Time was away and somewhere else

When the hustle of the day job and the bustle of the season conspire to reduce motorcycling to snatched, infrequent moments, it's hard to maintain a rhythm that flows eloquently onto a page or screen which sets its stall out to be a repository for things bike. As I sit in the study writing this, a thin, apologetic sunlight squirms its way through the leaded panes, offering future promises but for now it is buffeted by swirling, ham-fisted winds that are, according to the radio reports, reaching 70 miles per hour in some northern parts. The yew tree outside the window fights back against the gusts, waving its feathered arms in a flurry of green and gold, swinging haymakers against the elements without landing a single blow. So a red tent covers the camped Ducati, resolutely withstanding the onslaught that threatens to rip the canvas from its fastenings and, no doubt, carry it away over the Pennines to a region where red garments are respected and worn as a mark of sporting allegiance. Discovered laying crumpled in someone's Lancashire back garden or tangled round a swing in a Cheshire park, its fate may be sealed by scissors before the day is out, a false identity proclaimed in white helvetica as Rooney or Torres, without a thought for its Bologna-related intentions, leaving the bike to maintain a dignified, naked silence and long for summers touring Tuscan lanes. For now, there isn't a gap between business and bearings that the bike slips into, no version of Macneice's Meeting Point for it to occupy. It will come again, and soon, bathed in sunshine and wreathed in opportunity, offering licorice bands laid in sweeping arcs across the rubenesque swells of the dales, but not now, not yet.

And so it is with this journal, this blog. Time to sit and write, always a luxury, an indulgence that comes at the expense of endless strategies and spreadsheets, is having its sleeve tugged by other projects that provide excitement and fulfillment not offered by this twenty-first century confession box. My feelings on blogging and bloggers remain polemic and to a certain extent, writing one has been, in part, something of an exploratory experiment. Back here, I mused on the blog as an elongated Christmas round robin. With notable, generally professional or commercial exceptions, I think that's exactly what it is. The devotees may claim purpose, some building rings of false, cyberspace sycophants as they crow about fabricated accolades bestowed upon their labours, but I'm not so sure. Or rather, I think that the purpose many blogs serve is not the purpose they claim. Still, each to their own.

Onwards. Things to do, a business to run, a performance to write, a book to promote, a Ducati to ride and a second to dream of. And so, for now, it ends.


Meeting Point

Time was away, and somewhere else,
There were two glasses and two chairs
And two people with the one pulse
(Somebody stopped the moving stairs):
Time was away and somewhere else.

And they were neither up nor down;
The stream's music did not stop
Flowing through heather, limpid brown,
Although they sat in a coffee shop
And they were neither up nor down.

The bell was silent in the air
Holding its inverted poise -
Between the clang and clang a flower,
A brazen calyx of no noise:
The bell was silent in the air.

The camels crossed the miles of sand
That stretched around the cups and plates;
The desert was their own, they planned
To portion out the stars and dates:
The camels crossed the miles of sand.

Time was away and somewhere else.
The waiter did not come, the clock
Forgot them and the radio waltz
Came out like water from a rock:
Time was away and somewhere else.

Her fingers flicked away the ash
That bloomed again in tropic trees:
Not caring if the markets crash
When they had forests such as these,
Her fingers flicked away the ash.

God or whatever means the Good
Be praised that time can stop like this,
That what the heart has understood
Can verify in the body's peace
God or whatever means the Good.

Time was away and she was here
And life no longer what it was,
The bell was silent in the air
And all the room one glow because
Time was away and she was here.

True Brit

It's oft said that we British chat about nothing more than the weather. How ridiculous. Frighteningly, a quick read back of some previous bike-related posts reveals that I may be one of them. The Weather Warblers. Rain, rain, rain. Too wet, too wet. Like an effing owl. Too-wet, too-wet, too-wet-ta-whoo. Yet even as my fingers drum upon the keyboard, they're outgunned by the drumming on the window of a thousand raindrops, rendering unnecessary biking pointless. May as well stay in and polish my helmet. Or something. North Yorkshire's roads, on days like these, are a bit like the best Christmas present ever if only batteries had been included. Without them, the thrill is more than muted.

So days are occupied with other things.

1) Gardening. Wet gardening. Eight hours of the past couple of days have been filled by the occupation of Digging Over the Vegetable Garden. Previously considered a job for octogenarians, I now know that it's work for for those wishing to appear like octogenarians. The bent back. The aching limbs. At times more sexton than gardener, I was kept going by a dream of robust carrots and medal-winning runners (beans not Olympians). Jeez, I'm getting old.

2) Horse riding. More aches. More stretching by muscles that I swear aren't natural. There's a theme developing here. Where's my gym card?

3) Lunch. Game. Cheese. Dry, crisp Reisling. Chocolate. Coffee. Gavi.

4) Ideas of literary ambition that feel distinctly non-delusional (maybe this should have been number 3 since they occurred before the white wine).

5) Hmm...I wonder...? (see 4).

Chicken Nuggets

Why did the chicken cross the road?
Well he didn’t so much cross the road, mi'Lud, as cross the unbroken white line running down the centre of it in a rash overtaking manoeuvre…

Why did the chicken biker cross the road?
To get to its local Henda dealer.

Why did the other chicken biker cross the road?
To talk to a passing Duckati…
Biker Chick

There, bike references done. Fowl, weren’t they? They do, though, provide me with an excuse to feature the new banner, opposite, in support of the Chicken Out! campaign currently being undertaken by chefs Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and Jamie Oliver. The basic premise, for anyone unversed in Channel 4’s latest food series, is to highlight the ridiculous way in which chickens are farmed in the UK and to persuade, cajole, nag and politely ask people to change their meat-shopping habits for a more ethical, healthy, responsible agenda. Yes, yes, I know there are more important things in the world to worry about than the plight of some would-be drumsticks. But as an example of the UK’s attitude to food, its collective lack of care and its willingness to be duped by sophisticated – and not so sophisticated – retail marketing, its place in the current zeitgeist should be applauded and supported. How so many people truly believe that it’s cheaper and quicker to buy pre-packed junk and serve it as food than it is to buy good ingredients and cook them, as opposed to reheat them, really, honestly astonishes me. And the fact that for every £8 spent in the retail sector in the UK, £1 of it goes to Tesco should astonish and concern everyone.

Anyway, hoorah for Hugh. Check it out, and as my local butcher put it, in a politically incorrect yet heartfelt way, may all chickens have natural breasts like Sabrina’s.

My Mate Optimate

I guess it’s been a while since I last posted anything here. In truth, the Christmas and New Year period rarely brings out anything creative in me; I prefer instead to be decadently entertained whilst existing on a diet of excellent red wine, a cache of Stinking Bishop from the north's best cheese shop and assorted mince pies. It’s the one holiday of the year that doesn’t bring on any sort of work-related guilt, given that most of the UK seems to pull down the shutters for at least a fortnight, so any task that requires interaction with another living soul tends to fall by a defaulting wayside. Plus, I’m never going to be one of those blogging-types for whom a day without writing anything brings on a bout of C/O D and a next-day-keyboard groaning under the weight of angst and dull, self-absorbed drivel. So now here we are, already a week into the countdown to Christmas 2008; Easter eggs drift onto tatty, still-tinselled shelves, the day job makes its presence felt like a drunk with a megaphone at the office party and my typing fingers appear to have shed their yuletide boxing gloves.

The weather, of course, has been most unbikelike in this vast, rugged northern county. As cold as a polar bear’s lolly, as wet as an excited otter, it brought out the fair-weather biker in me like the seasonal credit card bill brings out a case of the sweats, for which I make no apology. Some years ago, my bike licence test was undertaken in snow and a few years’ commuting across London in all-weathers taught me that a) bad weather-biking is nothing to be worried about and b) it’s bleedin’ unpleasant. So, dues paid, I leave the Monster under its durable red canvas and wait until things are, if not warmer, then at least in a condition that doesn’t require one to ride against the tide.

Which, yesterday, they were. So thermals on, leathers zipped, cover off, key in ignition, starter button pressed and…nothing. Nada, nowt, nuffink, battery as dead as the atmosphere at a moon-based launch of a Katie Melua CD.

So hoorah, then, for the Optimate III. I’m a confessed-non-technical type, unable to change a light bulb without an instruction manual, a whip, a chair and a safety net, but this little gadget now has me enthusing like a QVC presenter with an overstock of tat to shift. Simply insert into your bike’s pre-prepared socket, kick your heels for fifteen minutes or so and hey presto! The drying tarmac and sweeping bends of North Yorkshire never stood chance…

When Reindeers Retire, or Santa Gets His Licence

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The leathers were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that an Eight Four Eight soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
With visions of Moto GP in their heads;
And Mamma in her jacket, and I, visor down,
Had just addled our brains with a ride through the town;
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When - my wondering eyes hadn’t since seen the likes -
‘Twas a miniature sleigh, and a garage of bikes,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, Fireblade! now, ‘Prilla! now, Desmocedici!
On, Monster! on, Scrambler! on, ‘Stretta! Suzuki!
To the top of the drive! Fly up over the wall!
Now roar away! Race away! Dash away all!”

A Long Way Down

Ten days. Not all that long. Ten days to be away from bikes, biking, the roar of a Ducati, the smell of the grease. Well, not so much the smell, but you get the general, wistful, theatrically-alluding idea.

Working a long way from the homestead is generally manageable, but occasionally, just occasionally, the distance feels further than air miles can stretch or lost boys can fly, a necklace of Little Chefs and M&S Motos stringing out and separating me from the roar of a fire, the warmth of one’s own bed, the ample and cosseting familial bosom and the rosso of Bologna (is that wine or motorcycles? You choose).

Today’s stroll back from a replenishing lunch saw a lime Kawasaki Ninja bowling along a boulevard in too low a gear, its engine straining for revs but making an industrial, Marshall amp-blowing din nonetheless. Its presence was welcome, like a contraband sweet-thing whose appearance isn’t needed, but whose contented, continued existence is gratefully acknowledged upon an unexpected glimpse, a sense that all’s fine in this stressed and topsy-turvy world.

So I'm Like, Irritated

I expect it’s true that for most people who write journals like this, language is important. Yes, yes, I know that sounds daft. Maybe that should have been Language, capital L. And without wishing to come over all Lynne Truss (that could have been phrased better, an’ all), I’m afraid I’m one of those who finds the misuse of apostrophes catastrophic and pluralizing singulars horrific (something that seems to be forever on the rise, especially at the BBC; note to BBC editors – England doesn’t select their new manager, England selects its new manager; the government is not reviewing their policy, it’s reviewing its policy. Jeezus, how hard can it be?!)

Contemporary speech patterns change, of course, to reflect regionality, colloquialisms, catchphrases, even. But increasingly I’m wondering why they’re changing to reflect inarticulacy. A case in point:

A commercial on TV, for some type of skin replenisher. You probably know the scene; a reasonably attractive, yet everyday, one-of-us-looking woman simpers to camera about some perceived inadequacy that’s recently been eradicated by product X. I’d love to have seen the script. Because what the woman said was something akin to

“I asked my dermatologist and she was like ‘try this, it’s great.’ So I did and I couldn’t believe the results. Next time I saw her, she was like ‘how did it go?’ and I was like ‘terrific!’”

Was like. Was bloody like. ‘Was like’ appears to have replaced ‘said’, ‘asked’, ‘replied’ and, no doubt, all manner of verbs with a common goal to relay that a person spoke to someone else. And for those who say it doesn’t matter, imagine, if you will, how this seasonal tale would sound if written today.

The quarter was so long, that he was more than once convinced he must have sunk into a doze unconsciously, and missed the clock. At length it broke upon his listening ear, like

‘Ding, dong!’

Scrooge, counting, was like ‘A quarter past.'

‘Ding, dong!’

Scrooge was like ‘Half past.'

‘Ding, dong!’

Scrooge was like ‘A quarter to it.'

‘Ding, dong!’

Scrooge was like ‘The hour itself,’ triumphantly and he was like ‘and nothing else!’

Worse still, ‘was like’ might be joined by that other great speech impediment, the erroneous use of the past tense of the verb To Go as a term to indicate speech. Imagine:

‘You have never seen the like of me before!’ went the Spirit.

Scrooge was like ‘Never.'

And the Phantom was like ‘Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family; meaning (for I am very young) my elder brothers born in these later years?’ went the Phantom.

Scrooge was like ‘I don’t think I have,’ and went ‘I am afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit?’

‘More than eighteen hundred,’ went the Ghost.

Urgh.

What has this got to do with motorcycles? Absolutely nothing. So forgive a little rant, bike-riding readers. I just find myself, like, aghast.