white jacket? Or maybe (like my wife), you prefer Nadal’s tank top and power grunts. He’s got some nice lines that Nadal. (Andy Murray’s little show-off was pathetic in comparison.)

We went for Nadal. He wanted it more. What a win. He never gave up. That’s the thing about watching the best. They give it their all, while we sit back on the couch and re-learn basic life lessons. Well done, Nadal. Good for you.

I enjoyed Wimbledon 2008, despite BBC’s insulting assumptions that we have no curiosity or desire to broaden our knowledge and appreciation of the sport. I certainly don’t want them to dumb it down – that would be even worse – but please, you could at least show us what the women’s locker room looks like.

The Dragon makes the news

Make your own here. Thanks to Zoom at KnitNut for the link.

Goldfrapp

Sharon and I saw Goldfrapp at the Royal Concert Hall in Glasgow last night. It was excellent. We hadn’t been out to a concert in like forever.

We had front-row seats, and for a band like Goldfrapp, there’s nothing like it.

Every time I see live music I tell myself I need to do it more often. It does good things to me. There really is no comparison to listening to CDs at home; a live show is an entirely different animal.

We hadn’t expected an opening band, but we enjoyed it. It was a three piece called The Fryars: lead guy in the center with a keyboard; drummer on the right; and a girly keyboard player on the left. I do like girly keyboard players. (Goldfrapp has one too). The Fryars had a sparse sound, the keyboards providing bass and deep rolling rhythms, providing a perfect offset for the vocal melodies. His voice perfectly suited the music, a kind of new wave 80’s sound, but much richer somehow, the lyrics almost folky in parts.

The drummer was robotic. Tight and precise but boring as hell. I noticed that before each song, the front man would always tap a few keystrokes on his computer. That worried me. Was he feeding the robot a click track? Or worse, feeding us backing tracks? And why did the drummer have an earpiece? I distrust earpieces. I didn’t hear anything I couldn’t account for, but maybe they’re hearing things we can’t, making this live performance not live at all. Maybe I’m just an old fart. Maybe that’s how they all do it these days (later I noticed Goldfrapp sporting earpieces a-plenty), but back in the good old days we used stage monitors. Maybe that’s passé.

Nonetheless I was impressed. I think I’ll look them up.

But that’s not what we were here for, nor the rest of the sold out hall. We were here for Goldfrapp and the dancing girls.

When they finally came on everyone was ready. And they didn’t waste any time – within minutes everyone was smitten. This really is a stage band. The energy kept building all evening, the audience getting more and more into it, the band responding in kind with even stronger performances.

They mostly did songs from the new album, Seventh Tree, which are more mellow and melodic than their earlier club sound. This gave the show a nice dynamic though, moving through more recent sonic pleasures (Little Bird, Happiness), on to the older, ear-splitting favourites (Utopia; Ooh la la; Strict Machine).

Utopia had me in tears. Music does that to me sometimes. Her voice just kept soaring and soaring, her arms lifted up high, the lighting going bright white on her highest, clearest note. Glorious. She sang like that for the whole show, giving us her very best. A lot of singers strut and dance all about the stage, getting out of breath, shouting instead of singing, making no attempt at microphone control. But not Alison. She was always after the best sound quality, hitting every note and following it right through with the intention of it.

During Number 1, a balding accountant in the second row got up and started dancing, waving his arms to the crowd: “come on everybody, get up!” Everyone remained seated, but he was excellent, dancing all on his own. Alison enjoyed it too. There’s always a guy like that at concerts and festivals. God love them.

They played two encores, and although I was still hoping for some half-naked dancing girls, the audience seemed happy enough, so we all headed on our way. On the way back to the car I kept having to ask Sharon to repeat herself. Front row. Nothing like it.

It was really good to get out – we hadn’t been out in a long time, not since well before wee Bruce was born. And Sharon didn’t even phone our babysitter until we were on our way home. How’s that for making it count? I was sure she’d be worrying and calling at every opportunity. I’m happy she proved me wrong.

Speaking of opportunities: if you get one to see Goldfrapp, just do it. You won’t be disappointed. (Well, unless you’re expecting dancing girls. Nae luck).

How very unfortunate that their web site won’t load on my machine, even though I’m on the latest version of Flash. Instead, here’s an Amazon link.

To get a taste of their live show, check out Strict Machine from T in the Park, July 2006. Be sure to turn it up loud:

(To see it in full screen (recommended), watch it directly from YouTube, and click the little full-screen button in the lower right).