miles from nowhere

have you ever seen that classic british film 'scum'? it's about a borstal in england in the late 1970's, [borstal is like a juvenile detention centre, a young offenders jail] the ace face is played by ray winstone, [he was the rocker in 'quadrophenia' you know, that bit in the public bath's where he's singing and phil daniels 'jimmy' tries to sing louder than him? [public bath's? for your information, most of the houses in britain in the late 1950's to early 1960's didn't have a bathroom, instead, you made your way to the local 'bath's' a communal bath-house where, once a week, you could indulge in a full bath instead of a quick rinse in a hand-bowl or the kitchen sink, can you imagine that nowday's? buying a house without a bathroom and a thundertrap at the end of the garden? ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my world, miles from nowhere, it's up for sale apparently, the present owner is retiring, i fear for it in the future, malc has poured his heart and soul into it in the past, running everything from the three regular bike-nights to car cruises, volkswagen meetings, streetfighter rally's, hot-rod and custom car shows and scooter rally's, auto-jumbles, swap-meet's and everything in-between, from fetish shows to rock and roll weekender's, i reckon 'miles from nowhere's' days might be numbered, i can see nothing but a boarded up old pub next to the canal, it's the worst time in the world to be buying into a pub, so, there you go? until the inevitable happens, heres some pics from monday night, would you really want to be anywhere else in the world than derbyshire on a monday night? california? pwfaaahh!  eat me, brisbane? so passe, london? fuck right off you bunch of southern poser's, derbyshire, we got it going on, big time, visit sometime, [just be aware you may receive a head-butt at any time if you step out of line, fucker.......]

vintage motor cycle club, founders day, part two

so, here we go again, a load of photo's [just scratching the surface mind] of the bikes i'd like to take home with me, let me clarify, me and dangerous, barse and the boy's have a little game we play when we attend a rally, show, meeting, bike night, blah, blah, blah, obvious as it seems it's called ' ok, 'which bike would you take home with you?' well, here's my choice cut's from the weekend, from lambretta scooter, oh my, how cool does this man and his sweetheart look astride this beauty?, the little raleigh bicycle framed ducati engined 'cicco' moped from 1948? the norton p11 desert racers? the xt 500 rocking those teeny 17 inch rims to take advantage of modern rubber [like i've done on the sporty, doesn't it look right? but bollocks to that, when you see how far over he's had it on the road tyres, sometimes forsaking the the off-road, knobbly look pay's dividends and i bet this bloke doesn't give a shit because he's far too busy having a blast, the ducati superlight? i'm in love me, stunning, the harley sidevalves? [hate posting pictures of them but this pair have got it going on in my opinion, the ariel? norton commando in white? ural sidecar combo? vincents? [i love standing at shows and saying in a really loud voice 'that fucker would look great with a little mustang tank and ape-hangers' absolutely guaranteed to cause apoplexy in the majority of old duffer's standing fawning over these overpriced, poor excuses of a motorcycle] i'd rather have the 750/4 engined/bsa framed mongrel anyday, or the norton domi-racer or one of the flat-tank veterans, but, that's just me, that's the beauty of motorcycling, everyone has an opinion, for me, the afternoon was summed up by the bloke on the mz, i love these little two-stroke east german bikes, at first i thought he was in trouble as he sunk to his knee's and pawed at the grass, 'you ok mate?' i offered up, i seriously thought he was having a heart attack when i heard him cursing, 'oooh!, fucking fuck, bollocks, owww!' ' yeah, cause i'm, alright you twat!  i've just dropped my fucking ignition key in the grass and i'm fucked if i can see it............'

vintage motor cycle club, founders day, part one

you must excuse me, i'm  lagging behind on my posts, i'm far too busy riding my motorcycle, attending events and enjoying the sunshine to be sitting behind a keyboard, i'll try and catch up as i have a bit of a backlog at the moment, this post isn't in chronological order so bear with me and i'll get them up as soon as possible, the first sunday after the legendary 'festival of a 1000 bikes' see's dangerous and me setting off mid morning to the vintage motorcycle club annual 'founder's day rally' in rural leicestershire, it's a warm but overcast morning, low cloud but warm, misty and with a steady drizzle as we set off for the fifty+ mile meander down to stanford hall, it's really pleasant actually after the oppressive heat and humidity of the past week, out through the market garden town of melbourne, it starts to rain, 'its only a shower' i tell myself, it rains heavier, the sky darkens and a low mist descends, there's the odd low rumble of distant thunder, the traffic is light and i turn back to look at dangerous as we stop at a set of traffic lights, he has a broad stupid grin across his face and we burst out laughing, only team loveless would get caught in a full on almost tropical storm after the best weather of the year, i gun it away from the light's, the back tyre stepping to the side on the greasy road and the rooster tail of water hitting me fair and square in the face off my mudguard free, [i refuse to say 'fender' i'm english for fuck's sake and while were at it stick your 'triple tree's' up your bum too, there called yokes, always were, always will be] front wheel, i get that slow, wet creeping thing going on in the crotch area, that feeling that only someone who rides a motorcycle knows, at fist you are unsure if that feeling is actually happening, it starts around the mid-thigh area and slowly but surely works it way upwards until the inevitable occurs and it's too late to put your waterproofs on or, like me, you wish you had bungeed your waterproofs onto your bars 'just in case' we stop at another set of lights and i notice for the first time dangerous is wearing his over-trousers and full-face helmet, no wonder he's laughing, i'm leather jeaned and open-faced helmeted, piss wet through, water running off my yellow-lensed-works-issue-safety-glasses but, hey, i'm looking cool as fuck, hey -ho here we go on through pegg's green and past mallory park for the third weekend in a row, instead of heading into hinckley [the home of the modern day triumph] we head through barwell and ride down the 'b' roads to lutterworth, the storm subsides and as we ride down the lane to sandford hall i get transfixed by the giant propellors of the wind farm, i can hear the 'swooosh, swwwooosh, swoooshh' of the giant blades as they spin through their axis, correct me if i'm wrong but were they there last year or did i just fail to notice them?, entry fee paid and park up, wring out clothes and wander off to search out a brew, it takes us an age just to get out of the rows of bikes parked up, there's something worth stopping and studying every few bikes, its just one of those places i guess, just loads of interesting bikes everywhere, just take a look at this brief snapshot, every bike is special and 'unique' in some way, from the honda ss50 'sixteener', never had an oil cooler fitted as standard and possibly hints at a hidden race kit buried within?, the norton 'es4'? a 1010cc monster of a bike, based on two 500cc es2 heads mated to a common crankcase, everything below the cylinder heads is home made, yep, the cams, crankshaft and shafts, the frame and swinging arm? yep, ditto, pure, eccentic brilliance, i love it me, what about the ariel arrow four? admit it, you didn't even notice did you? bsa single special with jap running gear? the best nor-vin you've ever seen? what's happening with the 'double-knocker' ohc special? and check out the triton too, yep, it's got red h.t.leads, ok sorry but it's still a lovely bike, i know i've said it before but all the way home i was singing the roy harper song, 'one of those days in england...........'

festival of a 1000 bikes 2013 part five

so, ten minutes until i'm due out and i'm crouched in the back of a bloody transit van on a baking hot day trying to sort out some insurance so we can get home, dangerous slides open the side door and tap's at the imaginery watch on his wrist indicating i need to get my leathers on, not exactly the kind of 'gentle reflection' i actually need before venturing out on an almost fifty year old bike that i've never ridden before, kitted up, roll the bike back onto the rollers and dangerous presses the starter foot control, the 'macchi starts instantly on a whiff of throttle, fuck me, it's loud, even with the suppressor on the end of the megaphone, must remember, right foot, one up, six down, i snick first gear and rip down between the throngs of people, i try and turn right to get into the holding area and get my first taste of aermacchi race bike steering lock, there isn't any and i almost lose the plot in front of a load of people as i dab, dab, dab my way around the 90 degree turn, into the holding area and the calm just hit's me, i'm in the middle of a pack of, what? thirty to forty race bikes, open megga manx norton's 350 and 500's, 7r's, ducati singles, triumph twins, domiracer's, bsa gold stars and other racing exotica and yet i'm in a zen state, i remember my day's competing in karate bouts, before i was  a bag of nerves but as soon as i stepped on the tatame i knew i had to just get the job done, here we go, the starter is waving us forward for a sighting lap, i don't even have to think about the gearchanges, it just seem's so natural, one lap done and off we go, the bike doesn't feel right, it's not running clean, it keep's chiming in and for a few too brief second's i can see what all the fuss is about, feel's like fuel starvation, i see out the session and get back to the pit's, dangerous is out in the session straight after me on the 250 mettise, he returns and report's similar performance, i check the fuel level, the tank is baffled to prevent fuel surge, the baffle is probably a half inch from the top of the tank, i fill it up, ten litres of fuel!, that's got to be it surely? next session see's dangerous out, straight after the 'past masters' no pressure there then dangerous! the crowd's are massive, they have just seen the likes of wayne gardner on track, dangerous pit's, 'ok mate?' i offer up, 'fucking thing won't rev beyond four thousand rpm, bag of shit! he replies, sweary mick is crestfallen, i'm out next, holding area, it won't tick-over so i keep the 350 revving high, waved forward and it stall's, fucking hell! a helpful on-looker gives me a push, the bike slews to the left and nearly highsides me as the tyre cchhhhhhhirp's on the pitlane, 'again!' i shout, matey is ruddy faced pushing, i drop the clutch, it nearly fires me off the other side this time, BASTARD! i catch a bloke furiously beckoning me over to his starter, back it onto the roller and it start's instantly, onto the track and guess what?, same again, it just will not rev out, i call it a day and pull in after five lap's, dangerous is in his civvies by now, he wander's off to fill the kettle for the umpteenth time while i stick the reluctant racer back onto it's stand, sweary and chalky can't even speak, they sit in whatever shade is offered by the van and can't look me in the eye, fuck me, after all we've been through, i don't even change out of my leather's, i pull the 'ram-air' filter off the carb, snip the wire off the scitsu rev counter, i'm desperate and just take off anything that's been fitted to the bike since it last ran perfectly, as i take off the foam 'sock' filter i notice the downdraught gardener carb doesn't seem to be vertical , it's absolutely critical that they are on an aermacchi, it's that critical that you are talking meniscus for measurement, i grab a screwdriver to loosen the hose clip holding the carb to the inlet manifold and it's loose, i'm not pointing finger's here, just something that's been overlooked, i've done it myself, phone rings, dog's are barking, tea's ready, a hundred and one little things that can happen, that's what makes us human after all, none of us are perfect, i straighten up the carb, tighten the hose-clips and head to the holding area, the bike is a different animal altogether, out onto the track and it feel's so much stronger, so right, it's 'only' forty bee-haich-pee but fucking hell, it's sweet, the seven speed gearbox is probably the best i've ever used, slick, smooth and close ratio, it keep's the little pushrod motor in the sweet spot, the front, four leading stopper is like a switch, on or off, thats it, no feel, just a nasty, vicious, fierce thing that's nastier than a nasty thing and twice as fierce, it feels like the fork's are going to literally snap off the bike, [i ran into my mate mick today who was at the festival last week and he said the bottom yoke was actually kissing the tyre on the approach to the hairpin] after an all too brief fifteen minutes the chequered flag is out, i'm buzzing, fucking hell, brilliant! sweary, dangerous, stevie marsh, deb's, mick and chalky hug me when i get back, i can't do anything and just sit in my leathers in a plastic garden chair in the baking heat, helmet on and tear's rolling down my face........

festival of a 1000 bikes 2013 part four

half past eight and i'm aware of a stirring in the short's department, calm down, it's my phone ringing, i don't recognise the number but i  answer it anyway, big mistake, 'hello, it's choice van rental, you should have had the van back at 0800hrs this morning, i've got a customer waiting for it....' fucking hell, can anything else go wrong today? i try and explain the situation, i'm in the race paddock at mallory park,, there's race bikes starting up all around me, i can only make out fractions of the conversation by standing in the back of the van, finger in ear, trying to filter out the cacophony of the bikes, there's no-way we are going to be out of here before 1900hr's at least, someone's made a major fuck-up here, the bloke on the end of the phone leaves me with the kick in the gonad's i need at this time, 'you know you haven't got any insurance on the van after 1200hr's today don't you? after that you are driving illegally' fuck, fuck fuckking fuck, my blood pressure increases to dangerous levels, sweary mick chip's in 'are we having a brew or what youth? i'm as dry as a nun's...' you know, it's times like this when i really should be accepting old age gracefully, i don't need this shit, fucking motorcycles, i'm going to take up gardening or fishing or watercolour painting, something more relaxing, anything but fucking motorbikes.................