I am very thankful for the kind CWU and their convenient postal strikes. After all, if the post was working, I would have my new exhausts by now, and I would be fretting that I didn't have time to fit them. But I can relax, safe in the knowledge that they ain't coming any time soon, and I can get on with all the other stuff in my own time.
I posted earlier that I needed to take off the cylinder head to get the remains of the old headers out. After my shopping expedition this morning, I needed to do something positive, so I set to it. The airbox and the carbs came off with a bit of a struggle, but they came off. And then I set to taking off the bit that covers the top of the cylinder head - what, on a car, you would call the rocker cover. Well, that bit is held on by a number of long bolts. I found and took out 13 of them, and the damn thing wouldn't shift. I got to the point of gently trying to lift it away with a crowbar, which is very risky, but no deal. Just a fraction of a millimetre of movement. Robert M Pirsig (in ZAMM) refers to the state of 'stuckness', where a mechanical issue stops you dead and won't let you continue. How you get around the feeling of rage and impotence is a philospohical issue, not a mechanical one. I recognised in myself the feeling of 'stuckness' and went and had a cup of tea.
When I went back outside, I realised that maybe I hadn't located all the bolts. I visualised the shape of the cover, and the stresses of holding it down, and thought about where the bolts ought to be. Then I looked under a cover and there, hiding in a little pool of dark oil, was another bolt. Aha! Pirsig was right - my new, calmer mental state had allowed me to see the solution more clearly. So I took that out, too. 14 bolts, not 13. Try again.
No deal. Zilch. Nada.
OK, I said to the bike, you want to play rough? I went for the biggest weapon in the armoury of the backyard bodger. The workshop manual. And then I saw that there were 15 bolts shown in the diagram that I should have looked at much earlier. This bolt had by now a mythical status, as it appeared to be completely invisible. I found it located in a well right at the top of the engine, completely hidden by the bike's upper frame. I tried to undo it, but failed. Because it is in a well, my ordinary Allen key isn't long enough to reach fully into the socket in the bolt-head, and therefore I risk rounding out the hole if I try too hard. On the other hand, the frame rail means there isn't enough room to deploy the obvious alternative, a ratchet handle with an Allen bit in the end.
By now it was getting dark, so I cleared everything away and retired to the house, where a curry was being made and wonderful smells were developing. If I had carried on, I am sure I would have done more harm than good, such as damage the last bolt enough so that the whole engine would have to come out. No thanks.
Tomorrow, it will be daylight again, and I will have had a whole evening and night for Mr Pirsig's calm rationality to pervade my heated brain.
It's only a sodding bolt, after all. It can't be that difficult, can it?
Saturday, 24 October 2009
Internet friends
Strange thing, the Internet (does it deserve that official-looking capital any longer?). For the first time in human history, it is possible to have as many friends that you have not met, as those you have. It's a while since I was a regular in any pub, with my own place at the bar and my own tankard on a hook above the pumps. And yet there are half a dozen places on the Internet where I have a similar experience - a crowd of like-minded people, exchanging gossip and advice, discussing things that seem important at the time, joshing each other and occasionally falling out. 'My Father's House has many mansions', and my Internet pub has many virtual bars, each with a distinct clientele, where I can go, at my choice, to discuss politics, or motorbikes (a different bar for each, and some for all makes), or anything else that takes my fancy.
And in one or two of those places, I have made what I regard to be good friends - people I like and trust, and yet whom I have never met. One of those was the guy in Denmark who invited me over. The first time I actually spoke to him or saw him in the flesh was at 10 pm, in the dark in the middle of the Danish countryside, after a thousand-mile thrash across Europe. I thought afterwards that this was a bit of a gamble - after all, what if he turns out to be a complete twat? But it all turned out very well - he was a great guy, as was his wife (not a guy, but you know what I mean), and so were all his Danish friends.
Another was a chap I met through a game we both played for a while. We got on so well, we kept on emailing each other, and after a year or so of this I had an invitation to his birthday party on the other side of the country. Again, a long way to go on spec; again, I had a great time and I was very glad I went. Curiously, this chap knows more about the real 'me' that anyone else, apart from my wife and a couple of very old friends that I have known since University. I find it very easy to make acquaintances, but very hard to make real friends, and this guy is one of the real friends, despite my having spoken with him face-to-face for less than a couple of hours.
A third would be a guy I know through a bike forum that we both frequent. He's posted comments here once or twice, and I have come to like his approach to things, and appreciate his intelligence. I've never met him, although I feel I know him as least as well as someone I have a beer with every week or so. When I was considering doing a round-Britain ride, he quickly offered me a meal and a bed for the night when I was passing through his locality, despite the risk that I might be a serial killer or a world-class bore (I am neither, but working on it.)
He had a bad experience this week. He took his bike in for a service, and was given a loan bike by the dealer. The loan bike had a £2000 excess on the insurance. He was going to the post office to post a parcel on the loan bike when a car pulled out in front of him. He only touched the brakes, but the roads were greasy, and the bike went down at about 50 mph. He's got to repair the bike, replace all his protective gear, and then pay for the service on top of all that. And he's torn this and bruised that and scraped the other.
Bummer, as they used to say.
On the positive side, he's flipped the coin (as we all do now and again) and it's come up heads. He's alive, not seriously hurt, and the damage is mainly to his pride and his bank balance. He's got his head screwed on the right way, and he won't be blaming anyone but himself for the accident. He'll put it down to experience, and will be a fractionally better rider as a result.
It's a tricky time of year to be riding. Round here, the leaves have fallen and are wet and slippery on the country roads that I inhabit. The light is getting poor, the sun is low in the sky both early and late, and there is often a lot of spray to make visibility difficult. Riding through Winter is easy, compared to the liminal, transitional state that is Autumn.
I wish him a speedy recovery from his injuries, and I hope he manages to find the two or three grand that it is going to cost him, all in all, without too much pain. If I were the dealer, I think I would let him off the cost of the service, just out of sympathy.
Good luck, mate. I'm thinking about you, even though haven't a clue what you look like, or how old you are.
That's the Internet for you.
And in one or two of those places, I have made what I regard to be good friends - people I like and trust, and yet whom I have never met. One of those was the guy in Denmark who invited me over. The first time I actually spoke to him or saw him in the flesh was at 10 pm, in the dark in the middle of the Danish countryside, after a thousand-mile thrash across Europe. I thought afterwards that this was a bit of a gamble - after all, what if he turns out to be a complete twat? But it all turned out very well - he was a great guy, as was his wife (not a guy, but you know what I mean), and so were all his Danish friends.
Another was a chap I met through a game we both played for a while. We got on so well, we kept on emailing each other, and after a year or so of this I had an invitation to his birthday party on the other side of the country. Again, a long way to go on spec; again, I had a great time and I was very glad I went. Curiously, this chap knows more about the real 'me' that anyone else, apart from my wife and a couple of very old friends that I have known since University. I find it very easy to make acquaintances, but very hard to make real friends, and this guy is one of the real friends, despite my having spoken with him face-to-face for less than a couple of hours.
A third would be a guy I know through a bike forum that we both frequent. He's posted comments here once or twice, and I have come to like his approach to things, and appreciate his intelligence. I've never met him, although I feel I know him as least as well as someone I have a beer with every week or so. When I was considering doing a round-Britain ride, he quickly offered me a meal and a bed for the night when I was passing through his locality, despite the risk that I might be a serial killer or a world-class bore (I am neither, but working on it.)
He had a bad experience this week. He took his bike in for a service, and was given a loan bike by the dealer. The loan bike had a £2000 excess on the insurance. He was going to the post office to post a parcel on the loan bike when a car pulled out in front of him. He only touched the brakes, but the roads were greasy, and the bike went down at about 50 mph. He's got to repair the bike, replace all his protective gear, and then pay for the service on top of all that. And he's torn this and bruised that and scraped the other.
Bummer, as they used to say.
On the positive side, he's flipped the coin (as we all do now and again) and it's come up heads. He's alive, not seriously hurt, and the damage is mainly to his pride and his bank balance. He's got his head screwed on the right way, and he won't be blaming anyone but himself for the accident. He'll put it down to experience, and will be a fractionally better rider as a result.
It's a tricky time of year to be riding. Round here, the leaves have fallen and are wet and slippery on the country roads that I inhabit. The light is getting poor, the sun is low in the sky both early and late, and there is often a lot of spray to make visibility difficult. Riding through Winter is easy, compared to the liminal, transitional state that is Autumn.
I wish him a speedy recovery from his injuries, and I hope he manages to find the two or three grand that it is going to cost him, all in all, without too much pain. If I were the dealer, I think I would let him off the cost of the service, just out of sympathy.
Good luck, mate. I'm thinking about you, even though haven't a clue what you look like, or how old you are.
That's the Internet for you.
Depressing
I've just been out to do the weekly shop. I was up too late to do my favourite trick: in the shops by 8.30 am and home by ten, no crowds, tills all to myself, no hassle in the car park, no traffic jams getting out again. I was in Morrison's by 11 am, which meant I hit the peak Saturday morning rush.
And how depressing that was.
Cocky young men with beer bellies, proudly strutting around wearing the latest sportswear, and older men with straggly, greying hair sticking out from under baseball caps, wearing grey, stained jogging pants and battered trainers. Women with dark roots and grown-out frizzy perms, dressed either as Soviet peasants in a cold snap or as ready for a beach stroll in Marbella - neither appropriate for a cool, windy morning in West Wales. Either wrapped in dowdy overcoats or exposing way too much flesh (with 'tasteful' tattoos, naturally) with pole-dancing clothing offset by rolls of flab in all the wrong places.
I blame Jane Fonda. From the very first 'feel the burn' fitness craze, everyone has rushed to wear sports clothing. It's as if putting on a track suit from JJB Sports makes you suddenly part of the fitness revolution - whether you are a fit 20-year-old or a lardy 50-year-old grandmother. At least leg-warmers have had their day, but the ubiquity of the trainers, jogging pants and (round here) Wales Rugby shirts (on both men and women) makes the unfit look paradoxically less fit than if they wore a shirt and tie.
And above everything, a sad, defeated look about everyone. Sour mouths that turn down at the corners, an air of resignation, a look of utter poverty - both material and spiritual. Standing in the queue for the checkout, I was reminded of photographs of food queues in 1960s Russia. No-one was smiling. Surliness was the mood of the day.
Looking around, it was obvious that the vast majority of Brits dress for cheapness, not looks or quality. Baggy, formless jeans; shapeless hooded tops; grubby cheap baseball caps; and greasy, unstyled hair, dirty fingernails and, everywhere, the tattoos. Everything from the bargain bin. And this was Saturday morning. In the middle of the week, you might say that the shoppers were more likely to be pensioners or the unemployed, where economic necessity could be an explanation. But today, it was all about families, working people who were spending their hard-earned cash on the weekly shop.
What made it even more depressing was the occasional person who had made an effort. A woman in a smart coat, with good hair and decent shoes; a middle-aged man in a crisp dark shirt and a stylish waistcoat - these people stood out, drew the eye, as they were so unusual, like those photographs where everything is monochrome apart from one brightly-coloured feature like a sail.
In a similar supermarket in France, the reverse would be true. Sure, there would be the scruffy and grubby, the style-free and the couldn't-care. But the majority of shoppers, regardless of wealth or status, would be well-presented and clean, with clothes with a little class, and accessories with a hint of panache, as if it mattered that we gave the best impression in front of others.
Perhaps we just don't care what other people think any more. We've been told so often that we have our rights, that others are not allowed to criticise, that everyone is equally valuable and worthy, that we don't even bother to make the effort to make the best of ourselves. I know we are in a recession, and that money is tight for everyone, but this has been going on for years.
Today, I feel depressed about my country. I think we have lost it, whatever 'it' was. What can be done to make our country keen again, and happy and positive, and active, and optimistic? I'm not sure I know; in fact, I haven't a clue.
And how depressing that was.
Cocky young men with beer bellies, proudly strutting around wearing the latest sportswear, and older men with straggly, greying hair sticking out from under baseball caps, wearing grey, stained jogging pants and battered trainers. Women with dark roots and grown-out frizzy perms, dressed either as Soviet peasants in a cold snap or as ready for a beach stroll in Marbella - neither appropriate for a cool, windy morning in West Wales. Either wrapped in dowdy overcoats or exposing way too much flesh (with 'tasteful' tattoos, naturally) with pole-dancing clothing offset by rolls of flab in all the wrong places.
I blame Jane Fonda. From the very first 'feel the burn' fitness craze, everyone has rushed to wear sports clothing. It's as if putting on a track suit from JJB Sports makes you suddenly part of the fitness revolution - whether you are a fit 20-year-old or a lardy 50-year-old grandmother. At least leg-warmers have had their day, but the ubiquity of the trainers, jogging pants and (round here) Wales Rugby shirts (on both men and women) makes the unfit look paradoxically less fit than if they wore a shirt and tie.
And above everything, a sad, defeated look about everyone. Sour mouths that turn down at the corners, an air of resignation, a look of utter poverty - both material and spiritual. Standing in the queue for the checkout, I was reminded of photographs of food queues in 1960s Russia. No-one was smiling. Surliness was the mood of the day.
Looking around, it was obvious that the vast majority of Brits dress for cheapness, not looks or quality. Baggy, formless jeans; shapeless hooded tops; grubby cheap baseball caps; and greasy, unstyled hair, dirty fingernails and, everywhere, the tattoos. Everything from the bargain bin. And this was Saturday morning. In the middle of the week, you might say that the shoppers were more likely to be pensioners or the unemployed, where economic necessity could be an explanation. But today, it was all about families, working people who were spending their hard-earned cash on the weekly shop.
What made it even more depressing was the occasional person who had made an effort. A woman in a smart coat, with good hair and decent shoes; a middle-aged man in a crisp dark shirt and a stylish waistcoat - these people stood out, drew the eye, as they were so unusual, like those photographs where everything is monochrome apart from one brightly-coloured feature like a sail.
In a similar supermarket in France, the reverse would be true. Sure, there would be the scruffy and grubby, the style-free and the couldn't-care. But the majority of shoppers, regardless of wealth or status, would be well-presented and clean, with clothes with a little class, and accessories with a hint of panache, as if it mattered that we gave the best impression in front of others.
Perhaps we just don't care what other people think any more. We've been told so often that we have our rights, that others are not allowed to criticise, that everyone is equally valuable and worthy, that we don't even bother to make the effort to make the best of ourselves. I know we are in a recession, and that money is tight for everyone, but this has been going on for years.
Today, I feel depressed about my country. I think we have lost it, whatever 'it' was. What can be done to make our country keen again, and happy and positive, and active, and optimistic? I'm not sure I know; in fact, I haven't a clue.
Friday, 23 October 2009
What we had long suspected
This needs to be widely known.
The huge increases in migrants over the last decade were partly due to a politically motivated attempt by ministers to radically change the country and "rub the Right's nose in diversity", according to Andrew Neather, a former adviser to Tony Blair, Jack Straw and David Blunkett.
He said Labour's relaxation of controls was a deliberate plan to "open up the UK to mass migration" but that ministers were nervous and reluctant to discuss such a move publicly for fear it would alienate its "core working class vote".
"I remember coming away from some discussions with the clear sense that the policy was intended – even if this wasn't its main purpose – to rub the Right's nose in diversity and render their arguments out of date."
The "deliberate policy", from late 2000 until "at least February last year", when the new points based system was introduced, was to open up the UK to mass migration, he said.
"Part by accident, part by design, the Government had created its longed-for immigration boom.
"But ministers wouldn't talk about it. In part they probably realised the conservatism of their core voters: while ministers might have been passionately in favour of a more diverse society, it wasn't necessarily a debate they wanted to have in working men's clubs in Sheffield or Sunderland."
And look where their deceit has got them. Millions of disaffected and apathetic working-class voters, and the BNP on a roll.
"Rubbing the Right's nose in diversity."
What a bunch of malevolent, vindictive, irresponsible, shallow, contemptible, utter, utter bastards. I reckon this is close to treason.
Watch the BBC lead with this in tomorrow's headlines.
Not.
The huge increases in migrants over the last decade were partly due to a politically motivated attempt by ministers to radically change the country and "rub the Right's nose in diversity", according to Andrew Neather, a former adviser to Tony Blair, Jack Straw and David Blunkett.
He said Labour's relaxation of controls was a deliberate plan to "open up the UK to mass migration" but that ministers were nervous and reluctant to discuss such a move publicly for fear it would alienate its "core working class vote".
"I remember coming away from some discussions with the clear sense that the policy was intended – even if this wasn't its main purpose – to rub the Right's nose in diversity and render their arguments out of date."
The "deliberate policy", from late 2000 until "at least February last year", when the new points based system was introduced, was to open up the UK to mass migration, he said.
"Part by accident, part by design, the Government had created its longed-for immigration boom.
"But ministers wouldn't talk about it. In part they probably realised the conservatism of their core voters: while ministers might have been passionately in favour of a more diverse society, it wasn't necessarily a debate they wanted to have in working men's clubs in Sheffield or Sunderland."
And look where their deceit has got them. Millions of disaffected and apathetic working-class voters, and the BNP on a roll.
"Rubbing the Right's nose in diversity."
What a bunch of malevolent, vindictive, irresponsible, shallow, contemptible, utter, utter bastards. I reckon this is close to treason.
Watch the BBC lead with this in tomorrow's headlines.
Not.
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