since i lost my head, it's awl-right.....

no suprises there then, i've been 'telegraphing' for the past week or so, the new addition to the loveless stable, air-cooled, twin cylinder, carbureted , 900cc ducati loveliness, totally un-molested bar carbon slip-on's, k+n airfilter, dynojet kit and oberon  mastercylinder, [complete with a dodgy red goodrich hose, excuse me, bile in the throat, soon fuck that off and get something a bit more tasteful] eleven thousand miles from new, brand spanking michelin pilot's, new belt's,  full service history and enthusiast owned, less than 15 miles per year for the last four years and that was only between the mot station for the annual ticket, well worth the 500 mile round trip just for the sound, going to try and keep this one as it is, except for perhaps a sprinkling of stainless and titanium fastener's, thats it except for some carbon doo-dad's, maybe some high level termi's, a 'superlight' seat would look nice, might make some rearsets too, the clip-on's are too high for me, they need to go for sure,  i heard that you can fit the marchesini wheel's off the later model's a piece of piss and lose loads of un-sprung weight, what about a set of 1098 forks and mono-block's? they would look the business, a long lever pazzo brake lever and short clutch lever would be nice too, whatever you do, keep it quiet and don't tell mr's b...........

road trip

 five hundred miles, i've driven five hundred miles today, i've laughed until i nearly cried, spunked over a hundred quid on diesel, dined on egg and cress and salmon and cucumber sanwiches, drank three bottles of water, drank a macdonalds coffee, a macdonalds tea, sang along to the rolling stones, oasis, sister sledge, the small faces, sly and the family stone and jimmy hendrix, eaten home-made jam sponge cake, sang along to lionel ritchie, the clash, some old school rave tunes, smiths, style council, bob marley, bought a bike and picked up a classic race bike along the way, seen some great scenery, sang along to some who, smashing pumpkins, steve hillage and roxy music, public enemy, pixies, paul weller and neneh cherry,pastot tl barrett and the youth for christ choir, days like this make it all worthwhile.....

christiansands

 air-cooled, 900 cc ss ducati, watch this space, i think i might just have found one.........

'them were the days youth'

returning from my nightly walk with the dogs along the road where i live i saw an old man sitting on his front door step enjoying the early evening sunshine, his eyes closed and his hands resting upon his knees, i usually wave to him as i pass, he is usually sitting next to the window watching tv or reading in his chair, but tonight he was outside catching some rays, 'ey up', i think i startled him from his thoughts and he looked up with a 'hello' and immediately brought a hand to shield his eyes from the lowering sun, 'oh, hello' he says again 'i'm sorry, i didn't realise it was you' he stands up, [you know how old people get up from being seated] he pushes his hands against his upper thighs and rises slowly, his hands slip backwards to his hips and he stretches before walking over to join me at his garden gate, he fusses the dogs and we spend twenty minutes or so chatting, i ask him 'hows your wife, i've not seen her for while?' he paused and steeled himself before answering my question, before he spoke i already knew the answer, 'my wife passed away.....'  he pauses again and i look this proud old man straight in his blue eyes '.........eighteen months ago.......' damn, i live less than ten houses down from him and i never knew, i wish the earth would swallow me up and then, suddenly he breaks into a broad grin, he tells me how they met and how long they were married, about his children and about past times, he was a coal miner, like a lot of men from around here, he first entered the pit as a trainee at the age of fourteen, his first job was looking after the pit pony's before he graduated to hand picking the coal, yep, literally using a pick and shovel to work the coal seam, 'eight yards [7.3152 metres] a day or you didn't get paid, if you hadn't mined eight yards then you stopped in your own time until you had, no overtime back then!' often lying on your side in the sweltering heat, water running down the walls, underground at 0600 and back to the surface at 1400 [unless you hadn't mined your eight yards that is], if you wanted the toilet you just dug a hole and buried it, water from a pot-bottle to quench your thirst and a sandwich wrapped in a cloth for dinner, all this for a handsome two pounds a day, [ three dollars], he told me of the accidents, he saw men crushed and one fell to his death from the open transport cage, there wasn't even a pit-head baths when he first started work and he had to catch the bus and walk up the portway in all his filthy work wear, home to a bath in the kitchen, a hot tub, literally a tin bath, just long enough to sit in and usually after the kids had been in first! he worked underground for twenty- seven years until the pit shut for good and he went on to work at a big factory in derby making electric cables, until he retired, [the two colour photos are the actual pit head and slag heap and the production board, if you look closely you can see the legend 'up the rams' chalked upon it, a nod to derby county] 'you know, they used to bring the pony's up to the surface for two-weeks when the pit was shut for the annual holiday, i can still see the little buggers running around the meadows above the pit, it must have been the happiest time of their lives, at least we came up every afternoon'... it wasn't all doom and gloom though as we talked about the prank's played and the football matches against other collieries and the ale consumed afterwards, 'you used to go to a dance in ripley, alfreton or derby and you could always tell who the miners were, they were the ones with the black rings around their shirt collars and cuff's where the dust was sweating out of them!' the sun is almost gone now and the dog's are asleep on the pavement, bored by the hour and a half of human chat, 'right, i suppose i'd better get them fed' i say, he shakes my hand, a strong, firm handshake belying his ninety-years on this planet 'you know, my favourite part of the day was waving at the girls working at the denby pottery, they were all pretty and always waved back or blew you a kiss, them were the day's youth.....'

safe in mind [please get this gun from out my face]

vapour trails, fluffy white products of combustion from jet engines arcing across the sky, saturday morning and i'm walking the dog's, the steady 'puffing billy' pant, pant, pant of leashed canines the soundtrack for this walk, across deserted meadows, nettles stinging and the sun dipping in and out behind tall storm clouds, do you ever get that feeling when you arrive somewhere but can't remember how you got there?  i had that today, open fields and tightly packed woodland, the scent of dampness, patchouli oil? [or is that just something i'm dragging back from another life?] do you get that slightly uneasy feeling that someone or something is watching you when you go into the wood's? 'if you go down to the woods today your in for a BIG suprise....' the day my dad died i headed up to beeley moor, it just seemed the right thing to do, i headed for the little stone circle, 'doll tor' situated in the woods and just sat and thought about my old man, my dad was an old fashioned dad, he was always at work, every saturday and sunday, he never kicked a football with me or took me to football or cuddled me or told me he loved me, but, you know, i know he really did, he wasn't a bad-dad, just a dad from another age, the annual family holiday, one week at billy butlins holiday camp was always a chore to him, how the fuck would they cope without him? today the factory is gone and houses have been built on the land, what a waste, my dad gave up his life for that firm, even when he retired he went back in to help them out, a lot of people got rich and had a nice lifestyle because of my old man's efforts, i'm thinking about all this and suddenly i'm almost home, as i head back towards holbrook i stifle a chuckle, this road sign always makes me laugh, ok, left hand bend approaching, pretty tight, just be aware of the old people cutting the corner........

my human gets me blues

i really thought i'd got it out of my system, i was sorry to see my massimo tamburini designed ss750 go on e-bay for a paltry sum, but, i was in the middle of funding the mz 250 race bike project so i needed to move something on, the sporty? who's going to buy that piece of shit? overpriced, over rated and over here, you need to be constantly fettling, working on them and improving them, throw the brakes away, buy ducati brembo calipers from a breakers yard and you can stop them, belt-drive? a brilliant concept but in reality? i've snapped three pulling wheelies, don't get me wrong, if you are a 'typical' harley rider, twenty five mile run to the dealership, cup of tea in matlock bath and home to stand posing in the mirror and rubbing yourself as you quote johnny in the 'wild one' wearing your latest 'official, factory, t.m. .road-geer' [sic] clothing then well fair play to you, the stock pulleys weigh a ton, swap them for a chain and sprocket kit and your problems are over, chuck the fuel injection system in the bin and fit a mikuni hsr 42mm carb and a set of supertrapp's and you are halfway to making a decent bike, forget aftermarket ignition systems, i've tried them all and spunked a load of money in search of the elusive bee-haightch-pee, they really are shit, crane single fire?, wank, stick with the o.e. item and you won't go far wrong, cam's? waste of time, why do you want to move your torque range up when you ride at fifty miles an hour?, save yourself a load of money, keep a rideable bike and save some money, the best performance gain's are made by shaving weight off the standard heavy fucker, junk everything, as i said, pulley's weigh a ton, junk the stock rear mudguard and cut the rails, the supertrapps aren't the best looking pipes but they are equal length and tuned to the motor and they work, if you do the brembo four-pot conversion, [i run these on everything, there's no better value for money performance wise] you can lose the weight off the front end by junking a disc and caliper, fit a two-gallon sporty tank, you will be refilling every fifty miles if you ride hard like me but, let's face it, do you really want to spend anymore time than that on a 1200cc, vibrating, filling loosening, white finger inducing bastard? naawh, thought not, any way, back to the plot, the picture of the yellow superlight at 'founders day' sparked me off, so much that i decided almost instantly, [well, ok, two weeks later] that i needed another ducati in my life, this wasn't helped by the visit to see my old muckers racing the mz's last weekend at donington park] des still has the 250 racer leaning against the wall in his shed in deepest wales [boyo] a quick trawl of the tinterweb reveal's loads of bikes for sale, admittedly not 'superlights' but good, solid 750 and 900ss for sale starting from 1500 quid, i might just have to scratch this itch, it will mean shelving the beemer cafe racer project for a bit, but?,well? i'm waiting, what d'ya reckon?......

chant of a poor man

still catching up with post's, here's some photo's from a couple of weeks ago, the b.s.a goldstar owners meeting at the 'john thompson' public house and micro brewery in ingleby near swarkestone, right in the southern most tip of derbyshire and on the border of leicestershire and staffordshire, a lovely location, right next to the river trent and a perfect mid-summer, mid-week, meeting place for motorcyclist's, shame then that my abiding memory of this place amount's to being refused 'service' here by a landlord in the early 1980's who took great delight in announcing to his audience of half-pint and gin and tonic swilling clientle 'OUT! GET OUT NOW!  motorcyclist's are not welcome here!' 30 years later and i'm still holding a grudge as me and dangerous pull up into a bikeless carpark, loads of cars but no bikes, have we got the right night? barse turns up on the shovelhead from hell, chalky on his hinkley speed-triple and we get a cold, full-fat-full-sugar coke from the bar, in the distance i can hear the big b.s.a singles coming, a phone call from sweary reveals he's blown a plug out of his velo, the sun is losing height fast and the shadows lengthen, a couple of nice nortons turn up, a trouser stiffening, alloy tanked commando engined special and a late model 750 burgundy beaut, as the numbers grow in the beer garden and the 'lad's' start to move the garden furniture around the painstakingly manicured garden i stifle a laugh, if it was a bunch of teenagers the locals would be kicking up a stink, the language gets ever more fruity, me and barse are the youngest here, we are early fifties and the rest of the old degenerates are early '60's to late '70's, for me the moment of the evening was when the present landlord came over and asked in hushed tones if we could tone down the volume of our conversations and raucous, anti-social behaviour as it was 'offending other customers' brilliant, i've been waiting 30 years for this moment and i must admit i relished gunning out of the carpark and treating the assembled 'gentle-folk' to the aural pleasure of a big-bore, carbureted, supertrapped sporty on the cam.....

for maddened prophets

i like my own company me, i like time on my own, you are never more on your own than when you are riding a motorcycle, i headed out late afternoon, the ever present storm clouds threatening a right royal drenching, waterproof's are for wimps, it's hot and humid and stormy and if you get wet, well, it's better being wet and warm than wet and cold, open face lid then, as i head out north the roads are wet, traffic is light, the sky's darken as the cloud level and temperature drop's, the cattle are lying down and the bird's stop singing, it's coming, you can feel it in the air, a big storm, i can hear it rumbling in the distance, that low, steady noise, flashes of lightning spark across the horizon, i stop to wipe my glasses, the spray off the roads, dead flies and general road filth  combined with my salty tear's make vision forward's difficult, i spit on my glasses to clean them and look at my bike, what was i thinking of? the seat need's pulling in four inches forwards, as i ride home i feel backward's, yep, i can lose four inches easily by moving the seat forward, that's on the list of job's to do then and i want to run a number board with a headlight instead of the poxy bates copy, i set off and the storm hit's with a vengeance, that old saying? 'cat's and dog's?' i'm soaked within second's, i'm even having trouble breathing the storm is that intense, would i have it any other way? let me think about it..........nah, all i can think about is moving that fucking seat forward's......