On a mission part 3

 Mark Berry is stood in the middle of the racetrack, Union Jack folded in his hands. I'm looking directly into his eyes, as are fifty two other guys and girls. I change my viewpoint to the other side of the track, where fifty two other guys and girls are holding fifty two motorcycles. It's silent. I shuffle slightly to my right so that I have an absolutely straight run to my bike. Eyes back on Mark, tension splitting the air. Silence. Mark drops the flag, and I sprint across the track, jump on the bike, press the button and it's bedlam. Not a great start but not last either, I throw caution to the wind, screaming the bike on a very narrow line up into turn one. There are bikes everywhere, all on my left. It's exhilerating. I feel like I'm overtaking loads of people, in reality that may not be true. On the run down to Montreal I stay right to stop being attacked on the inside, on the exit I mug the guy on the Panigale. I feel invincible. Renton from Trainspotting pops into my head, this has got to be better than any drugs that guy ever took. I shake off the image, as the bikes are all in swarms and I need all my concentration to keep on the tarmac. The slower starting fast guys are carving through the traffic, and I'm sat up at Oggies and Williams. I stay cool, and go hard right looking for the wettest part of the track.

 

The weather looks set fair, but the track conditions are unpredictable. I'm out on wets, and it's the wrong call. Safe, but wrong. The plan is to maximise our position before we inevitably lose places refuelling and wheel changing. Around Corams and into Murrays, the bike sketchy on the wrong tyres. I spot the red flag early enough and manage to duck into the pits, saving one lap of fuel. Start aborted.

 

We don't know how long until the restart. We can't risk changing wheels. But I'm happy that I can manage on these tyres, and feel I can get a better start next time, now I've had a chance to practise one. We go through the restart rigmarole, then I'm eyeballing Mark's right hand once more. Sprint like crazy, jump onto the bike untidily, jab at the starter button, nothing. I can't hear if the bike is running or not, it isn't. Try again, but the switchgear is loose and just turning on the bar instead of starting the engine. I gather my thoughts as quickly as I can, but I'm last into turn one. Stone, motherless last. In my head Charlie Cox mocks me. Charlie Cox can do one, I'll show him.

 

I really try, but it's hopeless. The track is dry. The tyres seems to be wanting to go sideways, whereas I want straight ahead. At least it doesn't feel highsidey, so I stretch the throttle cables early at every corner exit. It's still hopeless. I stay out until I feel I'm loosing too much laptime, then pit. In the garage, it's pandemonium. We don't usually do this and I realise too late that we should have allocated jobs beforehand. Too late. Tess and I change the front wheel, Andy and Trigger (I think) on the back wheel and suspension resetting, Tel refuels. I might have got that wrong. There are tools everywhere, no-one knows for sure what to do, it's mental. Andy goes out onto the track and does his thing. I sit in the chair, busying myself changing to a dark visor and rehydrating.

 

Time bends. It seems like only minutes until Andy is back in and it's my go again. The speedo hasn't been calibrated on the aftermarket clocks. It's 60kph in the pit lane, getting caught speeding in pit lane would be a waste, so I stay in first gear, 3000 rpm and hope it's slow enough. Pit lane end, visor down and into the crouch, max revs. Except I haven't refitted the visor correctly, such a fundamental error. Once I know it isn't going to fall off, I elect to stay out and deal with it rather than waste time pitting. Then comes the cramp. Andy is 6 foot 5 and I'm the cutest 5 foot 10 on legs. The bike is set up for Andy, and I guess I didn't hydrate and stretch adequately. Too late, I've got to deal with it.

 

It's agony, Childbirth would be easier, crucifixion would be a blessing compared to this. I know I'm given to hyperbole, but honestly, it was very painful indeed. I can't hang off properly, I'm going way too slowly. The Safety Car comes out, I just happen to be in second place behind it and I'm grateful for the rest. I try to trail my leg to ease the pain, only to have the guy behind me overtake, he obviously thinks I'm trying to indicate to retire, so I don't dare try that anymore. More pain. Safety car in. I tough it out for as long as I can manage, six more laps. I'm not sure my legs will hold the bike up in the pits. Luckily, Tel grasps the bike whilst I fall off of it a writhe around on the floor. Pete and Tess help me stretch it out so I can stand again, but I limp for the rest of the day.

 

I take up position on pit wall, so I can hold myself up in some comfort. I'm still in my leathers just in case I'm needed, but it's Andy's gig from here to the flag. He looks great on the bike, so fluid, so brave on the brakes. It starts to drizzle and, for the second time, we're on the wrong tyres. Too late to change now, just bring it home. Andy's a smart rider, ultra aware of the messages the bike sends him. Chequered flag out, we're home. What a feeling.

 

Stone motherless last. The results show us last but one, Quantum used the wrong make of tyres so were penalised to last place. The truth is that we were last on the road, because we spent nearly 18 minutes in the pits, most teams only taking 2 – 3 minutes. I didn't care then, and I don't care now. Nine teams DNF'd, so we beat all those guys. My first non-DNF in my last three races was enough to satisfy, and having finished, we were 100% on our pre-race stated target. I'm drained, from the cramp and the mental exhaustion of the last three weeks. It's been hell, I love it.

 

11:30PM, I'm alone in the garge, happy spannering. I refit the wheels to my bike, taking my time, tidying the devastation of the garage as I go. Melissa Auf De Maur blaring away from my phone. The guys have all gone home, I've had a few beers in the bar, but now I want to be alone. I kind of delete everything and concentrate on what happens next. I've phoned Sallie and told her I love her, I've phoned Martin and discussed my big idea with him, so now I have the mental space to chew the cud. And boy, did I chew it.

 

Helen, I missed you so much on raceday. I hope everything works out, lots of love to you.

 

Big Al, Trackday Dad. 18 & 19 April 2016.

On a mission part 2

 Trigger has broken down. Not mentally, but what I mean to say is, Trigger's van has broken down. Near Six Mile Bottom, forty-ish miles from the circuit. I put down my second pint and start trying to think what to do now. Trig has a tow rope, so we agree that I'll tow him in, and then he can call the AA from the circuit. I run to the office to ask Karen's permission to miss the rider briefing, the same Karen I've been harrassing all day over the missing tickets. I quickly explain the problem and bless her, she gives me a big smile and tells me not to wory, she'll sort it. What a star.

 

Did I mention that it was raining? And cold? Well now it's dark as well. Trigger is in a layby on the A11/A14 interchange somewhere, in a van the same colour as the night sky. I find him from the other carriageway and tun around at the next junction. Heading back up, the layby is empty. I'm mystified, did he manage to get it started? Fortunately I've pulled in one layby too early, one more mile and there he is, bored rigid. We set to roping the vans together, the only way we can join the tow rope to my van (approx 2000kg) to his (approx 2000kg, plus his bike, tools, himself, 2500kg all up I'd guess?) is with a ratchet strap. I look at the label. “Breaking Strain 250kg. SWL 500kg” it declares. Well, this can only go one of two ways, I shrug inwardly, laughing at the concept. Trigger's van won't start, so he has no brakes and no power steering. The tow rope is about six feet long. I mentally kiss my rear bumper goodbye. The A11 / A14 is a fast straightish stretch of dual carriageway, mostly uphill fortunately. I mentally kiss my clutch goodbye. Soon we're rolling, 40mph and Trig can cope once I stop blinding him with my hazard lights. It's getting late and the traffic is light. No-one at the first roundabout, so we truck on through and I breathe deeply and try not to tense up. Trig is running at a slight offset so he can try to read the traffic ahead, which means I don't spot the Police car behind us..........isn't it illegal to tow a van on a rope? I don't know, and I still don't. I'm too pretty to go to jail, Big Vern will ruin me. PC Plod gives me a brief Paddington stare as he passes without pulling us. I guess he's thinking along the lines of “I can pull these two jokers, stand in the freezing wet and get a load of paperwork for my trouble, or I can get back to the station for coffee and donuts, maybe I'll chat up that lovely new WPC and ask her out instead”. The rounabouts miraculously quiet, we make good progress and the miles are slowly ticking away. On the approach to one, my view is obscured by a car in lane two, the southbound Fiesta isn't indicating and looks to me like he's shaping up to carry on southbound. Arse. I'm about forty percent committed when I realise Fiesta Boy is going to cross my path, I've got to brake. Trigger is on the case, and my rear bumper lives to fight another day.

 

At the track, the wally on the gate stops us. “You might struggle on the bridge mate”. I'm so stressed that I want to leap out of the van and tear his face off. I just laugh at him. What a prick. Trigger and I get to the garage, I crack open a beer and pass him one, slumping in my chair. I look into his face properly for the first time and I know that he doesn't want to ride tomorrow. We chat and he clues me into what's been going on in his world. I try to hide my disappointment, but I'd rather quit knowing what he's just said. If I coerce him into riding when his head isn't right and something goes wrong..............I don't want that. It's been epic already, let's quit while we both have all our limbs attached and most of our sanity. We agree to sleep on it. I've been awake for about twenty two hours, I can't think straight. I'm done, so I head for my luxury bedroom, a camp bed in the back of a Transit van, at minus godknows degrees. What a day.

 

2AM and a middle aged man is cursing, looking for his clothes whilst an all too full bladder pushes on his enlarged prostate gland. He sprints to the toilet half naked, fortunately the paddock is deserted. I of course have no idea who this idiot is, doesn't he know the first rule of camping, always keep your pee bottle close at hand? What a fool. (At least the sprint warmed me up.)

 

“The morning is over, the dawning is over, and I can't look into your eyes” sings Siouxsie into my ear. It's a sad lament, but I wake with hope and an idea. Kettle on, I'm at the front of the queue for scrutineering. I've taken to bringing Andy's bike with me to races. I was carrying so many spares, it made more sense just to bring the whole package in two wheeled form. I get Trig to ring Andy and break the news that instead of being crew chief, he's riding. He rings me, reticent, he hasn't ridden for nearly a year, but it doesn't take much to talk him into it. We're on. I'm ecstatic.

 

“Look Andy, let's just give it a go and see what happens” But I don't have a functioning motorcycle. I check the obvious but find nothing wrong. I need to go through the engine management diagnostics, I need a clear head and to be in familiar surroundings to fix it. Warm dry garage, cup of tea, Mary-Anne Hobbs. Obviously it ain't gonna happen, so we're hotbiking. Two riders, one bike. We won't be challenging for any trophies, as we'll have to refuel and change tyres on the bounce. We're not set up for this, but I just want to be back in the saddle, even if it's on an unfamiliar bike. I say unfamiliar, I know every inch of it, I built the thing. But I haven't ridden it since January 2013, and it's seen many a gravel trap since then.

 

The rain stops for qualifying, but the track is still soaking. I'm normally nervous at this point, but I've let all the stress go. Pete, Rob, Tess and Tel show up, suddenly the garage feels warmer with friendly faces around. I go out on Andy's wets, Dunlops. Wet tyres make the bike feel heavy and uncommunicative, and historically I hate Dunlop tyres. Up through Richies, everyone is taking it very steady and I feel good on the bike, talking to myself, keeping count of the gears, gentle braking, smoothly does it. By Coram I'm confident enough to pass other riders Buffalo Girls style. Hammering up the straight, into Richies, knee down in the wet at Montreal. It's not a 160mph but I feel Speedy Sie watching over me. It's magic, motorcycles me feel so alive. The pace is coming up quickly, but I keep a cool head and a steady hand. The last thing I want to do is bin it. Back in the pits for Andy's go, I'm hammering the tank with my fists and roaring in my crash helmet in a combination of sheer joy and relief. I LOVE THIS. Pete gives me the look of a concerned father but I'm buzzing and I don't care. I give Tess a giant bear hug, poor girl must've felt like I was crushing her to dust. Sorry Tess but I was elated and in love with the world. Andy really knows how to make this bike sing, like she complies with his every wish. Unlike me, he rides with a combination of skill and fearlessness that I've never been able to muster. He'd look graceful and fluid, but the effect is spoiled by the fact he's wearing Trig's leathers, maybe a touch too large? I ponder the aerodynamic effects of the flapping cowskin. Andy keeps her lit, regardless. We qualify 36th out of 52 teams. Marvellous.

 

The rules of Mirage Racing Endurance are that the fastest rider in quali gets to do the start. It's been that way since day one with Spike. It's my way of making me try harder as I really want do do the start, but I haven't been that man since Anglesey 2014. And I'm not the man today, I'll never beat Andy in a million. Put me on Rossi's M1 and him on a C90, and a betting man would back Mr Gooding every day of the week , and rightly so. But Andy doesn't want to do the start, so the privilege is mine. Thanks Bud. Leathers off, to the cafe for lunch. Our race starts at 3PM ish, three hours or so. I've though about it, but I can't really specify what I did in that time, maybe the stress lifting has got me a little giddy?

 

Race prep time. I give myself a good long time to get ready slowly and methodically. I struggle to put them in with no mirror, but I wear my new contact lenses for the first time, my new chest protector, my new crash helmet, but I opt to stick with my old leathers, boots and gloves. Something old, something new, something borrowed..........I don't have anything blue. Lucky I'm not superstitious. The bike is ready, Andy is ready, the team is ready, I'm ready. Never more ready.

On a mission part 1

 Is what the sticker said on the back of your Ford Orion back in 1992. I think I now know what it means. I'm still not sure what “Fat Willys Surf Shack” is, but who cares.

 

All stories should start at the beginning. So my story of the Snetterton raceday starts not in Norfolk, but three weeks earlier at Oulton Park. More specifically, at Lodge Corner, and even more specifically, upside down in the grass on the exit of Lodge Corner. Regular readers will already know that we completed the Endurance Race, but were given a DNF for obeying the flag marshall. Go figure. I can't, I've argued, pleaded, demanded, threatened answers and been frustrated by it but I've learned to let it go (don't sing). In either case I didn't feel I'd given my all during the race, so I decided to go for the All Comers Sprint Races on the next day. I qualified 16th and, feeling that progress was coming, lined up optimistically on the grid. I'll spare you the gory details, but nine laps later I'm rolling on the floor in tears, wondering if the damage to my gentleman's area is permanent. I'm happy to report that it isn't, and John Wayne can have his walk back.

 

My poor bike has taken a severe battering. Crushed fuel tank (hence the walk), smashed fairing, fractured clock bracket (the lovely carbon fibre one that I spend hours repairing last time), cracked top yoke, twisted forks, damaged engine case protectors, bent radiator, twisted subframe, and comedy ignition key stuck in barrel amongst many scuffs and scrapes. Brand new Shoei helmet, leathers, boots and gloves all bashed, scuffed, holed and destroyed. Patina is one thing, this is something entirely different, I feel angry, frustrated and sorry for what I'm doing to this faithful motorcycle. Once glorious, she looks awful and I can hardly bear to look at what I've done to her. I load the sorry mess into the van and head home under a black storm cloud of depression.

 

Home, and the bruises are starting to colour up nicely. I decide not to dwell on what's gone wrong, but I still can't face the bike, so I head to Swindon to go kit shopping. New leathers, helmet, boots and gloves are complemented by a chest protector, after I read that Jo Wingate broke her sternum in her crash at Oulton. My budget can't stretch as far as the Shoei and Alpinestars kit that has kept me in one piece for so long, in the shop I umm and ahh for hours while the patient teenage assistant tries not to be too bored by a middle aged man and all his first world problems. I leave with a Shark helmet, RST leathers, TCX boots, Furygan gloves and an Alpinestars chest protector, and drive home knowing that I've made the wrong choices and a big dent in the race budget.

 

Martin phones. The bush telegraph has been working quickly no doubt, and it's a timely call. He sorts a new subframe and clock mount for a very reasonable rate. He doesn't charge me for the counselling service. I offer him an extra homo hug next time we meet, he audibly blanches and ends the call quickly. Much like the injuries, I'll gloss over the next bit, which involves being in the garage most nights, removing all the clumps of grass and mud, straightening the bent bits, sorting through my pile of battered race fibreglass for the least worst parts, and drilling, filling, sanding, repairing, trying not to bodge. Some of you have been there and will know the feeling. I normally love spanner time when it's done on my own terms, on a sunny afternoon, 6Music in the background, cup of tea in hand, fitting quality parts with no pressing deadline This is purgatory, and it's got to be done in less than three weeks.

 

Fast forward to Thursday afternoon, and I'm happy that I've done the bare minimum of work to make the bike ready. Wheel her out and fire her up, after a minor drama with the tilt switch location that old familiar burbling bark cuts through the suburban afternoon. She sounds great, like I imagine a wounded T-Rex, angry, violent and unpredictable. I smile properly for the first time since Oulton Park. No time to reflect, I decide to load up and head east. The weather forecast is dire, but you know how forecasts can be. I want to be there for test day, this bike has suffered major damage and I need a run out to sort all the minor problems that will surface later, plus I need to get settled, both in my head and in my new gear. Van loaded and I'm in bed by nine PM. It's an 02:30 alarm call. I try to sleep but my mind just won't shut down.

 

So I'm up and out of the door but 03:15, full of lovely fresh home brewed coffee and three weetabix. It's hammering down with rain, but I love these early morning road trips. Clear roads, BBC World Service then Alice Wotsername on Radio 1, set the cruise control to 67 and play number plate game or sing along with the tunes, wondering about all the articulated lorries, what they're carrying and where they're going. Not much scenery on this trip, dawn barely makes a crack through the misty murky spray. Stop at South Mimms for a pee and possibly the worst cup of coffee I've had in my life, somehow me and Starbucks don't get along. I bought a large as well. £4 I'll never see again, so I drink it anyway. Tax dodging is crime enough, but there's no excuse for woeful coffee.

 

I'm feeling anxious as I arrive despite the pleasant drive. The usual scrum for my allocated garage, I'm the last to arrive (Trigger excepted) but I manage to park near the garage. I force myself to see this as “a good omen” although I don't believe in all that mumbo-jumbo.

 

Phone out, and log on to the weather forecast, it's dire. Try another website, it's dire. Talk to the local sages, it's dire. I smell a crashfest coming, and I don't want any part of it. Van unloaded, I sulk in the warmth of the cafe, half watching the F1, half browsing the 'net, craning my neck to catch the direction of the unmistakeable sound of scraping fibreglass. It's a regular interruption.

I mooch around the garages, chase up my missing tickets, badger Mark about our Oulton DNF, trudge around in the rain watching crash after crash after crash. It's miserable and I feel sorry for the riders, not many smiles to be seen anywhere.

 

Tess arrives like a ray of sunlight. We have lunch, then she suggests going back to hers to look at her new bike over a cuppa. I jump at the chance to escape the misery. Tess is playing The Mission's Greatest Hits CD so we both switch into tales from the goth days of yore, and I'm transported away from rainy drudgery to a happier place in my head. After years of struggling with shonky old heaps shitters (sorry Tess) she's gone large. The blackest ZX10R sits in her shed. It's gorgeous. It's a weapon. Tess can't stop smiling. I'm so chuffed for her, and so jealous. She's metaphorically flaunting her new two wheeled lover under my nose, whilst I'm struggling to find any love at all for my jaded long term two wheeled relationship. It's over too soon, Tess drops me back at the track so I can get to scrutineering and the rider briefing.

 

I jump into my leathers, get the bike and join the queue, An hour later and the queue has barely moved. It's 3 degrees C, drizzling, none of the usual queue banter, siege mentality settles in. I'm so cold I start to shiver and shudder. I'm waving may arms around like a demented schoolteacher in an effort to keep warm. It doesn't work. An hour and three quarters later, having endured a barrage of THE WORST JOKES EVER IN THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF THE UNIVERSE from the man with the clipboard I wheel the bike out and start her up. Uh-oh, she's only running on three, maybe short on fuel? Hopefully? Push back, change back into warm clothes. I'm not hypothermic, but close. I need hot food and drink NOW. I run to the cafe but it's closed, the bar is open though. I plead with the barman and two coffees in the warm surroundings later I'm out of danger. It's heading towards 7:30 and briefing is at 8PM. Not enough time to fix the bike, so I settle into an uncomfortable chair with a pint of Doom Bar, and take my overcoat off. The phone goes, Trigger on the ID. I'm assuming he's at the gate and needs a ticket to get in, but no.

Iceland

 And we're back.

We stayed at Skuggi Hotel in Reykjavik. A good location, only one street away from the main drag Laugavegur, but quiet at night. It has a nice bar/breakfast area, the staff were friendly, the breakfast was right up my street, buffet with healthy stuff, cereals, toast, pastries, bacon and eggs, tea coffee and juice. We like a modern style hotel, this was a bit "Ikea-y" and getting a little frayed, but perfectly acceptable. The lighting is moody throughout, having a shave is a risky business. If you are tempted to book the expensive room, don't bother - all the rooms and beds are the same size, same furnishings and fittings, the only extra you get is a bathrobe and slippers. I needn't have worried about food, there are literally hundreds of restaurants with all the worlds cuisines on offer. Sallie cried every time she saw puffin on the menu, my attitude of "either eat all the animals or none of them" got me the stare of doom 

It's expensive, even for a tourist trap. We took ISK 75,000 (about £500) and spent about ISK 65,000 in three days. That did include a very expensive (but fabulous) meal in the posh restaurant at the Blue Lagoon, ISK 25,000 alone. We aren't boozers (well, Sallie doesn't drink much and I'm trying not to drink alone), so if you like a drink I reckon your spend would be much higher. The holiday with TUI was £985, i.e. flights, hotels, transfers, two "trips" all cattle class. This morning I priced it out, fly with Easyjet, book the same hotel AND rent a Suzuki Grand Vitara with full insurance would be about the same cost, £960, but with the added advantage of not having to waste half the holiday getting on and off coaches, sat cramped, with rude fat tourists (had my poorly ankle trod on twice by fat cunts who just have to get off the bus RIGHT NOW to get another donut in their fat cunty face. The second time my sense of humour evaporated, I got an apology from the fat cow's male whale accomplice when he saw I'd just managed to restrain myself from swinging for her).

It's a city, however small. In the main, people are pushy and inconsiderate. Few manners on show. My habit of holding a door for the next person just got looks of bafflement from all nationalities. I suspect I'm just out of date. I felt like I do when I go to London or any big city I suppose, it takes me a few days to adapt. If you want to get around at any reasonable speed, you'll have to drop your shoulder and charge on through. It gets more friendly as you head along the Laugavegur towards the Iceland Academy of Arts, the feel of the place changes to a scruffier, more hipstery studenty end of town, and the cafe staff where much more friendly and engaging. Further research needed, but it seemed to me that it was the younger Icelanders that were friendly, most of the shop and restaurant staff away from the University appeared to be Polish. The Icelanders are quite fiercely independent, passionate about their country. "Our water is fantastic and you spend all your money on Evian, our lamb is fantastic and you spend all your money in Macdonalds" etc. I asked one lady about the cost of living given the high shop prices, but couldn't make myself understood. I think she was saying that wages are quite high in comparison to us. I thought that maybe utilites etc might be cheap as it's all geothermal, rent/house prices might be cheap, but I'm not sure. In actuality you're unlikely to meet a full Icelander, there's only 320,000 or so of them (about half the population of Bristol) in an area about the size of Ireland and Wales combined (albeit mostly uninhabitable). I was very amused asking about the family name thing, Icelanders don't have them. As you all know, Mastermind presenter Magnus Magnusson is, quite literally, "Magnus, son of Magnus". If Magnus has a sister, she would be Anna Magnussdottir, "Anna, daughter of Magnus", so there is no family surname like we have. Imagine you're a young Icelandic guy, in a bar you meet a young Icelandic girl, you think her freckles are cute, she loves your beard, your place or mine? But how do you know she's not a long lost blood relative before you do the deed? Well, you have to check in the book first  although there's an app for that too. But given that all Icelanders are decended from the same bloodline, they probably don't bother.

We went to the Hallgrimskirkja Church as recommended above, I'm not a God Botherer so it didn't mean much to me, just another penis pointing skyward in exaltaion to the myth of deity. Sallie liked it though. I liked the stylised Viking ship looking out to sea, and the concert hall was nice. The Punk Museum was closed, it's in a converted public lavatory. It was snowy everywhere, most of the pavements had been cleared, but a few aren't. Leave your trainers at home and wear your hiking boots. Don't worry about dressing well for a fancy restaurant, everyone just wears several layers of technical fabrics, topped by jumpers, down jackets, Doctor Who scarves and wanky woolly hats. Boots are ubiquitous.

 

A giant concrete erection

 

Nice, but surely it'll sink when we launch it?

The roads look OK, despite the snow. Snow tyres compulsory in winter (presumably all months except July and August?). Some of the roads in town have an embedded hard stone in the tarmac, presuambly to stop the snow plough damage. Cars on studded tyres are common, they sound like they are driving over bubble wrap, which my childish brain found most amusing. Out of town, we did The Golden Circle - the Geysir was OK but I wasn't that bothered by it, the rift between the North American and Eurasian techtonic plates was talked up like mad, don't bother, it's just a snowy hole in the ground. The Waterfalls at Gullfoss however I loved, could have spent a lot longer there. But pacakge holiday restictions mean the coach with the Mad Icelandic Tour Guide Who Won't Shut Up For Five Minutes So I Can Have A Snooze (MCIGWWSUFFMSICHAS) mean it's get on the bloody bus, or walk home. 

Sorry about the stray elbow in the shot

Saving the best for last, The Blue Lagoon. Massively overhyped. Expensive doen't even cover it. I'm not sure I can think of a polite word to cover the price, but I loved it. I was getting right into my Zen Mode with my second face pack, found a quiet corner, unfortunately within five minutes I was joined by a rowing Manc couple ("You don't want this baby" "I told you to go and get the injection, you know I didn't want a third kid"), showing that even in the epicentre of calm, tourists are a complete pain in the arse who don't have a single clue how to behave (O irony, we salute you). My internal snob thought that the Jeremy Kyle crowd wouldn't be able to afford Iceland, seems I was wrong, again. Not that the Tarquin and Tabitha crew have any more manners, or concept of an indoor voice. I moved to the steam room and worked on my sinuses instead of listening to this shite. Even this didn't upset me, I was right in the zone. Nor did the Chinese fuckwits in the changing room. We ate in the posh restaurant that night as above, and the food was spectacular, good service, the bill was an arse raping. ISK 25,000 (£166 ish) with no wine, real once in a lifetime stuff. 

I know it's crass to take pictures of food in a restaurant, couldn't give a shit in this instance

Would we go back? Definitely maybe. Too soon to say for sure. We still want to see the Northern Lights. We're discussing saving up to go for Sal's next significant birthday.

Back on it

So, recovery has been long and slow and painful. Still not back to racing snake Al, but starting to feel more positive.

Low motivation has meant that my race bikes are still in a thousand pieces, cast unloved to the many nooks and crannies of home, workshop and work. Last weekend I was reading posts from my mate TrackDayBob, he's at Brands hatch, which means the race season has started again. Holy Shit! All those short dark days of winter, when I was eating crisps and drinking beer, instead of training and bike building! Still, that time is gone so no point crying about it. But I need a motorcycle fix, and soon. Trials isn't going to cut it. Best dust off the road bike then.

Monday afternoon and I look at the long range forecast, I'm hatching a plan. It appears Saturday is best weather wise. I hoik the battery out of the R1 and whack it onto the Optimate, and fill the tank with the last of my super unleaded race fuel. Other than that she looks good to go, a little dirty maybe, but none the worse for that.

Thursday and the Optimate shows green, so I re-install the battery. The dash lights up, but no action on the button. Optimate insists the battery is OK, R1 thinks otherwise. I check the fuses, nothing obviously amiss. So I'm rushing down to Bristol Batteries, £88 later and I'm back in business. The R1 barks instantly into life, the bellow bouncing satisfyingly off the workshop walls. We're on. I dream of ice cream at the seaside.

Friday night I dig out my road leathers, a clear visor, some gloves. Boots are a toss up between my trials boots, or my "spare" race TCX boots. Neither are all day comfortable, but both pairs of my preferred Alpinestars are crashed to kingdom come, and would be on their way to recycling if I'd got my arse in gear and bought a new pair in the wasted winter. Too late to worry about that, comedy squeaky TCX's win over clunky trials boots.

Saturday morning and I'm rolling down pit lane  out to the ring road. Steady away, I tell myself. Try to stay below 150mph. The front feels light and flighty, due to standard road springs rather than mega stiff race suspension, and the over-inflated tyres the bike has stood on all winter whose pressures I didn't correct. The brakes feel dead, cold and glazed. Ho hum. First pass on the dual carriageway I glance at the speedo, 243 !?! I obviously haven't set the clocks back to MPH when I re-installed the battery. The 30 limits are going to be fun then. I work on deglazing the brake pads and getting some heat into the tyres, and the feeling is coming back to me. I'm riding well, anticipating numpties, not tipping into corners too early, not panicing when I need change line, just keep looking up and don't shut the throttle. Just like riding a bike really.

Out on the wrong side of Bath, deep in YPVS country. Back in those days, I knew every inch of these roads. Me and The Flying Banana, throttle to the stop everywhere. That was the better part of thirty years ago though, these days I'm a little more circumspect, and the R1 is easily twice as fast as that old Powervalve. I reminisce whilst surfing a creamy wave of 4th gear torque, destroying traffic as it appears. the cars drivers are being very helpful, moving over, indicating for me to overtake, not trying to kill me. I wave thank yous as I go, and to the other bikes that are starting to populate the dryish roads.

My faithful Hein Gericke leathers are just over eight years old, I still remember the day I got them from Tomfoolery at HG Stockwell. They're still excellent in every way, except I was at my tubbiest when I bought them, so they bag and billow in the tuck, and the bunching of the leather at the back of my knees is getting uncomfortable. It's a shame that I can't visit Tom and get a new set, and I blanch when I think of Cherry's face if I dare take them to her for alteration. If this becomes a regular thing, I'd better get shopping.

Before I know it I'm the quayside in Poole, and it's cold, WTF? Normally Dorset is warmer than Bristol, but the mist has taken the edge off the sun. No sea view, no ice cream, I get a bottle of water and stretch my legs out for a while, sat with Robert Baden-Powell. He may have been a bit of a facist, but I liked being a Scout so he's alright by me. An immaculate Lancia Delta Integrale prowls the quayside road, up and down in second gear. It looks and sounds meancing, but short of a forest rally stage I've got him beaten every day of the week and all day on Sunday. Where next?

I dig out the "map" from my pocket (It's a page nicked from my Filofax. Yes I still use a Filofax. Sue me). I decide to head for Swanage, I love it there. The "A" roads down here are lovely, wide open sweepers, fast, R1 country. I give a patch club going the other way a cheery wave. Not one wave back from the dozen or so bikes. Tossers. I explore around a bit, pass Corfe Castle which looks dramatic against the changing skyline, then the orange fuel light winks at me. I stop and fill up at Moonfleet Motors, having a nice craic with the guy behind the counter. What a great name for a service station.

Park up at the seafront and there's a good few bikes around. I get a nice smile from a lady on a K1200RT, and admire a rat bike XR400 in full Mad Max mode, it looks well used too. A plan forms. Still cold and misty, so I bundle into the first cafe open (it's reasonably busy, but a lot of the shops are still shut for the closed season) as it's too cold for ice cream. Coffee and carrot cake, but I don't linger as I'm surrounded by Daily Mail readers tutting at the Grockel (Grockle?) in their midst. Arseholes. Stroll along the seafront, I see a dead pigeon and not much else. Map consulted, let's hit the golden sands at Weymouth for that ice cream.

More exploring on the way, but the roads are wet from field wash, and gravelly on the racing line. I look for a Marshall to complain, but they must be hiding in the hedgerows or on a tea break or something. Pass the big guy on the white horse, the traffic slows on the approach to the beach. A lot of the big houses have had some serious bucks spent on them, so I indulge myself in a short bout of Grand Designs Bingo. Soon parking by the sand. Still misty and cold, I spy my chain, and it's dry as a bone. I forgo the ice cream and head towards Crossways to see if JB Motorcycles are open, and I'm in luck. Johnny kindly gives me a small can of chain lube that fits nicely under the seat of the R1. I chat and drool over a customers 2015 R1 trackbike, someday my pretty, you will be mine. Then it's a very short hop to meet Duncan at work, then off to the pub for lunch.

Except the stop serving food at 2PM. Duncan's starving, Dobbie's hungry, I could do with something to eat. Crisps and shandy will have to do. Still no ice cream. It's great to sit and yarn with the guys, I'm getting comfy, uh-oh. I don't want to be riding home in the dark so it's time to saddle up. Dunc gives me directions, the A35/A37 from his place to mine is one of my favourite roads, with stunning views on a clear day over the patchwork fields of Jurrasic England. But not today, I'm in V-Max mode and concentrating as much as my aching bladder will allow. Yeovil and Shepton Mallett disappear in a new world record time, a splash and dash at Temple Cloud and I'm home in time for tea. Chicken Kiev, followed by Apple Pie and Vanilla Ice Cream. A perfect day.

The Big Reveal

So, last time I left you all in suspenders. “What's the loon up to now?”

Facebook followers will know that I decided to ditch the Yamaha R1's, and switch to Kawasaki. The number of R1's I “own” (four) was getting a little out of hand, even for a compulsive bike buyer such as myself. I'd struggled to get spares for the big bang race bike, a stroll up and down the garages told me why – there's only me and Tom Webster running these. They're brilliant motorcycles, engaging to ride, devastating on corner exit, but sadly not popular. I've loved kicking against the pricks with the R1's, but I knew that my next step in rider development would only come with a switch to the big “K”. I also felt that I was holding back Andy's progress. Home and I have the big chat with Sallie.

Your Humble Narrator:“I want to buy two new motorbikes. But it's OK, because I'm going to sell four. Might have to play a longer game in the selling department though.”

Sallie: “Four? Which four?”

Your Humble Narrator:“My big bang race bike, Andy's 4C8, Duncan's 4C8, and my big bang road bike”

Sallie:”You were thrilled when you bought those bikes. Keep one at least, the road bike”

She's a flippin' genius, no mistake. So I get the best of both worlds.

The race season is a couple of months old, so not many bikes for sale, but Martin gives me a steer to Kwak #1. Shaun Rose is selling a 2015 Superstock bike, it looks well specified and reasonably priced. I bite. K-Tech shock, K-Tech cartridges, standard engine, Leo Vince pipe, race fairings, clipons, crash protection, ready to race. (Or not. I'll gloss over the unhappy rest of that story. Caveat Emptor). Whilst getting the gearbox shimmed on Kwak #1 I stumble across Kwak #2. A 2011 bike, built for Dan Cooper to ride at the TT, not used and returned to standard suspension. Well priced, it has a Tony Scott motor, Kent cams, Nova first and second gear, Kit ECU and loom, CRC fairings. This one is ready to race, and I do a deal to swap it for the pair of 4C8 R1s, so saving me the hassle of selling two bikes. It sounds quite simple laid out in one paragraph, in reality it was three weeks of constant phone calls, driving up and down the country, leaving me with a sore back and a very big hole in my finances.

At home, I set about the odious task of de-stickering the new bikes. My thumbnails are still recovering. The Superstocker isn't too bad to do, as all the logos are printed onto large thick vinyl sheets, but the TT bike took many hours, and in the right light you can still read the old sponsors name. I name the bikes, partly because I have to, it makes them mine, partly because I now own two near identical looking black generation four Kawasaki ZX-10R's. When Andy rings and asks about the springs, we have take a minute to establish which bike he's talking about. Normally I'd go for girl's names, but not this time. The TT bike I've already started calling “Bomber” Long, low and sleek, menacing, I picture it as an Avro Lancaster, splitting the night sky with its deadly payload. Mirage Racing is numbered 67 because it's the year of my birth, by happy coincidence it's a truncation of the Dam Buster's squadron number of 617. I've long been interested in this particular WW2 caper, the dogged ingenuity, the bravery of the crews, and Barnes-Wallis' own haunting regret at the loss of civilian lives in the campaign. Warming to the theme, I steer away from WW2 and onto Motorhead LP's. The Superstock bike is far too good for me, it's Overkill. This bike named itself. Later, looking at the pictures of the Donington race, Triggers bike becomes “Ace of Spades” for reasons that I can't articulate. And I've still got loads more Motorhead LP titles to use for future bikes.

Race day is looming fast, we're still applying race numbers right up until the bikes are being shoved into the van. Andy has taken some of the strain by ordering the tyres, but it's still stressful – the first time we ride theses bikes will be in qualifying. The only ZX-10R I have ridden was a dealer demonstrator, and that was five years ago. I decide not to overthink it, it's a motorbike, and I've ridden scores of them in all shapes and sizes, how hard can it be?

I've decided to give myself to the end of the 2016 season to get on the pace with the Kwaks. If I don't, then they go up for sale and I'll buy an R1-M.

Pace is a problem though. I'm a clubman racer in a very fast world. No Limits Endurance has become a ACU national championship. The novices are very quick indeed, and learning fast, the top boys are riding with BSB-level laptimes. I'm becoming swamped in an oozy soup of non-improving riders towards the back of the field. I'm fit enough, ambitious, and I've now got the kit. Hopefully the improvements will come before I get left at the back of the grid.

Me first in qualifying. Three laps only, I'm ready early to maximise the short session for the team. Bomber feels raw, unrefined. Not like “my” bike, I've had zero saddle time and it shows. I trundle round like a numpty and pull in, happy to let Trigger and Andy put us as high up the grid as possible, which Trigger does with a fantastic P20. The familiar faces start to roll in, and I feel relaxed about the race, whilst cracking into the chat with the guys. Soon it'll start time, six hours of mayhem loom. I can't get my right contact lens in properly, lucky I elected to get ready early. It's just nerves, breathe, relax, I clear my mind and concentrate, and in it pops. Easy.

Trig is doing the start, with me as Holdee Murphy. We're lined up next to Johnny the Clown of Mutt's Nuts Racing, I kid him that we were 19^th and he nearly falls for it, but you can't kid a kidder. Trig looks comfortable with the start procedure now, but whoever chalked the start positions on the wall put the locations far to close together, so after the sighting lap we've all been forced to shuffle a long way down the grid, hence Trig looking a little confused second time around, but no harm done.

“And it's go GO GO” I'd love to have Murray Walker commentate on a race start for us, c'mon Murray surely you'd love to get back to the bikes? It's funny what flashes through my mind on race day. Trigger gets a good start and he's straight into a five bike battle, our race position yoyos up and down in this session. Trigg's unique style never ceases to amaze, Jamie Whitham-esque? He's all body lean and fingertip control, looking like he was born on a Suzuki, the GSX-R bends to his will. No doubt who wears the trousers in that relationship.

Forgive the lack of detail of who shaved a tenth off on which lap, who did the longest stint (me!) the race garage is a frenetic place and I cope by glossing over the fine detail and concentrating on my own riding. Bizarrely Bomber doesn't feel fast – it's noisy and raw and unsophisticated – but I realise that I can pass riders on the straight bits just by turning my right wrist. That's nice then, right up until the point where I've gone past my braking marker, try not to panic, look where you want to go, trail the throttle, steer, body position, breathe. It's very much back to basics for me. No quickshifter! Every bike should have a quickshifter. When I'm king I'll make a law along these lines. Bomber is feeling more comfortable and familiar now, I'm able to stay in the tuck longer that on the R1. My lines are useless though, everything I know about going in wide and making the perfect apex is useless on this bike. It's all narrow lines and trail braking, and I'm still learning. I'm not sure if the rear tyre is starting to let go, or it that the traction control kicking in? It's a lot to take in, so I try to take it one step at a time.

My lap times are rubbish, Two seconds slower than on the R1. I'm not happy. I try to remember my pledge to give myself the rest of the year to learn, but it's not easy. This is a race after all, no prizes for mediocrity. It's my last session and I decide to push. Hard. Lap after lap, I make a mistake in one corner, which I correct on the next lap, but then I cock up something else. It's so confusing, but I keep pushing and trying.

A little too hard as it turn out. Tired? Not thinking properly? Slightly frustrated? A combination of all those and more I suppose find me rag dolling through the gravel at Redgate. SO STUPID! I've braked later than I previously dared, gone in off line, everything go slo-mo in my brain, but this isn't a crash, I can save this. I'm torn between adding more lean angle and staying on track and running way wide, or picking it up and going for the gravel. In the end I do neither, I've still got a fair old lean on when I'm in the gravel trap, drop the bike, bounce, spin, bounce. I'm livid with myself. I can't pick the bike up, the gravel is too deep. The marshall comes over and helps me pick it up, I grab the transponder and start the sprint back to the garage. I don't even help push the bike.

Sprinting in race leathers, helmet and boots through foot deep gravel is hard work, I'm grateful to get back on the tarmac but I'm blowing like an asthmatic donkey on his way to the glue factory. I spot Helen but elect to do the running myself. The looks on their faces in the garage show that they didn't see me bin it. Eyes on the rider at all times please guys. Trigger saddles up and I go into a full Paddington Bear strop. Not one toy left in the pram. Who is this guy punching the wall? I don't recognise him, I'm never like this. It's just that it means so much to me, all the frustration and energy and effort explode in a wall of physical outpouring.

It subsides. Trig rescues the race and we finish, now he can finally burn that novice vest. Andy's had a few little niggly issues with Overkill, all identifiable and fixable now the race is over. And I'm trudging up pit lane to put Bomber into Parc Ferme, it's survived the crash well, just some rash and a broken screen, and plenty of new stock for my collection of gravel from circuits of the world.

Racing. It's mental.