john newman 'love me again'

one of the lad's at work bought this tune to my attention, he said, 'this reminds me of you' i took this as a compliment, yeah, the dancings a bit pony but that piano? brilliant......blue eyed soul.......

team sleep

for barse. you know why.

got the phone call i'd been dreading today, my heart skipped a beat when i saw the number, i really was dumb enough to think i would be heading south to pick up the boxer, i told myself that it would be a close call, i mean, let's be honest, you can't expect to really turn a bike around in seven month's can you? what was i thinking about? the twenty second of december when me and sweary made the trip 'darn sarf' on probably the worst day of the year, rain? yeah, apparently the average december rainfall in a day, the day i decide to take my bike down to ensure it's ready for the practice day on march the 21st, that day came and went and so did the next four month's, no bike and a load of frustration, when i called last month to give a gentle reminder that i would really like to ride my bike this year and i definetley  needed it back by thursday the eleventh of july at the latest to ensure i had time to check everything over, lockwire everything up and just get my head sorted i thought it would still happen, in my stupid naive head i thought i would be heading down to pick up my bike, yeah, it's tight but fuck it, i can go down late saturday afternoon, pick it up and drive straight to mallory, sleep in the van, in my head me and dangerous are sipping a cold staro, laughing at how tight it was but at least i'm going to be riding, i mean, call me the optimist but really?  seven month's? 'cause it's going to happen, except it's not, apparently' the bearing housing on my bike has a crack in it, it need's a 'new' cover and bearing and no-one stock's them so i've tried my best and i'm sorry and if i'd noticed it earlier i'd have had the part's and got it sorted, i'm really sorry....' sorry? not as sorry as i am, i'm gutted, i feel like i've had a swift hard kick in the bollocks, i paid up front for the festival, that was when? oh yeah january, a hundred and twenty quid, paid the deposit on the van for what? another load of broken promises and disappointment, sweary dropped the 350 'macchi off tonight, i phoned the vmcc to try and change my entry but no-joy, so there you go folk's, i'm crewing for dangerous instead of riding, we are taking both 'macchi's but one of them will just sit there in the paddock on it's stand and i haven't got a ride because my bike isn't ready and the 'spare' 'macchi will just sit on it's paddock stand looking pretty because of a 'jobsworth' in the vmcc office, pissed off? me?........naaah.....

books and water

 here's a couple of shot's from wednesday night at MFN, the jota, owned for twenty-eight years by the same bloke, jmc swinger looking good and the noise when he started it up and rode off? fanbloodydozy! [i actually parked next to him but the bloody jota is so massive you can't see my sporty behind it] the honda s.o.h.c seven-fifty? surely everyone has owned one of these in the past? the original 'superbike' this little beauty tastefully done, but it's still crying out for a pair of clip-on's? just saying, still a brilliant bike......[oh yeah, as you know, most of my posts are song titles from what i'm listening to as i post this drivel, check this one out for a quality tune, look it up, it won't come up on a google search so here's another clue, ten more turnips from the tip.....]

aermacchi

spent a couple of hour's round at dangerous's gaff bolting up the 'double-bubble' fairing last night, the screen needed a touch of therapy as the previous owner had made the mistake of drilling it with a normal hss drill bit instead of 'backing it off' a tad so its easier to drill without causing any damage, a bit of shaping with a smoothish file and some wet and dry to finish and it's sorted, i was a bit apprehensive about running the fairing, seem's such a shame to hide the mastery of the rickman bros behind a fibreglass fairing, but, now it's on, i can't imagine it without it, plus you can junk the big, horrible plastic number boards and free up all that lovely fresh air in front of the rear wheel, job done, we skin out up to 'miles from nowhere' for the second time this week, it's a cool, fresh, night compared to the last few, we stop for fuel at heanor, i park up next to the pump, filler out, nozzle in, nothing, i press the delivery lever again, nothing, dangerous shout's across to me, ' look at the notice on the pump dickhead' oh, it's a laminated photo-copy, 'motorcyclists MUST remove helmets before fuel is dispensed' well, i'm a fifty-four year old bloke wearing an open-faced lid, must be the local kid's in fullfaces stealing a tank-full for there scoot's, i try again, nothing, a 'lady' [i use this term loosely] comes out of the service station and tell's me 'take your helmet OFF or you don't get fuel!' at any other time other than being desperate, i would have just found another garage, the last time i encountered this i just threw the hose on the floor and rode off, i'm fucking livid, i take off my old cromwell and put it on the floor, draw my fuel and pay without a word, no 'thank-you's' no ''how's it going' or 'the weather's brilliant isn't it' none of those usual little human interaction's that make life more bearable, i just offer my money, get change and leave, if you think i'm a criminal what do you expect? 'i'm so sorry to be riding a motorcycle and for calling into your poxy establishment and offending you by my wish to draw fuel, pay and leave without the inconvenience of having to remove my helmet, by the way, do you ask all bmw car owner's for a copy of their driving licences before you let them draw fuel just in case they are drug dealers, gun runners or just the simple fact that they don't use their indicators? i feel like playing up to being 'typecast' where's the fucking chickens? i'm gonna bite their little heads off'! 'who you looking at square? i'll chain whip you and your's, steal your wallet and set fire to your volvo mofo!' pull out a glock 19 and blast the pumps, instead, i just stick my lid back on and mutter a curse under my breath catching the two old hag's in the service station smiling broadly at their win, fuck them, i'll never use this place again, down to MFN, it's rammed, traditionally more sports bikes here tonight but the 'alternative' brigade is out in good numbers, less bog-stock shop harleys and more cutdowns, chops, old brit wankers, classic iron getting an airing and the usual assortment of race-piped japper's, a small contingement of jap cafe racers and the ever present buzzing of local kid's on ped's, finally caught up with grant, he's been commenting on the blog and we just hit it off straightaway, had a good chat about the state of things, and we will meet up soon, my faith in human nature almost restored, the usual dash for home ensues, dangerous still 'headlight down' in other word's, not working, we stay out far too long for safety's sake, at least his back light is working, fly splattered spectacles, oily jean's and petrol stains down my rattlecan spray job.......

miles from nowhere

monday night is always 'miles from nowhere' the bike night at the old 'shipley boat inn' once a run-down canal tow-path pub on the border of derbyshire and our scutty neighbours just over the border in nottingham, [excuse me while i gob on the floor, the spittle balling up in the dust just like lee van cleef in a sergio leone movie , hand hovering over his colt, eyes narrowing,] must remember to revisit some of those classic 'spaghetti' westerns sometime soon, now it's a thriving venue dedicated to all things with an engine, bike nights twice a week, local cruisers and hotrods and staging numerous rally's over the year from V.W's to scooter rally's and everything inbetween,  anyhoo, first visit of the year, great to catch up with some old faces, barse filled me in with his recent adventures down to 'linkhert' stevie marsh and deb's and gaz out in force representin' the sporty massive, [there you go mucker, the size of your bike doesn't actually relate to the size of your penis after all, you don't need a 'lard-boy' to be cool, real men ride sportsters, sticking it to the big-twin's since 1957 and remember the 'factory designation is 'XL', yeah, you know why don't you ben?] just the perfect destination on a hot summer night, i'm looking at a ducati diavel 'carbon' sixteen big-one's worth of machine, never liked them in red, but, in bare carbon, bloody-hell, the bloke who on's it say's 'hop-on' to dangerous, no air's and grace's just people interested in motorcycles, from old steely framed dog rough cbr 600's to brand new gixxer's, classic harleys, triumph's, [including the lovely t140 with the sporty forks, expensive brakes and lush paint] kid's from the local estate on scooter's and for me, the bike of the night, the old zedder kwak with the full ohlins suspender's, trick wheel's, original 'blown' yoshi aluminium can and a braced frame, forget all that 'johnny-come-lately' bollocks, this is a locally owned bike, developed over the years by the same bloke, not built in some 'emporium' or fucking 'speedshop', an honest-to-goodness old-school bike, i love MFN me, proper, sorry about the lack of photo's but i spent too long catching up with old mates, making new ones and having the crack to remember to take any piccies, when i did the sun was sinking fast and i'd forgot dangerous hadn't got the bonny headlamp wired up, me, barse on the shovel-fucker and dangerous skinned out on a balmy summer evening, me in front protecting dangerous with my puny bates two and a half candle power chinese 'bates' copy and barse shadowing his back end on the shovester, [back-light fading, dying then coughing back into life before going out all together, deep joy], we don't give a fuck, i give it the berry's through one of my favourite set's of bends, dangerous has to keep up because it's almost dark and he can't see diddly, i can hear him swearing and telling me to 'fucking slow down i can't see fuck-all you...] we turn off and barse carries on straight to home, he's laughing like a drain at our antic's, left foot up on the primary case, a quick wave and we head home......

green leaf volatiles

that smell you get from new mown grass is apparently caused by the trauma of the blade hitting the stem, the plants release a volatile organic compound called g.l.v's or green leaf volatiles, the rush of chemicals is a defence action triggered by the trauma to the leaf, the compounds stimulate new cells at the site of the wound, they inhibit fungal growth and act as a natural anti-biotic, don't know about that but i know it smell's good, me and dangerous headed out at 1100hrs, down to mallory park for no other reason other than there's a good cafe there, the forty miles passes quickly, my sporty is behaving badly, coughing, spluttering and generally a pain in the arse at 'town speed's' open roads?, fine, thirty miles an hour? i want to set it on fire and claim the insurance money, i'm fucked off, fifty to eighty?, sweeter than a very sweet thing, the cafe's shut, we park up and wander down into the paddock, there's the usual smattering of rich blokes with motorhomes, tyre warmer's and more gear than the average b.s.b paddock, strutting around , baseball capped and downloading 'data' on their laptop's and then there's a load of blokes and ladies just having a laugh and a good time, riding their bikes around mallory park as fast as they can, amongst the usual suspects i spy a bmw boxer twin, beautiful, well prepared and sorted, top notch equipment and obviously well sorted, i track him down in the paddock, really nice bloke, he's got a load of money into his bike but what really struck me was the comment he came out with, 'i just wanted to build something that would worry the japper's you know?' yeah, i know that, it's easy to buy a blade, zx10, blah, blah, blah, but, well, there's just something brilliant about harrasing them on an old man's tourer, over to sweary micks for a brew and a piece of mr's mick's  freshly baked jam sponge cake, lovely, over to sweary-mick's -mate-rob's,  more tea and a look at his goldstar and his briliant suzuki gs 550 four 'b.s.a' dohc build, sorry about the quality of the photo's but just have a look at this, you would pass it by at a show because it just looks 'standard' beeza, a credit to rob for such a build, more fuel, third tankfull this afto, long way home and drop the oil on the sporty, i sit in the shade of the shed, up-and-over-door open, quaffing an ice cold 'staro' and watching the dirty oil pool into the old gravy tray that i use for a drain tin, hot oil and barley, is there a better smell in the world? [apart from new mown grass, did you know that volatile organics........]

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....]