i think the hardest thing for me is that i trusted a friend and they have let me down, i only want honesty, i'm a honest person myself, all i ask is to be told the truth, my engine was at the tuner's before christmas, 'yes mate, you'll have it back for the new year, no problem', 'yes mate, you'll deffo have your engine back before the test day in march', 'i've got the rabbit by the ear's mate, 'im just trying to pull it out of the hat, you'll be at mallory on sunday mate, no problem' i'm not going to be at mallory tomorrow, that's a fact, well, i will be at mallory, just not racing, i booked a week's annual leave, precious time-off, prepared to spend the week getting the bike ready, and, well, it's all just pie in the sky, i went up to see him yesterday, caught him off guard, 'right mate, let's have a look, where's my bit's, let's have a look where we stand', 'everything's at home, it's the only way i can get it done', i look him in the eye's, he's lying, 'i'll get it done for monday mate, no worries' too late, the racing start's tomorrow, monday's no good, what really bother's me is that someone i trusted has let me down, badly, i can't forgive him for that, i've paid a grand up front and all i have to show for it is two tyres and a front wheel, monday might prove 'interesting'...............

i'd amost forgotten that i had this seven-inch release from the clash in the loveless vinyl vault, i have the 'sandinista' album in my collection already and can only think that i just had to buy it to complete my obssesion with this band, i played it and realised that the anti-war, anti-draft sentiment is as pertinent today as back then, powerful song, 'all the young people down the ages, they gladly marched off to die, proud city fathers used to watch them, ..........tears in their eyes'

couple of photo's pre-race bike day's, a time when we were happy and sat in the sunshine outside the pub waiting for the very nice man to come and pick us and our ducati's up when we had suffered some 'electrical' mis-hap, or perhap's a 'vibration-type indicator/numberplate bracket/rear brake light/silencer bike to road interface problem, women and ducati's, can't live with them, can't live without them......

on my nightly trawl through the massive resource that is the interweb i sometimes happen upon a real gem and here is one, god know's when and where but i'll hazard a guess at early eighties, the geezer on the #180 bike rocking the dave aldana 'skeleton' leathers could have been me, i bought my blue and white suzuki gee-ess in 1981, the original ice cream van as they were known, i rode it for, well about two week's and proceeded to chop the shit out of it, metchmachex ally swinging arm, harris formula one four into one pipe, marzzochi remote reservoir shocks and eddy lawson blue anodized bars with 'grip-on' big spongy grips, 'cir-cycle' bellmouths and yellow ht leads, i was the bomb me, matlock bath every sunday, i sent off to america for some 'bel-ray' oil sticker's, three week's later i got a 'letter' back with three sticker's in it, amazing, i read and re-read the compliment's slip and carefully applied the decals to my bike, anyway, back to the plot, gs thou, a couple of , what look like tz yam's and a norton commando leading the charge from the line, check out the  spectator's bell-bottomed jean's, fucking brilliant, big ill-handling four-stroke monster's vs dirty, smelly two-strokes with an o.b.w, [old british wanker, you had to be a reader of the old 'bike' magazine to rock this reference i'm afraid] chucked into the mix, happy day's...........

sitting in the shed, drinking tea and the dog's on 'their' chair, i'm feeling better at last, i'm looking at the boxer project up on the bench and suddenly it hit's me just how bad does the rear wheel look?  can't live with the boring 'standard' [not to the r65, but the r80/ r100 rear rim compared to the front flanged race pattern akront and the brake drum is hideous, even with the lightening holes / vent holes drilled in it] i pick up a copy of  'old bike mart' and scan the adverts, well, what do you know?, there's only someone selling one in derby, quick phone call confirm's he's still got it, a cryptic conversation ensue's but i decide to drag the sporty out of the shed and have a ride down to the 'address' ['turn into ++++++++++ street, even though the address is round the corner, there's a hole in the fence, ride up the bank and you'll see my van parked up'] fucking-hell, here we go, dodgy as fuck, but, me being me, i've got to go and have a look, i slip my gerber quick opener into my pocket just in case and have a pleasant saunter down into derby, i don't recognise the road, but, the area is familiar, apparently, i'm on 'lara croft' road, yep, that lara croft, the playstation priestess and the fantasy of millions of teenage gamer's back in the day, [and a few old-timer's if the truth be known, i couldn't go to bed without leaving our la-la safe, ahem], i don't alway's get it when barse talk's about riding through the city, but, today i do, the rumble of the sporty exhaust and the induction noise as the big mickey-runi suck's at the ether through the open bell mouth, [vellor-city-staaak for our american reader's, keith lemon, genius!] it's a lovely spring day, cold and fresh but sunny, great for smashing the sales rep's ego's in their ford blandeo's away from the light's, slow down, let them pass and do it again at the next set, infantile i know, but, just so much fun, i find the hole in the fence and ride up the bank into the 'yard', there's a ramp down to an old mill building, i stop the sporty, take my helmet off and put it on the seat, my hands in my pocket, thumb skimming the button on the gerber as i walk into the gloom, there's two old duffer's sitting on mismatched, old, floral, filth-caked, dumped chair's drinking tea from mug's that you don't need a tea-bag in to make a brew, i relax instantly, 'ey up youth, we're on a break, be with you in ten minutes, have a poke 'round if you want....' brilliant, i reckon they haven't had a customer in years and 'their on a break' i try and take in the stuff in the forty-watt light, bloody hell, it's rammed, floor to ceiling, racking groaning under the weight of part's, there's bikes and old side-car outfit's everywhere, a lot of pre-war stuff, emw, bmw, mz's, a norton inter race bike, ducati singles, old triumph's, a barn find velo and flat-tanker's that i can't even recognise,  you literally have to pick your way through the piles of crankcases, cylinder heads and frames, tank's, wheel's, new 'old stock' tyres that would be lethal if you fitted them to your bike, hard and brittle but still bearing the manufacturer's original sticker's, it's a goldmine, i can't believe it, 'right youth, we're ready', they are standing behind me and i didn't even hear them, both looking at me through smudged, thick-framed glasses, hanging on the end of their nose's, i pick out the best stroke five three-ribbed hub from the proffered good's, haggle over the price, pay the cash-money and bid them a fond farewell, i can't tell you where they are i'm afraid, i've found the holy grail me, i stash my prize in my rucksack and don my yellow plastic safety glasses and cromwell helmet combo, they watch me start the sporty and stand waving like a pair of aunties waving off their favourite nephew as i ride through the hole in the fence and down the gravel bank, as i ride away i'm struck with the thought that there must be places like this all over the country, co-existing with modern society but as underground and alien as it's possible to be, deal's done on a nod and a handshake and treasures only to be shared with other people who, who? well just get it.........

 in that twilight zone, the time of night when you can't sleep, are feeling desperatley ill and you are just waiting for the next wave of nausea to wash over you there's only one thing to do, hunt down the bastard who infected your computer with a virus that causes it to meltdown and wipe your i-tunes library, double-six the fucker and as he see's the message appear on his monitor, 'time to die motherfucker!' the disc drive bursts out and cleaves his face in half, sorry, i'm not feeling very well at the moment, the result of a dodgy ruby on saturday night, well, it's either that or looking for bike-porn, and i hit the jackpot with discovery of the dutch bmw racing site, http://www.becksmotoren.nl/, oh my god, we are not worthy indeed, check these out, the 'gulf' bike, the 'host' tanked, manx fly screened 'red-bike' and the almost seeley-esque 'ally' bike, stunning..........

i woke up early sunday morning and i knew i was going to be ill, between 0130 hrs and 0930 hrs i was up every hour, on the hour, talking to god on the great white telephone, long time since i've been this bad, mr's b brings me a cup of tea up to bed, i can't face it, i shower and spend the rest of the day napping on the sofa, the dog's sense i'm not well and cuddle up with me, the boy jack approaches to fuss them and they see him off, they know i'm at a low ebb and are just doing the pack thing and protecting me, i sip a glass of water all day, that's it, my body is shagged, mr's b and the girl jessica walk the dogs and i settle down to watch the moto gp on the box, i'm not really into the gp's since the sad demise of the two-strokes and all this traction control bollock's, my first love is classic racing, followed by real roadracing, the british superbikes are good too, but, i must admit, i was looking forward to the new moto 3 class, four-cylinder 250cc four-strokes as a replacement for the one-two-fives, i wasn't dissapointed, the machines are gorgeous, the racing tight and as for the sound? 'like a squadron of spitfires' as julian ryder said.......