The other day as I was grinding out time on the weapon of mind destruction in the garage my mind started wandering. I idled away passing of the mental desert by thinking about the sub-sects of cycling and how they can be drawn into stereotypes. From there it was a small and tidy step to lining those various factions up with dead musicians.
So without further ado here's my take on cyclists versus dead musicians.
Racing cyclists = Freddie Mercury. That whole prancing prima donna behaviour, the macho/camp effect is here in this group in spades. Sometimes it obscures the dedication and will to succeed, but there is talent and persistence galore. I'm just a trifle concerned that a quick straw poll amongst this group would find a reasonable percentage who fantasise about dressing as a housewife and pushing round the hoover.
Fixie riders = Sid Vicious. Hard to really add to much more, think Sid Vicious (Real name John Beverly) as the ultimate fashion victim, think that travesty of "My Way", think looked good, not original, playing bass badly. It's just like the whole skinny jeans, brakeless thing, just smack on wheels. They aren't rebels at all, just naughty children.
Modern New Bike Acquirees =Michael Hutchence. I talking about those mid-life crisis types who acquire a bike as part of the "New Golf". They typically have the latest and best, are competitive and are rebels, well in their own minds. Like Michael Hutchence they are successful in their careers and lives but I'd wager that cycling is a little like Michael's dalliance with a belt and a door. Auto-erotic asphixia anyone?
BMX = Darcy Clay, rebels and innovators, widely misunderstood, can be tragic. Jesus I was Evil.
Single Speed MTB = John Bonham. They are just louts, wanting to have fun.
Time Triallists = Karen Carpenter. Obsessive and dark, while appearing to be light and normal. The Carpenters sounded like some over sugared confection and looked as wholesome as white bread. The reality was Karen's inner demons and lyrics to make you afraid of unrequited love and bunny-boiling stalkers. Those who ride time trails are equally obsessed, and every bit as lonely. It's a special sort of pain.
Triathletes = Richard Harris. Really an actor but had a hit with "McArthur Park", couldn't sing, mumbled and slurred his way through a turgid mess of words. Sums up those strange folk who need to bookend a ride with swim and a run.
Knocked out a great ride with The Croc today, I'm not the man I was.
Last week I escaped the bonds of the city, an eastern migration that was a trifle too short. There has been a surfeit of precipitation in the Eastern Bay of Plenty, and I witnessed the effects as I drove - numerous slips, stop/go men, diggers scooping, water-logged paddocks and dirty rivers.
It wasn't all gloom though, the sun and it's warmth travelled with me.
At the top of the Maraenui Hill between Opotiki and Te Kaha was a particularly large slip dominating an already unstable piece of land. Today a decision was made by the appropriate authorities to close that piece of road indefinitely until a solution is found. It will return to single lane sometime in the near future, but will be sometime until it is fully opened. For residents of this area it is a major inconvenience, there is no other route than to go all the way around East Cape via Gisborne to get to Opotiki, approximately 440 kms. It's not a heavily travelled road, but it is a vital lifeline and the closure is a reminder of the remote nature of life in the Eastern Bay of Plenty and East Cape.
One of the pleasures, a guilty one maybe, is visiting Two Fish Cafe in Opotiki. It's always an unalloyed pleasure to visit. The coffee and food are as good as anywhere, and the service exceptional. As always I scoffed their Raspberry and Lemon slice, the perfect mix of sweetness and astringency. I also sampled their Ginger Crunch, extremely good, I'd wager that a Ginger Crunch expert would rate it highly.
Riding is challenging at best at the moment, this sodden August makes for a challenge, by my reckoning we have had 3 days in the last 30 with no rain at some stage of the day. Thankfully the instrument of terror in the garage has been getting a flogging, boring it may be, but it saves the outermost holes in my belt from getting worn.
As bad as we have had in Auckland, spare a thought for those who dwell in the Village of the Damned, Christchurch. On average both Christchurch and Auckland have a similar amount of sunshine hours in August (approx 110 hours). Auckland has had a miserable 83 hours, but the pasty thighed southerners have been cursed with 45 hours for the month, less than 2 hours per day. No wonder they relish being dour.
Use of profanity is sometimes an artform, recently I was pondering this and decided to do some research. I quite like Goodfellas, the Martin Scorcese directed epic. The word "Fuck" is used 422 times in the movie, quite spectacular, and far more, even on a cuss per minute basis than most other films.
But for sheer damned cussedness, Steve Martin, in Planes, Trains and Automobiles takes the biscuit. Fuck or Fucking 18 times in just over a minute. I think that was quite a tirade.
This run of weather is eating my soul, I knocked out a very pleasurable ride with Mikeal and Doris from their castle in Sud Auckland. We rolled around the excellent roads of Karaka, Waiau Pa, Clarks Beach, Patumahoe, Pukekohe, etc. Avoiding the worst of the weather and enjoying the ride.
For a while Mikeal and I traded names ornithological. Everything from Albatross to Chinstrap Penguin, Royal Spoonbill to Knot, Crested Grebe to Swallow, most amusing, especially when Mikeal named the Jabberwocky. I'm certain that Lewis Carroll was most proud, but his fearsome beast was foul, not fowl. Minor malapropism, it was a Jabiru that the Onastic One was meaning.
Then we passed time with the name game, famous people, Doris is a whizz at this game, and soon Mikeal was suffering from an "E" blockage and I was stumped by "H". It certainly passed the miles well, but I must say it is a poor second to telling bad sex stories.
The Northern Hell still beckons, but this weather is just too unreliable.
First up, a sobering lesson as to why one should always have one's trousers tucked into one's socks when working with eels - The ass card
The little question I asked a few posts ago about the literary quotation was illuminating. Two responses, one from Mikeal, adamant that it was about sex, and one from Jorge, feeling his way around cartoon sitcom. Neither close.
It was from The Sheltering Sky, Paul Bowles' 1947 novel of beauty, death and desperation in North Africa. The quote was a death and what happened next, well you're going to have to read it to find out.
Well done CTB, yet again you have shown real metal, read about his grit in Tahiti here.
There has been an enthusiastic response to my post describing my failed parachute construction, I will post more of these type of misadventures from my growing years, especially when the demonstrate basic laws of physics.
It's been a long week for me, I've had this damned cold and that has proven to just be a drag. But the week hasn't been without it's moments of joy.
One of them was on Saturday, when I was lurking down at Mechanics Bay in the pre-dawn as part of the ACCC waterfront time trial. I looked out across the bay, and there was a pod of dolphins making their way up the harbour.As a consequence of my cold, my horrible runny nosed infection, I have stayed off the bike, so my tales of cycling for the week are limited.
Instead I reflected upon my life, I suspect having reached another anniversary of being thrust into the world made me a little circumspect also.I started to run through the years and the various adventures, mistakes, calamities and triumphs I have enjoyed and endured. I'm not going to share them with you all, the interior of that dark cupboard is best left unseen, but I will give you a glimpse of what's near the door.
Bailing twine and a chaff sack do not make effective parachutes. My cousin and I were very close, we lived about a kilometre apart in the area of small holdings, dairy farms and horse training tracks to the south of Christchurch. We tended to roam pretty freely, with haysheds, a creek, airguns, ponies, cattle, clod throwing and electric fences as sources of entertainment. One day, after we had tired of trying to make objects fly from the top of my uncle's hay barn, we decided that we would make our own parachute.
Only tools that we had were our omnipresent pocketknives, but resource wise we were rich. There, close at hand, was more bailing twine than we would ever need and a couple of chaff sacks.We set to, carefully knotting the twine into equal length loops off the corners of the chaff sack to form a parachute, measured carefully to allow maximum expansion of the sack as the lucky jumper descended gently to the ground with enough time to admire the view.
The parachute was tested using that venerable method, of running with the sack opening behind, it inflated and slowed the runner well.The important decision had to be made as to who had the honour of jumping and who had the lesser task of holding the parachute clear of the hay as the jumper jumped. Somehow, (and this wasn't usually the case my cousin being older, and although shorter, was stronger and tended to make my nose bleed) I was the lucky one.
We ascended to the top of the hay barn, there all was prepped, and I full of confidence, jumped holding two strands of bailing twine aloft. There was no floating sensation, and certainly no admiring the view. I jumped and the ground came up and hit me immediately, very hard.
After I'd regained normal breathing function and my head stopped pounding we discussed what went wrong, and I advocated a retry with a different victim. My cousin was distinctly unwilling, being quite certain, after seeing me plummet and hearing the thud, that our design was flawed.
