love, peace and grease.....

walking the dogs, thursday night, i'm thinking about your comment's on the blog, i have to get this sorted and sorted soon, well, now seem's like a good time, 'hello paul it's tim, whatever you are planning to do tonight cancel it, i want my bike sorting' i won't go into too much detail, i'm not proud of the fact that it came to this, but, sometimes you just have to put it straight, 2100 hrs he trap's, i'm ready for bed getting up at sparrow's fart for work but i'm determined i'm going to have a running bike tonight, 2300hrs and the shed door is open, i thumb the button and the old girl cough's into life on the third poke, the dust and shit of the past nine month's burn's off, the top end is rattling like fuck, starved of oil for the duration, as the oil starts to circulate the noise decreases and the big lump 'walk's' up the shed on the sidestand, job done, friday i'm into work, extra early to clear the deck's, 0400hrs, a cool but clear morning, by 1100 hr's i'm out of there, spend an hour checking and double checking fasteners, screw the seat back on, it's not pretty, the wiring to the switches on the bar's need's trimming back, i need to route stuff and tie-wrap it back to the frame, but, ladies and gentlemen, i'm up and running, walk the dog's, quick shower and down to roadhouse tattoo to catch ben jones, we spend an hour catching up, the shop is busy as usual but, you know, tattoo shops and bikes just seem to be so right, ben and sharon are laying down class art and the phone never stops ringing, same as the steady influx of patron's eager to book some time, quick brew and i make my way out of the city into god's county, derbyshire, the traffic is sparse, there's not a breath of wind and i'm caught out by the feeling of riding a bike, you soon forget how involving it is, the senses kicking in, my height of awareness magnified a hundred times, the farmer's cutting the grass, that heady smell of fresh cut grass, the pollen count is massive, [my eyes are watering as i type this] i can smell ladies perfume as i pass car's, i happen across an old type-two camper van on my favourite road, he's topping out at, whoa, a massive thirty five miles in the pee haytch, we pull up at traffic light's, i glimpse him in his side mirror, bloody hell, he looks like iggy pop! long, grey hair, grey vest, no tattoo's, garage bought sunglasses up high on his forehead, bob marley, surfers against sewerage and anti polltax stickers in the rear window of his van, the windows, [which i originally thought were tastefully tinted yellow but in retrospect i realise were just nicotine stained] he beckon's me forward, 'cool bike man' he's chuffing on a rather large roll-up, i'd like to asssume it was just tobacco but i know it's a massive doobie, his cheek's are hollow and drawn, frightening, i'm out here on my bike and this old tosser is toking away in broad daylight, oblivious to the consequences,  a quick blip of the go-stick and i'm away, out of harm's way, the sporty isn't happy, i've shaved down an s+s bellmouth to fit the sponge-bob-square-pant's filter and i reckon it's too short, the bike is coughing and spluttering through the carb and 'banging' on the over-run, i haven't had this problem before, an easy fix to remount the s+s bellmouth, i've spunked two tanks of fuel, i've got hay-fever, my eyes feel like someone's chucked gravel in them, my arse is sore, my fillings are dropping out and i'm smiling for the first time in month's.......

life won't wait

sitting in the shed waiting for the phonecall, 'hello tim, it's paul......' it's 2030 hrs, i know what's coming, 'won't be able to make it tonight i'm afraid' no shit sherlock, my bike is so close it's unreal, i can smell it, just add fuel and a battery, press the button and let's go, fuck me, it's july now, if you had told me back in december that i wouldn't have a bike, race or road i wouldn't have believed it, seven months on, life won't wait, i've missed the summer, i've tried to book the morini owners club trackday and the classic bike magazine trackday at cadwell, the triumph triples trackday, all over subscribed, i can't book them beforehand as i've got no guarantee that my bike will be ready and i can ill afford to spunk a hundred quid here and a hundred quid there, lose my deposit on the hire van and lose valuable annual leave for a 'pie-in-the-sky dream' and  to cap it all, it looks like i'm going to miss the 'festival' too for the first time, paid up front in january, never dreaming for a second that i wouldn't be out there, i'm losing patience now, getting mightily fucked off with the whole caboodle, i've shelled out hard-earned for nothing but a heap of broken promises, [again, hello kev, how you doing?] what's a matter with people? i really don't think that it's out of order or impatient to ask when you might possibly receieve what you paid for up-front? is it me or what? is this something unique to the motorcycling fratenity? sorry to go off on one and here's a couple of pictures of jim blomley's beautiful moto-guzzi race bike, i know i use the word 'perfection' too much, but, really? just look at this beauty.......

airhead cafe racer project

glastonbury, love it, been glued to the coverage all weekend, got everything recorded on the, blimey, i nearly said 'video' then, remember those?, top-loader's?, betamax? now it's the 'sky +' or hardrive recorder, technology eh? brilliant, never been to glasto, [well, not for the festival, mr's b and the kid's and yours truly had a great time down there when we visited the famous tor back in the noughties but thats a tale for another time] i've always fancied it, i've done loads of festivals in the past, i've done some thirty to forty thousand people festival's, but glastonbury?, they reckon close to 120 thousand souls there this weekend, that's amazing really, the atmosphere and energy from that amount of people all gathered together to listen to music and have a good time, lot's of recreational drugs and copious amounts of alcohol, then theres the reality of a festival, the overflowing port-a-loo's, the joy of getting camped next to twelve sixteen year old's, away from mum and dad for the first time, shouting, being sick and crying as the effects of the cider and reefer and sunburn and lack of sleep and homesickness take there toll, yeah, glastonbury, i love watching it from the comfort of my sofa, freshly shaved and showered and enjoying a glass of wine and decent food without running the risk of food poisoning, but, what i really love is the close up tv coverage of the crowds especially all the upper-class henry's, the fifty-something area managers, the regional directors and c.e.o's trying to sing along and not having a fucking scooby, daft jester's hat's on their head's and trying to be down with the kid's, probably stopping in an eight-grand-for-the-weekend-wi-fi-enabled-hot-tubbed-butler-served-'yurt' yeah you knobber's, we can see you, all of a sudden that pitch next door to the schoolkid's suddenly seem's more appealing than spending anytime in their company, anyway, got my boxer frame, yokes and clip-on's back from the blaster's, good job if a little expensive at forty quid, hope they remember that when i get them powdercoated, the fork-bottom's? they reckoned the blast media wouldn't touch the gold paint, i must admit i was surprised when i tried nitromors on them and it didn't shift it, anyone got any ideas how to remove it because i'm stumped.....

shoot me again, [i ain't dead yet]

out tonight with the bailey family, jess was 19 on the 17th of june, me? well i'm fifty-four tomorrow, 29th june, we hit the city of derby, 'revolucion de cuba' brilliant meal, veggie enchiladas, spicy brown rice with crispy onions, re-fried black beans and fresh salad, couple of peroni's, sorted, great atmosphere and service, my girls looking good, jack, cool as fuck as usual, we don't do this enough, life just seem's to get in the way, everyone has too many other things to do, 'i'm going here or i've got to do this' admit it, we all do this, every working man and women, really we need to just take a step back and say no, today is the day when i'm going to spend some time catching up with my family, if you are anything like us lot we all get on each other's nerves, but, we are family, i love them and all their little niggly faults [and let's face it, i'm fucking perfect me, ahem]  and then, when we get home and everyone else is in bed, i can take off my 'baldy-man cover-skin' and let my natural, long, blonde lock's hang free, like that bloke in the 'lost boys' film, you know who i mean, the bloke playing the saxophone, mulletted-up-to fuck, i shake them loose and watch that clip, over and over and over again, that's me that is, [in my dreams....]

prickly thorn, but sweetly worn.

two mates, two totally different rides, barse's shovelhead and andy's mz racer, heard from andy via e-mither  the other day, he's carving 'em up on the ex-loveless racebike, got a sixth place and club rider of the weekend last meeting, he's defineately going to be one to watch for the championship next season, a stirling effort mucker, well done and then barse, well, what can you say, he set off at 0500 hours this morning after an all night session rebuilding the shovelhead, met up with glen on the panhead, luke on his harley 45 and andy on an indian, off to linkhert attacks in plymouth, i'll let the text's we exchanged through the day tell the story, '60 miles gone, glen's out, broken crankase's' 'not missed a beat, 200 miles done, just a  100 to go, just me, luke and andy left now' 'just coming into exeter, 60 miles to go, we are on the dartmoor road' 'and 14 hours later we are here!' well done boy's, a perfect example of grit and determination in the face of adversity carrying you on to your goals....

you got the poison, i got the remedy....

thoroughly disheartened after the 'i need a japper 600 sportbike' interlude i spent the weekend scouring the 'tinterweb thing for a replacement, i soon became bored looking at the thousand's and thousand's of bikes listed and drifted off into the usual bailey territory of mz's, yamaha szr 660 supersingles, xbr 500 honda's, unfinished sporty projects, bmw boxer twins, italian exotica, gsxr 750's, [80's only thank you, non of that water-cooled bollock's here]  vespa px 200's, t5,s and small-frames, norton's, aermacchi's and ducati pantah's and laverda montjuic's, me and vince, [my dear, departed, one-off- hard- as- nail's mate, i just realised, i never admitted to liking two-strokes to vinny, well, you wouldn't after hancock bought a kawasaki 750 h2 and blew vinny's old bonneville into the weed's, hancock had never managed to beat vince until he purchased the almost seven year old kwacker and proceeded to take the piss, wheelie's, looking back and waving ta-ta, slowing down then gunning it past vinny on the wheezing old brit, a laughing hancock soon became aware of his mistake when we arrived at the 'olde english drinking establishment', [or 'the mount as we knew it, 'the mount pleasant'] thing's were far from pleasant as vince threw his old piss-pot  helmet across the car-park and ran, [well, when i say 'ran' i mean proceeding across the car park as fast as possible, holding up his wrangler's with one hand, unzipping his ancient 'lewis' with the other, coughing, flicking out a roll-up and lighting it, couple of cough's, a gob and beard bristling, five-foot-fuck-all of total menace, i've seen this bloke take on a whole pub, he never drank, he just had the burning desire to beat anything on two feet or two wheel's, the wrangler wrestling hand has suddenly gripped hancock's throat before he's even had a chance to remove the immaculate white, 'bell' mark 2 helmet, 'you, you, you.......wanker....... hancock' no-one say's a word, hancock is close to pissing himself with fear, then, vinny say's, 'can i have a go.......' laverda 650 formula, top specification, brembo goldline brakes, white power suspension, all rebuilt by 'bikebuildersteve' at http://www.jalrestorations.com/  class build by an obviously talented bloke, makes me go all misty eyed for the old 'monty' day's, never owned one, never will at the prices they are fetching, but, well, you know, i could fall in love with this little beauty.......

i started something i couldn't finish

ben's right, i'm turning into a miserable, moaning old bastard, no road bike, no race bike, i'm so fucked off that saturday night see's me making the short commute down to burton to check out an 'immaculate, 5000 mile kawasaki zxr600 ninja, one owner, new battery new tyres and fifteen-hundred quid, bog standard ready to go' i turn up at tea-time, the bloke who's selling it forget's all about me coming even though it's two-hour's since i've arranged to meet him, i pull up at the electric gates and speak to his wife/partner/ on the intercom, 'hello, i'm tim, i've come to have a look at the motorcycle for sale' i might have said i've come to burn the house down, steal everything and kill all the occupant's, eventually the gates open and i'm beckoned into the courtyard of the mansion, lexus four-by-four, mercedes slk, porsche boxster, mini cooper x2, the lady of the manor look's at me like i'm something she's stepped in, open's the quadruple garage door's, fuck me, this shed is bigger than my house, 'my husband will be here shortly' she inform's me, i get that sinking feeling in my stomach, the shed is rammed full, expensive mountain bikes, two petrol driven sit-on mower's, kid's quad bikes, 'it's in here somewhere' princess diana inform's me, eventually we find it, half covered with a sheet like an old age pensioner in a care home, a quick glimpse of the speedo reveals the 'five-thousand mile' bike to be actually seven and a half thousand miles, it's dirty, covered in shit and dust, the tyres are as hard as a ripley bouncer, the brakes are seized, chain and sprocket's red with rust, it's not even the model he said it was in the advert, suspension sagging like jordan's thong, the 'new battery' turn's out to be eighteen month's old, he want's fifteen hundred quid for it, a quick estimation see's me putting seven hundred quid and a load of work into it just to get it roadworthy, on further questioning he admit's to sticking it into an armco barrier on the a38 and bending the frame, his brother has 're-built it' it's a bad 'un, been around bikes too long i'm afraid,  he's insistant it's a bargain, i resist the urge to have a row and headbutt the cunt, make my excuses and leave, he follow's me down the drive, giving it me, i must be getting old me, just don't want to spoil the weekend, on a lighter note, paul's smashed some hour's into the sporty........

special/blown it [delete as appropriate]

1988, mz 250 commuter bike, forty seven careful owner's, 300 quid and a thousand hour's work, sifting through breaker's yard's, measuring, making, manufacturing, cutting, milling and turning the wheel's of steel, carcinogenic dust cutting and shaping racing-car carbon off-cut's sourced from a skip, wheel's off a 50cc yamaha moped, milled, lightened and shaped by hand, brembo brake caliper off a ducati treble-nine, rear caliper off a cagiva mito, r1/thundercat controls, handmade, bespoke and original and getting top results in the hand's of a better racer than me, [andy smith] loads of sleepless night's working and developing the bike that would become an obsession and cause grief and threaten marriages, or, you could go and buy dice magazine and be really cool, just saying......

trouble man.......

i admit it, i own up, i'm a magazine fan, from new musical express, sound's, melody maker, sniffing glue, bike, [ the classic '70's and early '80's issues with the heroic 'team bike' endurance racer's] superbike, [tony middleton era, not the fucking poor excuse for a mag now] classic bike, back street heroes, awol, [odgie, genius] the legendary iron horse, [well, where do i start with this one, ghengis, david snow, noyes livingstone, proper, in your face, thought provoking writers] classic racer, performance bikes, [still get that today] and a hundred and one other's i've sourced on my travels, old school rod's, bound by ink, skin deep, rebel rod's, classic bike guide, old school rod's, easyriders, fast classic's, sideburn and the classic 'old school hooligan ex scooterist, northern soul, vinyl sniffing, blackbelt tattooed bike smashing, reggae loving, ska-faced, old lefty skinhead anti-racist blue's music fan classic bike racing drunken fucker new's', [ok, ok, i admit i made that one up] but, dice magazine has alway's rocked my world, brilliant photo's, attitude in abundance and just that feeling of punk rock, the feeling that you belonged to a club that only a few shared, been here since issue one, spring 2004, i've even got the poster of jake from the lord's of altamont sitting on the '68/'73 triumph hardtail  on my living room wall, today, i got issue 50 drop through my door, bigger format, cute cotton bag and the usual beautiful pictures and well, not a lot else really, not a lot of word's, just lot's of pictures of trendy people, scenesters and folk trying to sell their 'lifestyle' and fashion tip's, facial hair? check, plaid shirt? check, levi 501's?, check, redwing boot's? check, beanie hat? check, old-school, brand- new- your- retro tattoo's, check and a page of 'merch' to buy, [do people really buy this stuff? do you think that parting with some hard earned coinage will bring you instant cool? skateboard deck's, trucker caps, stickers, tee's, buttons and magnetic fish fridge magnet's?] that's it for me, i'm bailing, cancelled my sub, time to move on i reckon, like that girlfriend you know you shouldn't have committed to but did, you moved in and everything was cool and deadly, great times but, well, just time to call it a day i guess, it's that awkward morning after thing, last night it just seemed sooo-right, but in the cold, clear light of the day, well, it's just that awkward stumbling around the kitchen trying to make a coffee without making eye-contact and trying to be polite thing, going to listen to some public enemy tonight, 'don't, don't, don't believe the hype' god bless you dice magazine, thank's, ta-ra..........