40
28 July 2006
Len and I were chatting last weekend about things to do for our 40th Birthday’s (still, I hasten to add 3 years away!) something that we could aspire to, something special that we would never forget. We’ve had our fair share of fantastic, memorable holidays which I won’t bother to list here, however let’s cut to the chase…
MY first thought was Vegas in 2010 (Yep that makes Len a whole year older than me!) where I can pander to my every whim, wish and fancy (and gain a coveted Vegas hatrick), however I sat down and thought about it for a couple of days and came up with a plan. With Le tour playing in the background and my 500 quid bicycle gathering dust in the garage what better time than my 40th (where apparently ‘life begins’) would it be to fulfil an ambition that I’ve had ever since I became interested in cycling – Climb Alpe d’Huez.
Alpe d’Huez is an infamous mountain when it comes to Tour de France history. Whilst the route taken by Le Grand Boucle changes annually Alpe d’Huez has hosted a stage finish at its’ summit almost continually since 1976. The climb up the steep alpine road is 13.8 km and rises at average gradient of 8.1%.
There are 21 hairpins marked with numbers that count down to the top as you travel the road. These hairpins are marked with signs honouring the winners of each stage that has finished there. Having finished there for the 22nd time in 2001 the authorities have had to start again at the bottom with a double panel honouring Lance Armstrong and the Alps first winner in 1952, Italian Cyclist Fausto Coppi, who’s name poetically adorns my bicycle.
It’s no mean feat to climb this particular mountain and I’m going to have to train seriously if I intend to do it in a manner with which I won’t disappoint myself. That being the case I intend to start training as soon as possible starting with the purchase of a Polar Heart Rate Monitor (£30.99 from £79.99) – next on the list will be a turbo trainer for those dark winter nights. I’m also gonna persuade Len to go on a Photographic course so she can get some decent snaps of my alpine suffering.
I enjoy having a goal, something that I can work towards - the reason for putting this plan into writing as early as this is simple, I can (hopefully) use this diary as a motivational tool in a similar way that I did when I was keeping to The Manual so many moons ago. The added benefit is that I’ll remain fit and healthy as I begin to get the miles in.
I’m already looking forward to it.
The Top Ten
21 July 2006
Submitted by Denno although I’d consider this a joint effort after the editing (How else do you think yours truly got to top the list!)…
The Top Ten Office Five-a-Side players…
10. Ian ‘Baresi’ Bees…
If there were a word that means the total opposite of a goal hanger then Beester’s picture would accompany the description. Mixed timed tackles (you could set your watch by them), deft free kicks and five-yard passes together all whilst wearing Reebok classics and a blue Adidas shirt with ‘Bungalow’ scrawled across the back. Famously broke Al Bunston’s nose with a fashanu-esque elbow whilst fighting for pill possession against the boards at Beaufort, his goals were few and far between rather like his chosen football team Bristol Rovers.
9. Graham ‘I’ve never lost a game’ Venn…
Grahams ultra completive nature was his best asset along with his recollection of never playing in a losing side. Made other team mates go dizzy when as a goalkeeper threw the ball out during a match, and managed to dismember his finger at the same time.
8. Chunds…
Preferred to use the outside of his foot that his instep as he felt it made his playing style look more like his hero Glenn Hoddle. Never shrugged from a 50/50 unless he thought he was gonna get his ‘Burmah’ Swindon Town top ripped. Chunds’ introduced the Glos –v- Cheltenham local Derby’s to the five a side courts and then complained when his team of Cheltonian all-stars were beaten soundly by a bunch of tosspots in terry toweling shorts.
7. Paul ‘12 Yard’ Arkell
Not the greatest footballing brain but a limpet like quality of sticking close to an opposing player gave him an invaluable edge. Considers himself something of a penalty taking specialist and was approached by Pizza Hut to star alongside Pearce and Southgate in the infamous Advert but unfortunately missed his screen test appointment. Paul now lives in a tree house in the Forest Of Dean with his wife and two offspring where he pursues his fantasy of making a living off the land.
6. Ian ‘Boris’ Simpson…
A neat footballer with a bouncy personality, reflected with his enthusiastic approach to the game. The only thing that was quicker than him was his Vauxhall Astra topping out on the A48 to Lydney. Ian’s only flaw was going on the pop the night before a game which caused total body dysfunction. A habit of getting extremely loud when pissed, he managed to get Denno’s team blackballed from Tuffley Rovers Football Club after becoming a bit too boisterous during a game of tippet one Sunday evening.
5. Matty Thomas
A no nonsense solid player with an engine straight out of a Sturmey Archer Lawnmower. He covered more lino than a Hip Hop Dancer and it was widely agreed that he should take a ladder onto the field of play as he spent so much time going up ‘n down the pitch. His unfortunate penchant for turning up in a Cheltenham Town Shirt spelt the end of his career and after four GP opinions the he was told that the shirt was directly responsible for his lumpy kidneys, which in turn affected his stamina – He resigned form the 5 a side team and his missus burnt the shirt ‘accidentally’ during a grass fire in the back garden.
4. Nige…
The Departments Micky Quinn. Tall strong, with lovely balance, and a ferocious shot which most keepers (even Denno) found too hot to handle. Probably the best keeper in the department too but he’s too modest to admit it as were his playing colleagues who agreed that he filled the space between the sticks better than any other player and (during the John Smith Smooth years) sometimes better than any two other players.
3. Denno…
‘He’s grey, He’s old, He’s got a heart of gold. Den J D, Den J D’. Actually when we first started playing he was in his late twenties and due to a perceived lack of co-ordination descended into the goalkeeping ranks, throwing himself around with abandon, and making a general nuisance of himself. If Peter Bonneti was the cat then Denno was the Pussy crying out when he copped one in the mouth, shoulder, nuts or hands. As the years passed and frustration grew he embarked upon an outfield career which lasted into the mid 50’s and continued into time added on. Now living at an old folks home in Denmark Road, where he enjoys the odd game of whist and community singing.
2. Larry ‘Sammy McIlroy’ Loveridge…
An all round sport at the Kings School, and that’s not just the Geography Master’s opinion, Paul was able at all games, but alas could not commit himself and meet his potential. He did have a bad habit of ignoring the requests of other team members to deliver a pass, and was fond dribbling into corners a trait that lasts to this very day although now he manages it without a ball. Larry continued to arrange the Beaufort 5 a sides even when others lost interest purely ‘cos he thought that the mustached lady cleaners were talent scouts for Gloucester City AFC.
1. Hodger…
Perfectly co-ordinated, great balance, superb with both feet, and lovely teeth. Imagine Paul Newman looks, Wayne Rooney’s footballing skills and Dennis Waterman’s cheeky personality. A sort of Maradona meets Max Miller. This boy mesmerized the opposition week after week, and if the truth be known could have gone on to great things but for a sense belonging with his mates and a confidence problem that saw him spend many hours on his own in the Tea Room with his QPR mug. His only weakness was a springy shoulder blade, an old outdoor footballing wound that could pop in and out quicker than his willy in the gents changing rooms.
50% off at Finesse *
16 July 2006
The downside to having the single bed and a room on my own was that the mattress was a camp bed and unfortunately it concertinaed both ways to the extent that after a good nights sleep it looked like one of those ‘pick a number, pick a colour’ paper games…
…consequently I woke up with more creases on my body than an overused Stretch Armstrong toy.
The upside was that I felt no ill affects from the previous evenings exertions and nor did Paul or Steve although there was a heated dispute on who snored the loudest. After much debating on the subject it was agreed that we’d enter the Olympics in the team event and our trio is now tipped as hot favourites after Cornish seismologists measured our evenings efforts as registering as an unofficial World Record on the Richter scale. Steve then went on to prove that he could go for individual honours in the biathlon event combining the Richter and Sphincter scale as he absolutely obliterated his Personal Best (and underpants I predict) by making the downstairs a no go zone for anyone with a sense of smell.
9am saw us back on the bikes and searching for each other after about 2 minutes of riding and then a petrol station when we all got back together – once this was found we rode across Cornwall to St. Austell and searched for a place for breakfast. The riding was more even paced and relaxed this time as we got back into the swing of things gradually.
After an unfulfilled search for an agreeable place to eat we resigned ourselves to breakfasting at the local ASDA and were accompanied by herds of people who obviously had nothing better to do on a glorious Sunday morning than buy the weekly groceries and batter their kids up ‘n down the aisles for moaning (quite justifiably) about being stuck in a bloody great supermarket when there’s a beach just up the road. We jumped back on the bikes and then travelled no more than 200 yards and saw a quaint unpopulated café serving all day breakfasts and begging to be visited by ravenous bikers - at the time (to quote a doctor assisting a single Mother in giving birth) ‘It was a right Bastard’!
Travelling out on the A390 out of St. Austell was quite a chore in view of the amount of traffic however once we were out of the town we managed to find plenty of open stretches of road to maintain the pace set the day before – once again the roads were outstanding and the riding invigorating. Off the A390 there was a right turn to Looe at a place called Mid Taphouse, we took this turn and began 10 minutes of sweeping roads that ended abruptly with a car boot sale and the obligatory Hot Dog wagon serving crap to bare chested low life since daybreak. We turned left and rode into Looe through roads overhung with trees, the sun casting mottled light through them as the shadows danced on the tarmac.
Despite Looe looking so inviting it was, to be frank too hot to walk around in leathers so after a brief stop for a couple of photographs we left the quaint seaside village and began our journey once again.
Joining the A374 to Torpoint we crossed the estuary to Plymouth via the Torpoint Ferry which was, Paul said ‘…free to bikers.’ after I’d spent 10 minutes wrestling a couple of quid from the pocket of my Alpinestars.
The ferry unfortunately began the end of our journey, the quiet unpopulated villages we were used to travelling through were replaced by the the hussle and bussle of Plymouth and the beautiful scenery and roads replaced by the dual carriageway of the A38.
We rode back to Paul and Sue’s shop - Finesse in Topsham (50% off any purchase when you mention this website*) with our hearts heavy and our stamina waning.
Inside Finesse…
We stopped at the Shop, had a quick drink and then Steve and I rode back to Gloucester exhilarated by the weekend and vowing to do it again when Steve had the bottle to pull another ‘complete shift sicky’.
Total Miles - 438
Total Petrol Stops - 4
Total Stops to remove flies from Visors – 11
*Offer subject to revocation at any time 
Curry Pasty
15 July 2006
The anticipation that comes with a weekend of biking begins in earnest when you get the bike out of the garage and start cleaning it. Checking and rechecking that you’ve removed every last semblance of fly anatomy from your screen. Once you can eat your dinner off your top yoke then it’s time for the ever popular game of tie the tailpack where countless bungee cords are used in a vain attempt to get your luggage to sit straight and not wobble about at anything over 30mph.
I passed the cleaning test with consumate ease after taking my bike in for a service on Thursday and spending the evening with her and a bucket of soapy water making her cleaner than a Paul Daniels joke. Unfortunately I was found wanting when it came to the question of tail pack stability. I can never remember how to afix the thing properly so, on Friday evening after using more bungee cords than an Extreme Sports enthusiast and copping one in the face as it unhinged itself and barrelled past my number plate towards my nose I gave up and consoled myself with Stella Artois and ‘Hogan Know’s Best’ reruns.
Saturday morning saw me refreshed and ready to tackle the task once again - this time I passed admirably and at 7.30am I set off to meet Steve at Junction 11a of the M5.
The plan was to meet My Brother in Law (and Steve’s brother) Paul at Riders of Bridgewater at 9.00am and after a quick stop for petrol we pootled down the motorway, tailpack firmly in place and arrived at Riders at 8.30, just a smidgen too early - we’d obviously had the benefit of a tailwind down the M5.
Paul arrived and we sat down for refreshments in the form of tea, various fried items and curiously (I thought) a flapjack for Steve - if he’d have had it in a bap covered with some brown sauce I wouldn’t have worried but to choose a healthy option this early in the weekend was something that made me inquisitive. I needn’t have worried, the stodgy sweet cake was obviosuly part of a carefully planned eating routine to curdle his stomach which would in turn keep his toilet breaks to a minimum - it didn’t work, by the time the day was over he’d had more number one’s than Elvis bloody Presley.
For our first day we planned to follow the coast of North Devon trailing down towards Cornwall and ending up in Wadebridge for an early night and some coco - simple.
As we left Bridgewater we headed towards Minehead for our first stop and glimpse of the sea. The roads were already busy and it was a battle with cars, breaks in the traffic and double white lines to actually overtake and find a clear piece of tarmac. It was fun all the same and just exhilerating to be cracking on knowing that we had a day in the saddle to look forward to.
On reaching Minehead we pulled up and contrary to every soddin’ weather report the skies were battleship grey and the sea was choppier than a Bruce Lee film - at the time we thought that we might’ve chosen the wrong weekend weatherwise.
We left Minehead after an obligatory toilet break for one of our party and carried on towards Porlock Hill, a 1 in 4 slope with switchback hairpins and (just our luck) two bloody great coaches ascending the incline at walking pace. Thankfully we didn’t have to sit behind the vehicles for too long and we accelerated past them and once the hill was scaled we began our journey over the moors towards Lynmouth passing a sprinkling of cars and bikes en route.
Turning left at Lynmouth we followed a small road that climbed out of the valley and carried us back onto a main ‘A’ road to Barnstaple where we enjoyed some superb riding, twisty roads, great tarmac and only a tiny amount of vehicles that didn’t really hinder progress too much.
As we rode into Barnstaple the traffic thickened, the sun came out and my engine fan came on at 105 degrees, whizzing and whirring away sending a heat filled breeze up through my leathers. It was about as refreshing as being hit across the head with a piece of battered cod but thankfully we soon decided to have a break for a drink and a chat about the riding so far.
While we were sat on a grass verge comparing the lack of any chicken strips whatsoever on our bikes we heard a throaty growl followed by something entering the garage forecourt. As we looked up we saw the blackest, ugliest, most uncomfortable looking bike I’ve ever seen in my life - the common analogy for this type of machine is a ‘rat bike’ however I’d argue that this thing was far too ugly to be utilising that particular term. I’d adorn it with the phrase ‘bunion bike’ or alternatively ‘the ugly bird from Liberty-X bike’. Of course it could’ve been a transformer - that being the case I’d expect it’s other use would be that of a trellis fence or dish drainer.
The rest of the day was spent blatting down the A39 passing Bude, Widemouth, Crackington Haven, Clovelly and Polzeath - all places that my Mum and Dad used to take me when I was a kid - it was fantastic to reminicse about the old holidays I used to have with them as we rode along enjoying the fantastic roads and superb scenery.
We arrived in Wadebridge at 2.30ish and thanks to Andy’s (Paul’s friend) holdaying parents parked our bikes in a garage and settled into their vacant house, which was to be our accomodation for the evening.
We quickly calculated that the saving of hotel money put us each approximately 30 quid in profit so decided that we’d sample some traditional cornish fare. Ten minutes later our pasty’s were demolished and we were settling down to some liquid refreshment attempting to ascertain how many pints we were allowed before we could safely leave the next day. Many methods of calculation were mentioned but unfortunately our bodies natural alcoholic dispersal gave in to our lack of ABV 5% stamina and by 9pm we were drinking water and attempting to eat the hottest Chicken Madras known to man from Wadebridge’s only Indian Restaurant - you needed an Asbestos mouth (and arse as it soon became apparant the next day) to be able to consume it.
We retired to bed by 10pm, tired and looking forward to whatever the next day might bring.
I got 5 on it
8 July 2006
‘…cos I’ll be damned if you get high off me for free
hell no, you betta bring your own spliff, chief’ - LA Luniz, ‘I Got 5 on it’, 1995
A gallon in an R1 gets you approximately 100 yards in 1st gear - that was my conclusion as the bloody thing popped and gurgled its’ way from the Dealership to the petrol station before cutting out and allowing me to coast onto an empty forecourt.
Minutes beforehand I was told by a salesman that I ‘…might need to put some go-go juice in during the test ride ‘cos there’s only a gallon left in there.’
This statement caused my mind to go into overdrive as I attempted to estimate the exact quantity of petrol required for my planned route so that I didn’t end up subsidising the next bloke who took the bike out. After spending an eternity recalling facts and figures from my youth and drawing a pie chart in the gravel with the heel of my Alpinestars I gave up and used the emergency fiver that I always have in my Leathers.
Once the tank was five quid heavier I turned the key and for the first time listened to the engine noise, a witches broth bubble so evil that I expected to see acrid green smoke emanating from the underseat pipes.
I pulled off the forecourt and once again made my way through the Saturday traffic out of Gloucester and onto the route I used for last weeks test ride.
My first thoughts as I filtered through stationary traffic was that the bars felt lower than the ‘Blade’s and that the seat was about as comfortable as a Werthers Original and twice as hard. The natural slant of the pad slid my body towards the angular tank which, in turn bisected my goolies - A Tory politician might find this quite erotic, as I have no political or sado-masochistic tendencies I found it bloody uncomfortable whilst travelling at slow speeds. In fact, if someone walked out on you during town/city riding and a sharp stop was required I’d bet a pound to a bag of chips that the bike would stop but your left bollock might take out the pedestrian anyway as it got lacerated by the pointy tank and shot off down the road.
Once out on the open highway the R1 was a different beast altogether, it was smooth, effortless and easy to ride although I found it just a tiny bit twitchy under heavy acceleration. At 5000rpm the buzz through the seat was at first unerringly pleasant however after 10 seconds I felt my fillings beginning to dislodge and with that in mind I suggest Yamaha offer a hundred weight of replacement milk teeth with each purchase.
‘Buy R1 get 500 Free’
The brakes were good however they needed to be used pretty aggressively. To assist a new owner in the pleasantaries of R1 braking I’d echo the thoughts of Lenny Henry just before he was about to sleep with Dawn French for the first time… ‘Don’t be shy, just grab a handful’.
Through the twisty A Roads the R1 felt assured and sure footed however on the Motorway the lack of a decent screen was a major problem - I felt like I had the head of a Pez dispenser as the wind hit my visor and attempted to take my Arai off and bounce it into the grass verges of the M50, anything over 100mph made my head twitch like an epileptic in a Strobe Light Factory, it was poor and I’d have expected more thought invested in this particular facet of the motorcycle.
I rode back unfortunately uninspired by a bike that I thought I might favour over the Blade. The Honda Fireblade is your wife - beautiful, easy to get on with and a great ride. The Yamaha R1 is akin to a girlfriend that leaves her dirty knickers on the floor - you’re prepared to put up with it for so long just for the good times but when push comes to shove you’ll dump the bitch because of those annoying little traits.
£92.08
‘I’ve no excuse, I just want you to use me-ee,
Take me and abuse me,
I got no taboos, I’ll make a trade with you-ou-ou,
Do anything you wa-ant me to’. Adventures of Stevie V, ‘Dirty Cash’, 1989.
It’s not just Dirty Cash, the above lyrics could also be attributed to my blinkered allegiance to the England Football Team.
For the record I loathe Sven Goran Eriksson. I don’t think he should ever have been appointed. I’m not jingoistic enough to think that the England Manager MUST be English however there is a part of me that does think that there’s some truth in the statement.
‘The FA have offered you HOW MUCH!?!?’
For example if you’re an English Manager and you want to reach the pinnacle of your profession then the ultimate goal is the England Manager’s job. You don’t have aspirations to undertake that post purely for something good to put on your CV. It wouldn’t be a job where you’re thinking ‘…this is alright but the South Africa FA are offering me 10K per annum more and a holiday home in Soweto’. It’s not a brief career moment, it’s the peak of your trade and surely you’d take pride in that fact.
Would this reflect in your management style and the way you interacted with players, press, etc? Probably and it also might give all xenophobic English fans a bit more faith in your decisions.
Eriksson picked Theo Walcott and, having seen the kid play last Season I can confidently state that he was in no way ready for a World Cup (even if he was having an off day against QPR at Loftus Road!). Had he picked a forward who he felt confident in playing or even introducing from the bench (Jermaine Defoe is the obvious candidate) then we may have progressed further in the competition. For a start we’d have had the option to play 2 out and out forwards (Crouch and Rooney don’t work together we are told) and therefore our formation would’ve been 4-4-2 (at some point) and despite the fact that players should be able to play any formation the fact of the matter is that England feel most comfortable playing this way – we might have even created some decent scoring opportunities during the quarter final.
He enjoyed his privileged ride with England oblivious to the fact that the job is held in great regard by some. He disrespected the post with his constant willy waving faux pas’ and the English FA caved into his every whim, need and fancy purely because he had them over a barrel with regard to the exorbitant contract that they naively gave him.
He also owes me the amount in the title above – that’s how much I’m out of pocket after booking flights and a train to the Semi Final in Munich as my blind optimism in the team’s progress trumped our inadequate manager’s talents.
My claim is in his ‘In Box’ along with Theo Walcott’s claim for 3 weeks worth of Factor 10.
Blade
01 July 2006
Blade - ‘There are worse things out there than vampires.’
Dr. Karen Jenson - ‘Like what?’
Blade - ‘Like me.’ - Wesley Snipes, BLADE 1998
‘Ladies Love Cool James’ is hip hop artists LL Cool J’s full name although I’m pretty certain it wasn’t his Mother’s choice! The Honda Fireblade that I test rode today could adopt a similar handle although the ‘LL’ would stand simply for ‘License Loser’.
I sat on the bike at my local dealers as it growled away on tickover pretending to be a conscientious biker, taking an age to adjust the two mirrors and familiarise myself with the controls as a couple of blokes looked on. In reality however I was just waiting for them to bugger off before I left the car park as I didn’t particularly want them to witness me wobble away on an unfamiliar motorcycle. Unfortunately I tired of the game way before the onlookers did - they were about to set up deck chairs and get a fire going as I pulled away in first gear the Blade smoothly drifting off underneath me not requiring a gear change into second until we were well out of the car park and trundling up the road.
The bike is about as smooth as one of the aforementioned rap artists come to bed lines, it pulls effortlessly at any revs with a roll of the throttle and like Lilly Savage possesses no snatch whatsoever - I was instantly impressed as I negotiated thorough traffic onto one of my favourite twisty roads.
After leaving Gloucester I accelerated off a large roundabout onto the A419 to Ledbury and opened the Blade up for the first time. What I was expecting isn’t what I got - I thought I’d experience a flighty front end, wheel skipping over the road under heavy acceleration. No chance, it was planted and remained (just about) on the deck which gave me more confidence to push the bike throught the hour that I rode it. 1st gear takes you up to 70ish (I wasn’t really paying that much attention to the speedo) in the blink of an eye and it’s true to say that the greenery either side of a rural ‘A’ road blurs as you twist the throttle and go up through the gears.
Around tight bends and even accelerating through them the Steering Damper does its’ job admirably and it’s fair to say that if Alan Titchmarsh had built the bike it couldn’t be any more planted.
I gave it about 10 or 15 M50 motorway miles and hit speeds that i’ve never really felt totally comfortable with on my TT600 and there was easily more to come - Brakes were fantastic and basically the bike didn’t complain once throughout the whole of the ride except once during heavy braking into a right hander where the back wheel skipped about a bit. Experts would call this ‘backing in’, at the time I called it ‘What the bloody hell was that!!!’ - and then I had another go at the next right hander!
As I rode the blade back I reflected on possibly the most exhilerating ride I’ve had since I took up biking - the step up from 600cc to litre bike was something that I thought might not be the right move for me - now I know different. The Blade is possibly the best package I’ve come across since Linford Christie wore lycra shorts in the Barcelona Olympics.