There has been, during each year of my degree programme, an elephant in the room. Or rather, a stinker in the timetable - a module that sets one's teeth on edge just thinking about it. Unfortunately, as one of the main tasks I am supposed to accomplish at University is thinking, this means that some, but not all of my teeth, have been ground down to a nub. Or nib. I shall return to whether it is a nib or a nub later.
In my first year, it was the module "Manage your own Learning" , peppered with references to learning styles, that provided grist for the mill. Dubbed "Bring Your Own Beer" by a colleague now departed from the course, it uncritically presented learning styles as "fact" and endowed us with the knowledge that verbs are, in fact, called "do" words. In the second year, a module called Social Policy and Learning was about nothing of the sort, but was in fact a three month moan fest about the direction of about the direction of primary schools over the last thirty years(in the UK) from one (political) perspective. Despite the fact that I might agree with this perspective, after a month, the predictable line was presented at each lecture that teaching had undergone de-professionalization over those thirty years and this was, we were told, a bad thing. The obvious question I was obliged to ask after a few weeks was "Is it? Can Napoleon really have been that wrong?"
This, the third and final year, the guilty party is a work experience module I am obliged to attend. It is not so much that I am obliged to obtain work experience, it is that the theoretical framework that underpins the module is Situated Learning Theory. I could perhaps describe, at length, what my objections are to this, but perhaps its best to start with a quote:
"Legitimate peripheral participation has led us to emphasize the sustained character of development cycles of communities of practice, the gradual process of fashioning relations of identity as a full practitioner and the enduring strains inherent in the continuity-displacement contradiction" (Lave and Wenger, whenever)
I am almost tempted to say 'Nice words but what do they mean?', but I cannot. This is mainly because even the words are ugly. And these words are followed by more, usually the same ones, slightly re-arranged.
Compare the above with
"I am proposing that the ability to learn evolutionarily novel information is the result of two types of brain plasticity, both of which evolved to enable humans to cope with variation in ecological and social conditions within lifetimes"(Geary, 2008)
What follows is a load of specific tangible research findings - facts if you will - references, and nice graphs. And a conclusion.
Geary's stuff is truly a thing of beauty, made more so by the fact that there is a strong possibility he will be demonstrated wrong at some point. Wenger, on the other hand, cannot ever be shown to be wrong because nothing is ever said. Reading Situated Learning is like looking out of a plane window during a flight over the Atlantic - all you see is a vast swathe of undefinable grey. You know this impression is incomplete - there is a mass of complexity 'down there' but you cannot get close to any of the detail, you cannot actually touch, follow or describe any of the individual waves. You dont get to smell the ocean, feel the temperature. Ultimately it becomes boring and the beauty of the ocean is utterly lost.
Monday, 1 November 2010
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
Re-inventing wood
It is the start of my third and final term at University. Things are looking good - I am cruising towards a First, pummelled the opposition (ie other students) in my Innovation module last year and have been approached by a Department vis-a-vis a funded PhD.
Admittedly, there are a few things found the house I would have preferred to have completed (I have photographs of the progress we have made, but will only publish them at the start of November) such as my office and the second bathroom BUT last week we were hit by disaster. I was working on my deck. I should explain - previously outside our rear door was a sheet of chipboard resting on a pile of rubble. Not a design affection from the Brutalist school, its just that we didnt have the money to buy a deck. Quotes revealed a price of approximately 350 pounds for a simple 2metre x 5 metre affair. Wood is expensive in the UK, but I guess that's the price of deforesting your country in the name of building an Imperial navy. Anywood, recently, in the yard of the company I occasionally work for (most of September slogging the highways of UK} was a whole bunch of decking. Discrete enquiries revealed that this nearly pristine material - which is actually the most expensive kind being treated, thicker and wider than the normal stuff - was destined for the skip. I took advantage of the fact that as part of the job I was working on a truck was in my possession, and paid for by the company, and loaded the truck until it groaned with decking. With the exhaust pipe scraping the floor (I had overloaded the truck by about 50%) we made it the sixty miles to Hull.
THe end result, and all a visitor will see is a shed, a deck and a pagoda type thingy in our back yard, that were otherwise all destined for the skip. Obviously, I'm delighted I got all this stuff for free, and it did take a lot of effort, but to me getting the stuff was a no-brainer. I just did what my father (and most Dads of the time) would have done. I'm not inclined to see the past with rose coloured spectacles, but my father's generation re-used things as a habit. I can clearly remember, as a wee pup, spending a whole afternoon hammering used nails straight so they could be re-re-used. String would be saved. PLastic was valuable - especially large plastic sheets - and my Dad's shed is still waterproofed using the wrapping from a new sofa they got in the Seventies.
I was telling a neighbour, who was observing my deck-work-in-progress how I had acquired the materials, and if she and her husband wanted some of the surplus, they were very welcome. This same neighbour asked me if I had ridden the length of Hadrian's Wall in aide of Charity and was surprised when I replied negatively. As I completed my explanation my neighbour droooled:
"Oh, I love Freeganism. I love it. You should make some street art with what's left over"
At this point I curtailed the conversation, curtly. I dont really mind that she's fallen victim to the phenomenon of branding and therefore has to re-label a pattern of activity that humans have engaged in for two hundred thousand years, but at Street Art, I draw a great big line. Art, if it is to be conducted at all, should be done for a purpose, thoughtfully and conducted by a skilled artisan. In respect of much street art, the fact that this doesnt happen and is instead a community activity conducted by amateurs, or an assembly of old junk or conducted just because a street thinks it should have some street art means that the Street Art is, more often than not, actually vandalism.
None of this is the disaster reported in the opening paragraphs. The disaster is that as I was trundling towards a completed deck, revelling in the fact that in this house I am finally building stuff for pleasure and not just structural necessity, I discovered that we had a leak in the water pipes below our ground floor. I used the word 'disaster' but in truth it was nothing of the sort - it was merely very inconvenient. A disaster is being trapped in a Chilean mine. The result of our inconvenience though is that when the next visitors come, they may be sitting on a half built deck, with half a floor under their feet, not to mention an uncompleted fireplace.
Admittedly, there are a few things found the house I would have preferred to have completed (I have photographs of the progress we have made, but will only publish them at the start of November) such as my office and the second bathroom BUT last week we were hit by disaster. I was working on my deck. I should explain - previously outside our rear door was a sheet of chipboard resting on a pile of rubble. Not a design affection from the Brutalist school, its just that we didnt have the money to buy a deck. Quotes revealed a price of approximately 350 pounds for a simple 2metre x 5 metre affair. Wood is expensive in the UK, but I guess that's the price of deforesting your country in the name of building an Imperial navy. Anywood, recently, in the yard of the company I occasionally work for (most of September slogging the highways of UK} was a whole bunch of decking. Discrete enquiries revealed that this nearly pristine material - which is actually the most expensive kind being treated, thicker and wider than the normal stuff - was destined for the skip. I took advantage of the fact that as part of the job I was working on a truck was in my possession, and paid for by the company, and loaded the truck until it groaned with decking. With the exhaust pipe scraping the floor (I had overloaded the truck by about 50%) we made it the sixty miles to Hull.
THe end result, and all a visitor will see is a shed, a deck and a pagoda type thingy in our back yard, that were otherwise all destined for the skip. Obviously, I'm delighted I got all this stuff for free, and it did take a lot of effort, but to me getting the stuff was a no-brainer. I just did what my father (and most Dads of the time) would have done. I'm not inclined to see the past with rose coloured spectacles, but my father's generation re-used things as a habit. I can clearly remember, as a wee pup, spending a whole afternoon hammering used nails straight so they could be re-re-used. String would be saved. PLastic was valuable - especially large plastic sheets - and my Dad's shed is still waterproofed using the wrapping from a new sofa they got in the Seventies.
I was telling a neighbour, who was observing my deck-work-in-progress how I had acquired the materials, and if she and her husband wanted some of the surplus, they were very welcome. This same neighbour asked me if I had ridden the length of Hadrian's Wall in aide of Charity and was surprised when I replied negatively. As I completed my explanation my neighbour droooled:
"Oh, I love Freeganism. I love it. You should make some street art with what's left over"
At this point I curtailed the conversation, curtly. I dont really mind that she's fallen victim to the phenomenon of branding and therefore has to re-label a pattern of activity that humans have engaged in for two hundred thousand years, but at Street Art, I draw a great big line. Art, if it is to be conducted at all, should be done for a purpose, thoughtfully and conducted by a skilled artisan. In respect of much street art, the fact that this doesnt happen and is instead a community activity conducted by amateurs, or an assembly of old junk or conducted just because a street thinks it should have some street art means that the Street Art is, more often than not, actually vandalism.
None of this is the disaster reported in the opening paragraphs. The disaster is that as I was trundling towards a completed deck, revelling in the fact that in this house I am finally building stuff for pleasure and not just structural necessity, I discovered that we had a leak in the water pipes below our ground floor. I used the word 'disaster' but in truth it was nothing of the sort - it was merely very inconvenient. A disaster is being trapped in a Chilean mine. The result of our inconvenience though is that when the next visitors come, they may be sitting on a half built deck, with half a floor under their feet, not to mention an uncompleted fireplace.
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
Business as Unusual
"Oft/frequently/often/consistently" I declare/say/announce/whisper/express, (most usually when acolytes/students/pupils/learners/neophytes are struggling with the ridiculous/preposterous/astonishing fact that the words "knight" and "night" sound exactly the same) ".........this........" - I gesture wildly, often at an offensively difficult word to teach (and concept to understand) such as 'since' ' ".....this happens in English. But despair ye not! For, that very difficulty you are experiencing is what makes English such a flexible, and ultimately (I hope you will find) beautiful language." The discussion that follows is one full of praise for the learners' persistence in mastering what can be a difficult language and for the language itself, which is flexible enough to allow sentences such as 'I go bad' to be understood in at least three different ways.
At this point, digress I should for a paragraph or two, permission? I do have a massive admiration for the English language - it allows us to talk to cats, it allows Sal to swear at my fireplace without bothering to give it a gender, RHB to excoriate things and Grasshopper to be "gosh darned knackered", and yours truly to write nonsense. (In her defence, and before a protracted law suit is launched I should rush to add that I've never heard Grasshopper use 'knackered' right next to 'gosh darned' in a sentence, but she has the potential). However, even my massive admiration for English, and my affection for League Tables, cannot allow me to claim that English is the "the best [language] in the World", which is what the UK's new Education Minister recently did at a party rally.
I was watching the new Education Minister's speech at his party's rally with a degree of interest. Not, I should add, that I have (anymore) a particular interest in the Conservatives, as my current view is a minor variance on the Churchillian position that our (current) formulation of democracy is the worst form of Government apart from every other. The variance I would suggest in that statement is that the sentence should stop at the word "apart". For yours truly, minor ideological differences between UK political parties are about as significant as a disagreement at a child's party whether to have jelly or trifle for desert. Thus whether a Party calls itself Labour or Conservative matters to me not a jot - they are equally unwelcome. So normally watching any of them on television is a waste of time better spent watching 'Survivor', 'Celebrity WifeSwap' or perhaps 'Masterchef'.
However, the recently elected Government have caught the eye, because it has promised to embark on a system of power, wealth and equity redistribution whose scope is breathtakingly impressive. The scale of the planned changes to the UK's economy as a whole, social life at every level and Government support for the ill, the old, the weak and the poor is massive, unprecedented, revolutionary.Unfortunately perhaps, the re-distribution seems to be in the un-preferred direction - namely upwards (demographically speaking) and Southwards (where their power base is). All the talk is of cuts - benefit cuts, heating support for elderly people cuts, job cuts, wage cuts and, crucially for my interests, education cuts. So my interest in this person's speech was twofold:
a. How stupid was it of me to decide to get involved in Education (you get blamed for every ill of society, told you are living in an Ivory Tower and get paid neither overtime or a salary that reflects the additional work you actually do) when I should have chosen banking (you can ruin a countries economy, get paid for it, rapidly forgiven and then carry on as you where)?
b.From a wider perspective, should I wait until riots engulf the country before fleeing back to Canada or wait until the removal of the Harpon tyranny and restoration of democracy there?
Predictably perhaps, the speech revealed nothing of substance, unless you count a deep feeling of unease substantial. It was a typical party conference speech - playing to the prejudices of his audience and absent of content. However, he did make the claim that "English Literature is the best in the world". Naturally, as the UK's (joint) second best academic, and lifelong Celtic FC fan I am interested in rankings. So, in an intensive five minute search of Google and Wikipedia, I decided to research the claim as I was interested in what evidence might support it. A list of Nobels (I am still waiting for the letter re: Civilization: Why???? trilogy) by nationality seemed the best place to find the answer. Unfortunately, for the Minister, the Nobels dont help his argument - the Germans (8) and the French (14) far outstrip the UK's number of Nobel prizes for Literature (5 or 6 depending on whether George Bernard Shaw is counted as English or Irish). So I tried searching for the best selling books of all time. Again, our minister has no support there, as the Bible, Words of Mao T'se Tung and the Quran all outstrip the next best sellers - the Harry Potter series. Potter is by far the best selling fiction phenomenon, and perhaps, I thought, after some reflection, the Minister is referring to this, and perhaps he meant "English Literature is the one I like the best". Whether Harry Potter is something a nation should be particularly proud of or not is surely a matter of subjectivity, and in deciding what to read, there is absolutely nothing wrong with subjectivity, nor with Harry Potter. But if an Education Minister for the eight richest (I looked up a list) country in the World cannot tell the difference between "my favourite" and "the best" then what chance do my learners have in the revolution that is coming??
At this point, digress I should for a paragraph or two, permission? I do have a massive admiration for the English language - it allows us to talk to cats, it allows Sal to swear at my fireplace without bothering to give it a gender, RHB to excoriate things and Grasshopper to be "gosh darned knackered", and yours truly to write nonsense. (In her defence, and before a protracted law suit is launched I should rush to add that I've never heard Grasshopper use 'knackered' right next to 'gosh darned' in a sentence, but she has the potential). However, even my massive admiration for English, and my affection for League Tables, cannot allow me to claim that English is the "the best [language] in the World", which is what the UK's new Education Minister recently did at a party rally.
I was watching the new Education Minister's speech at his party's rally with a degree of interest. Not, I should add, that I have (anymore) a particular interest in the Conservatives, as my current view is a minor variance on the Churchillian position that our (current) formulation of democracy is the worst form of Government apart from every other. The variance I would suggest in that statement is that the sentence should stop at the word "apart". For yours truly, minor ideological differences between UK political parties are about as significant as a disagreement at a child's party whether to have jelly or trifle for desert. Thus whether a Party calls itself Labour or Conservative matters to me not a jot - they are equally unwelcome. So normally watching any of them on television is a waste of time better spent watching 'Survivor', 'Celebrity WifeSwap' or perhaps 'Masterchef'.
However, the recently elected Government have caught the eye, because it has promised to embark on a system of power, wealth and equity redistribution whose scope is breathtakingly impressive. The scale of the planned changes to the UK's economy as a whole, social life at every level and Government support for the ill, the old, the weak and the poor is massive, unprecedented, revolutionary.Unfortunately perhaps, the re-distribution seems to be in the un-preferred direction - namely upwards (demographically speaking) and Southwards (where their power base is). All the talk is of cuts - benefit cuts, heating support for elderly people cuts, job cuts, wage cuts and, crucially for my interests, education cuts. So my interest in this person's speech was twofold:
a. How stupid was it of me to decide to get involved in Education (you get blamed for every ill of society, told you are living in an Ivory Tower and get paid neither overtime or a salary that reflects the additional work you actually do) when I should have chosen banking (you can ruin a countries economy, get paid for it, rapidly forgiven and then carry on as you where)?
b.From a wider perspective, should I wait until riots engulf the country before fleeing back to Canada or wait until the removal of the Harpon tyranny and restoration of democracy there?
Predictably perhaps, the speech revealed nothing of substance, unless you count a deep feeling of unease substantial. It was a typical party conference speech - playing to the prejudices of his audience and absent of content. However, he did make the claim that "English Literature is the best in the world". Naturally, as the UK's (joint) second best academic, and lifelong Celtic FC fan I am interested in rankings. So, in an intensive five minute search of Google and Wikipedia, I decided to research the claim as I was interested in what evidence might support it. A list of Nobels (I am still waiting for the letter re: Civilization: Why???? trilogy) by nationality seemed the best place to find the answer. Unfortunately, for the Minister, the Nobels dont help his argument - the Germans (8) and the French (14) far outstrip the UK's number of Nobel prizes for Literature (5 or 6 depending on whether George Bernard Shaw is counted as English or Irish). So I tried searching for the best selling books of all time. Again, our minister has no support there, as the Bible, Words of Mao T'se Tung and the Quran all outstrip the next best sellers - the Harry Potter series. Potter is by far the best selling fiction phenomenon, and perhaps, I thought, after some reflection, the Minister is referring to this, and perhaps he meant "English Literature is the one I like the best". Whether Harry Potter is something a nation should be particularly proud of or not is surely a matter of subjectivity, and in deciding what to read, there is absolutely nothing wrong with subjectivity, nor with Harry Potter. But if an Education Minister for the eight richest (I looked up a list) country in the World cannot tell the difference between "my favourite" and "the best" then what chance do my learners have in the revolution that is coming??
May you live in interesting times
Watch this
Read this
Today I have little time to explain this to my friends not acquainted with football as I have just, finally, completed my summer's programme of work, having returned from LOndon last night at 1.30am. But these links provide a back story for a series of events that have interrupted sleep, caused worry and endless discussion for the last three years. Although YWNA is named (sort of) after our club's most well known song, these pages infrequently refer to the sport - as I've mentioned before, there are many other websites that "do" football better.
As tiredness is a major factor at the moment I will write no more for now, except to say what has happened to LFC are a perfect example of why the common business practise of "leveraged buy-outs' should be illegal.
Read this
Today I have little time to explain this to my friends not acquainted with football as I have just, finally, completed my summer's programme of work, having returned from LOndon last night at 1.30am. But these links provide a back story for a series of events that have interrupted sleep, caused worry and endless discussion for the last three years. Although YWNA is named (sort of) after our club's most well known song, these pages infrequently refer to the sport - as I've mentioned before, there are many other websites that "do" football better.
As tiredness is a major factor at the moment I will write no more for now, except to say what has happened to LFC are a perfect example of why the common business practise of "leveraged buy-outs' should be illegal.
Friday, 1 October 2010
Creative Anarchy
"WAKE UP AND GIVE ME THE SAT-YOU F***** M**** T***. WAKE UP!!!!" I shout, then repeat the exercise. Futilely, if there is such a word. I should rush to assure family members that the 'F**** M***T***" in question is not RHB, and this is not a retelling of the incident that occurred merely a week ago when, en route to a family party, we managed to get lost with a sat nav AND a map because she disagreed with the sat-nav. Alas, humourous as RHB's ability to get lost is, and as taleworthy as her ability to cause an argument in an otherwise unoccupied elevator might be, today's F******** etc etc is Icksy, my erstwhile work supervisor, who has not made an appearance in these pages for a while.
For those who dont know, I worked with Icksy for a period some time ago. He is small, with an appearance that, as a youth, would have been called 'urchin-like'. As an adult, a diet of pie, chips and beans, poor dental hygiene and stress levels through the roof mean that he looks more 'goblin-like' than 'urchin like'. His facial colouring travels through a palette of reds in the course of a day - from 'raw beetroot', through 'indigo sunrise' and 'sierra rocks' and back again. His dental hygiene is wanting, to say the least and his mood throughout the day(s) ranges between 'angry', 'belligerent', 'unhelpful', 'sulky' and 'unpleasant'. His digestive system appears non-functioning and he is apparently sick throughout the whole weekend with 'food-poisoning' (apparently a sandwich in the hotel), 'bad water' (apparently London's water is 'bad'), a bad cold (apparently different germs in London caused by immigrants)and a massive migraine (apparently a bad nights sleep and elevated noise levels in London). On top of all of this, and perhaps worse of all, he mumbles in his strong Yorkshire dialect, so not only can I not hear what he is saying, but I would'nt understand it even if I could. The whole effect, from my perspective, is that I have to spend 48 hours in the company of a dying Klingon with ill-fitting false teeth, the only difference being that where Klingons are (rightly) famed for their ruthless efficiency, Icksy is a walking definition of the word 'hapless'.
Why, you ask yourselves, would the joint second best academic in UK, (coincidentally Hull's leading scenic carpenter) be working with this specimen? Mostly, its because the company I work for has once again been re-structured. The trickle down effect of this is that instead of another freelance colleague being employed to travel to London on a mission essential to the company, regular workshop staff have been drafted in because they dont get paid overtime. I assume this seems a more efficient use of resources to the company (where people = resources. This notion is a misreading of human society so acute it deserves another post of its own about modern day project management) so at the end of a forty hour week, Icksy is informed that he is travelling with me to London to work the weekend. The results of this efficiency have been that I have had to work with a miserable, inefficient, error prone, bad tempered small person for almost 24 hours straight.
We are en route to yet another emergency pick-up of supplies (caused by him), this time a full hour's drive away across London, to a location neither of us have ever been before, Icksy has fallen asleep in the passenger seat of our 7.5 truck cradling the sat nav like a teddy bear. The visual display cannot be seen from the driving seat (my location)and because this is a big truck, and he is very little, he is too far away for me to reach over and slap repeatedly until conciousness returns, as this would result in an alarming loss of control of the vehicle. And, the stupid midget has disabled the volume, because, he said later, it was "distracting" him. We are on a motorway, approaching a junction where several options present themselves and I have no idea which junction to take. (Note: Our overseas readers should be aware that in the UK it is not permissable to stop on motorways, even with the stated aim of pummelling one's companion). The wrong choice, could add another hour onto our journey and we have a deadline to be back onsite which is already tight.
I guess recklessly, take the ramp and head in a new direction. Ten miles down the road there are services, so I swing in. Once in the car park, I line the truck up precisely with a row of trees and press the accelerator pedal. The resultant necessary hard braking nearly catapults Icksy out of his seat and through the cab window.
"Prick" I say, jerk the sat nav from his hands, and accelerate out the car-park. Icksy, fully awake now, looks confused, but that is the natural set of his face and I'm in no mood for explanations. Rejoining the motorway, the sat nav tells me that through sheer luck, I took the correct exit, so I continue en route. Five minutes later Icksy informs me, as he has at approximately fifteen minute intervals throughout the previous twenty four hours, that he has "bad guts" and needs a washroom. "We've just been to a services, why didnt you go then?" I ask him maliciously, and carry on. He starts moaning, holding his stomach, interspersing his groans, farts and burps with "Sorry".
The only redeeming feature of the whole weekend is that during it, Icksy actually has to try to install objects at the exhibition hall he has personally built. This is redeeming because my job is to try to install, at various venues, the objects Icksy has built in his workshop. Despite numerous debriefs, friendly hints and advice, he has consistently failed to consider my 'onsite' world in his construction techniques leading to every install being much more difficult than it should be. Naturally, one hates the sitcom phrase "Welcome to my world" but for once it seems appropriate as he rebuilds yet another desk.
For those who dont know, I worked with Icksy for a period some time ago. He is small, with an appearance that, as a youth, would have been called 'urchin-like'. As an adult, a diet of pie, chips and beans, poor dental hygiene and stress levels through the roof mean that he looks more 'goblin-like' than 'urchin like'. His facial colouring travels through a palette of reds in the course of a day - from 'raw beetroot', through 'indigo sunrise' and 'sierra rocks' and back again. His dental hygiene is wanting, to say the least and his mood throughout the day(s) ranges between 'angry', 'belligerent', 'unhelpful', 'sulky' and 'unpleasant'. His digestive system appears non-functioning and he is apparently sick throughout the whole weekend with 'food-poisoning' (apparently a sandwich in the hotel), 'bad water' (apparently London's water is 'bad'), a bad cold (apparently different germs in London caused by immigrants)and a massive migraine (apparently a bad nights sleep and elevated noise levels in London). On top of all of this, and perhaps worse of all, he mumbles in his strong Yorkshire dialect, so not only can I not hear what he is saying, but I would'nt understand it even if I could. The whole effect, from my perspective, is that I have to spend 48 hours in the company of a dying Klingon with ill-fitting false teeth, the only difference being that where Klingons are (rightly) famed for their ruthless efficiency, Icksy is a walking definition of the word 'hapless'.
Why, you ask yourselves, would the joint second best academic in UK, (coincidentally Hull's leading scenic carpenter) be working with this specimen? Mostly, its because the company I work for has once again been re-structured. The trickle down effect of this is that instead of another freelance colleague being employed to travel to London on a mission essential to the company, regular workshop staff have been drafted in because they dont get paid overtime. I assume this seems a more efficient use of resources to the company (where people = resources. This notion is a misreading of human society so acute it deserves another post of its own about modern day project management) so at the end of a forty hour week, Icksy is informed that he is travelling with me to London to work the weekend. The results of this efficiency have been that I have had to work with a miserable, inefficient, error prone, bad tempered small person for almost 24 hours straight.
We are en route to yet another emergency pick-up of supplies (caused by him), this time a full hour's drive away across London, to a location neither of us have ever been before, Icksy has fallen asleep in the passenger seat of our 7.5 truck cradling the sat nav like a teddy bear. The visual display cannot be seen from the driving seat (my location)and because this is a big truck, and he is very little, he is too far away for me to reach over and slap repeatedly until conciousness returns, as this would result in an alarming loss of control of the vehicle. And, the stupid midget has disabled the volume, because, he said later, it was "distracting" him. We are on a motorway, approaching a junction where several options present themselves and I have no idea which junction to take. (Note: Our overseas readers should be aware that in the UK it is not permissable to stop on motorways, even with the stated aim of pummelling one's companion). The wrong choice, could add another hour onto our journey and we have a deadline to be back onsite which is already tight.
I guess recklessly, take the ramp and head in a new direction. Ten miles down the road there are services, so I swing in. Once in the car park, I line the truck up precisely with a row of trees and press the accelerator pedal. The resultant necessary hard braking nearly catapults Icksy out of his seat and through the cab window.
"Prick" I say, jerk the sat nav from his hands, and accelerate out the car-park. Icksy, fully awake now, looks confused, but that is the natural set of his face and I'm in no mood for explanations. Rejoining the motorway, the sat nav tells me that through sheer luck, I took the correct exit, so I continue en route. Five minutes later Icksy informs me, as he has at approximately fifteen minute intervals throughout the previous twenty four hours, that he has "bad guts" and needs a washroom. "We've just been to a services, why didnt you go then?" I ask him maliciously, and carry on. He starts moaning, holding his stomach, interspersing his groans, farts and burps with "Sorry".
The only redeeming feature of the whole weekend is that during it, Icksy actually has to try to install objects at the exhibition hall he has personally built. This is redeeming because my job is to try to install, at various venues, the objects Icksy has built in his workshop. Despite numerous debriefs, friendly hints and advice, he has consistently failed to consider my 'onsite' world in his construction techniques leading to every install being much more difficult than it should be. Naturally, one hates the sitcom phrase "Welcome to my world" but for once it seems appropriate as he rebuilds yet another desk.
Thursday, 16 September 2010
On the road
I have only the vaguest idea where I am. This is not, I should rush to assure the reader, a repeat of the occasion, roughly fifteen years ago, when I briefly became a mentalist and was unsuccessful in finding RHB in our one bedroom apartment for over two hours - a situation that led to the prescribed ingestion of copious amounts of valium, and is a story perhaps for another time, involving as it does a picnic, pork chops, emigration and a warehouse in deepest Wales - rather this current lack of orientation is entirely technological in origin, and sanely work related.
The reason I have no idea where I am is that just five day after our bike ride, I am working once more for my previous employers, work that involves installing a travelling exhibition for a large company at various venues across the UK. Such employment has always been slightly discombobulating as the daily sequence is similar to a rock and roll tour: highway-venue-hotel-drink-venue-highway but in my previous UK incarnation, an enjoyable part of every day, (and practically the only intellectual exercise achieved) was route planning via the use of out-of-date physical maps. A century later, and the efficiencies of satellite aided navigation mean that all I know, and heartily resent, is that I am in a very pretty little village that is, as I later tell RHB, "not far from Birmingham". East, West, South, North, town names, visible landmarks,signposts, road identifiers such as 'A46', friendly passers by giving directions - all are forgotten and forbidden navigational tools in the era of sat-nav. All a driver knows is a postcode then "turn left", "turn right" and "take the exit". So I have, and now I 'have reached my destination'.
I turn off the unlit country road into the driveway of the destination - a hotel my employers have pre-booked for me, and stop my vehicle, sighing. I open up my faux leather LFC crested notebook and turn to a list I have made over the previous three days. The list is titled "Debrief items for discussion with Project Manager". A quick scan to ensure this entry is not a repeat of a previous one, and I write:
'Item 26: To admin: Do NOT, under any circumstances, book hotels for conference installers where the descrption of the hotel includes the words "quaint", "barn", "rural", "ivy", "duck pond", "Ye", "hideaway", "historic","tranquil". '
I replace the notebook in my bag, start the engine and go to disengage the brake. A thought strikes me, so I cancel that action, retrieve the notebook and add to my entry:
"NOTE; This does not imply that I dont appreciate your sentiments in booking me into these hotels. Its just that when you mentioned you'd put additional effort into booking me 'nice hotels' for this trip, I was thinking jacussi, penthouse, sauna."
This addition is necessary, I think, because it is possible that the debrief I intend to conduct may, even if only by virtue of its length, cause some minor offence within the company. I dont want to sour things unnecessarily, but I can already see how other entries might be seen as criticism. For example, Item One concludes:
"... so never send this idiot out on the road with me again"
While Item Five helpfully advises:
" .......when constructing display boxes incorporating tv screens that are supposed to have hinged rear panels for access to the integrated DVD players, ensure your workshop doesnt glue, screw and pin said access panel permanently closed with screw holes filled, sanded and painted. I feel that the words "Access panel do not fix" that were written in bold across the aforementioned panel provided a sufficient clue to your production manager that these additional fixings were unnecessary. The placement of a DVD player on a shelf behind the access panel, might I feel, have provided additional information if only because his own empirical attempts to activate said DVD player via a remote control through 18mm of solid MDF should have proved unsuccessful. What I find mystifying is not only that your workshop has done this to all five boxes incorporating access panels, tv's and DVD players, but that your production manager claims to have tested these DVD players by watching 45 minutes of home produced pornography - 'Bertha's Birthday', I beleive - after they were assembled. Such an achievement, if true, implies a mastery over natural laws suggestive that he may be better occupied in research at one of the better universities.."
Noting mentally that I may have to edit my list somewhat, I release the brake and attempt to manoeuvre my 7.5 tonne lorry down the narrow unlit driveway. There is a right angle turn 50 metres down the driveway so as I concentrate on not demolishing a 500 year old ivy covered barn with the tail end of my truck as it swings round, I simultaneously must avoid plunging through the historic pond directly ahead and must also line the vehicle up to cross the quaint bridge past that. This involves a lot of low gear work so the tranquility of the rural night is shattered by the roar of a diesel engine at high revs. Barn owls flee in panic at the noise and a the pounding of hooves is evidence of a cattle stampede in a field nearby. After half and hour of this, the driveway is negotiated and the truck is parked, matter out of place, in front of "Ye Olde Station: The Perfect Hideaway".
I climb out of the cab and walk to the front door. It is nine pm and I am ravenously hungry. The prospect of a home cooked farmhouse meal is tantalising. Unfortunately, a lightning bolt awaits. With trembling hands I unstick the piece of paper taped to the oaken front door:
"Hello Mr Nickson. Your office said to expect you at eight. Waited half an hour, but as you are the only guest tonight, have gone home. Tried to reach you but no phone signal. Will return at ten thirty to see if you have arrived. If you are hungry there is a very good restaurant near Coleshill. Just follow the A56 south west. Its about ten miles, so only a fifteen minute drive. My home phone is 98763632."
I return to the cab, open my notebook and amend my notes. I cross out the numeral "26" from my most recent entry and write, and underline, in words, "ITEM NUMBER ONE".
The reason I have no idea where I am is that just five day after our bike ride, I am working once more for my previous employers, work that involves installing a travelling exhibition for a large company at various venues across the UK. Such employment has always been slightly discombobulating as the daily sequence is similar to a rock and roll tour: highway-venue-hotel-drink-venue-highway but in my previous UK incarnation, an enjoyable part of every day, (and practically the only intellectual exercise achieved) was route planning via the use of out-of-date physical maps. A century later, and the efficiencies of satellite aided navigation mean that all I know, and heartily resent, is that I am in a very pretty little village that is, as I later tell RHB, "not far from Birmingham". East, West, South, North, town names, visible landmarks,signposts, road identifiers such as 'A46', friendly passers by giving directions - all are forgotten and forbidden navigational tools in the era of sat-nav. All a driver knows is a postcode then "turn left", "turn right" and "take the exit". So I have, and now I 'have reached my destination'.
I turn off the unlit country road into the driveway of the destination - a hotel my employers have pre-booked for me, and stop my vehicle, sighing. I open up my faux leather LFC crested notebook and turn to a list I have made over the previous three days. The list is titled "Debrief items for discussion with Project Manager". A quick scan to ensure this entry is not a repeat of a previous one, and I write:
'Item 26: To admin: Do NOT, under any circumstances, book hotels for conference installers where the descrption of the hotel includes the words "quaint", "barn", "rural", "ivy", "duck pond", "Ye", "hideaway", "historic","tranquil". '
I replace the notebook in my bag, start the engine and go to disengage the brake. A thought strikes me, so I cancel that action, retrieve the notebook and add to my entry:
"NOTE; This does not imply that I dont appreciate your sentiments in booking me into these hotels. Its just that when you mentioned you'd put additional effort into booking me 'nice hotels' for this trip, I was thinking jacussi, penthouse, sauna."
This addition is necessary, I think, because it is possible that the debrief I intend to conduct may, even if only by virtue of its length, cause some minor offence within the company. I dont want to sour things unnecessarily, but I can already see how other entries might be seen as criticism. For example, Item One concludes:
"... so never send this idiot out on the road with me again"
While Item Five helpfully advises:
" .......when constructing display boxes incorporating tv screens that are supposed to have hinged rear panels for access to the integrated DVD players, ensure your workshop doesnt glue, screw and pin said access panel permanently closed with screw holes filled, sanded and painted. I feel that the words "Access panel do not fix" that were written in bold across the aforementioned panel provided a sufficient clue to your production manager that these additional fixings were unnecessary. The placement of a DVD player on a shelf behind the access panel, might I feel, have provided additional information if only because his own empirical attempts to activate said DVD player via a remote control through 18mm of solid MDF should have proved unsuccessful. What I find mystifying is not only that your workshop has done this to all five boxes incorporating access panels, tv's and DVD players, but that your production manager claims to have tested these DVD players by watching 45 minutes of home produced pornography - 'Bertha's Birthday', I beleive - after they were assembled. Such an achievement, if true, implies a mastery over natural laws suggestive that he may be better occupied in research at one of the better universities.."
Noting mentally that I may have to edit my list somewhat, I release the brake and attempt to manoeuvre my 7.5 tonne lorry down the narrow unlit driveway. There is a right angle turn 50 metres down the driveway so as I concentrate on not demolishing a 500 year old ivy covered barn with the tail end of my truck as it swings round, I simultaneously must avoid plunging through the historic pond directly ahead and must also line the vehicle up to cross the quaint bridge past that. This involves a lot of low gear work so the tranquility of the rural night is shattered by the roar of a diesel engine at high revs. Barn owls flee in panic at the noise and a the pounding of hooves is evidence of a cattle stampede in a field nearby. After half and hour of this, the driveway is negotiated and the truck is parked, matter out of place, in front of "Ye Olde Station: The Perfect Hideaway".
I climb out of the cab and walk to the front door. It is nine pm and I am ravenously hungry. The prospect of a home cooked farmhouse meal is tantalising. Unfortunately, a lightning bolt awaits. With trembling hands I unstick the piece of paper taped to the oaken front door:
"Hello Mr Nickson. Your office said to expect you at eight. Waited half an hour, but as you are the only guest tonight, have gone home. Tried to reach you but no phone signal. Will return at ten thirty to see if you have arrived. If you are hungry there is a very good restaurant near Coleshill. Just follow the A56 south west. Its about ten miles, so only a fifteen minute drive. My home phone is 98763632."
I return to the cab, open my notebook and amend my notes. I cross out the numeral "26" from my most recent entry and write, and underline, in words, "ITEM NUMBER ONE".
Friday, 3 September 2010
Broken Britain: The Ride Of Hope.
Dateline: Ride minus ONE day
Location: Large Mansions, Kitchen/Bicycle Storage Area.
"Wow, Nel" I enthuse "Bob the Bike (from Bob's Bike's) is great. A full service in preparation for my ride only cost me $23.00. Bob's doing a similar Coast to Coast route on Saturday, so I think he's sympathetic to touring cyclists and gave me a great deal"
"That's nice" say RHB.
Dateline: Ride plus TWO days
Location: Mile 74 somewhere between Silloth and Carlisle on the deserted Cumbrian Coast.
"What I dont understand," says Skarra, helpfully, "What I really dont understand, is why you didnt get the bike serviced before we left".
I insist, again, that I did. And I detail my conversation with Bob the Bike, whereby I explained the route, duration, expected terrain, weather and approximate speed of our expedition. And that I needed a full service, pointing Bob to regions of concern - the brakes, wheel balance, gears and interactions thereof.
I then return my attention to my rear wheel which is boasting three loose spokes. When I have decided what to do about that, I can turn my attention to the front brake cable, and then the failing gears - other victim of Bob's discount maintenance. Skarra is a time-served boffin, and is therefore relentless in his pursuit of logic and hence cannot understand how it can be that I claim to have paid for a bike service, yet the bike gives every appearance of having had no treatment prior to our venture other than being assaulted with a large mallet. However, the breed Skarra typifies - psychologists - are a sensitive crew, trained in the ways of the mind. They know when a rider might need not to be doubted, but supported. So he offers sympathy:
"You know, this maintenance work you had done is so bad, it makes you wonder whether the whole bike is going to collapse under you on a steep downhill". He laughs sympathetically shaking his head "The luck you've had so far, it would probably happen right in front of an articulated lorry on a blind bend. Are you sure that your emergency brake repair is safe? Looks a bit ropey to me. Sheesh, that Bob!". With these comforting words he tuts and wanders off for an ice-cream.
Most of this conversation occurs somewhere along the Cumbrian coast. It is an amazing place, with an air about it of being lost in time. From the windy little village of Seascale, past the Sellafield nuclear power plant where armed police cradle machine guns(still an alarming sight in the UK), through the charming resort of Maryport up to Silloth, locals, whether in cafes or bars, garages or at emergency bike repair stops are friendly and interested. Even in Whitehaven, which only several months ago was subject to a mass murder, there is chat and advice. The pace of life seems slow, even to someone used to Hull's village-like atmosphere, and the advice (directions, weather, how to ride, what to go and see) is, like most village-borne advice, completely useless. We leave Cumbria with the sense that most of the people we speak to have never been anywhere else and dont see the need to do so. IN talking to us, they're just being friendly. It is the closest I've ever been to experiencing the unreality of Chatwin's Patagonia.
Dateline: Ride Day One
Location : Barrow in Furness Railway Station
"What I dont understand" says Skarra "What I really dont understand, is how we can have booked tickets for ourselves on this train, with seat reservations, and booked our bikes on the trains at the station, and have tickets for said reservations only to be told that those reservations are meaningless".
"Now, now " says the guard of the 14.36 Barrow to Ravenglass "The reservations arent meaningless, its just that there are too many people on the train. So you cant get on."
"You mean" I say "We cant get on with our bikes?"
"No" says the guard "You cant get on at all. Train's full"
I'm trying to make sense of what I'm being told. It feels vaguely familiar.
"Do all of those people" Skarra points at the single carriage train, which, at the moment resembles more a mobile sardine tin than a method of transport "Do all those people have reservations?"
"Probably not" says the guard, "But they were here before you. If you'd been here before them, we could have accepted your reservations. But we still could'nt have taken them bikes. Your best bet is to wait for the next train. You'd be first then, and the guard would probably accept your reservations. Still, that's no guarantee you could get those on" - he nods at the bikes as if they are back engineered alien technology, fresh out of Area 51.
Suddenly the engine driver appears, full of authority, and with the demeanor of someone who once knew someone who rode a bicycle and therefore can relate to wierdos, he announces he will try to get the bikes in his cab. The assembled crowd of Cumbrians (about fifty) give a small cheer and he grabs my bike and proceeds to attempt to ram it into his cabin, with the pointless optimism of someone who has never moved a piece of furniture in his life. He obviously has less chance of succeeding that the crowd of farmers and race-goers have of sobering up before Christmas but perseveres for several minutes. Then, with a few comments about "over-sized bikes", "just not made right" and (mysteriously) "its a train not a bus" he abandons his efforts and flings the bike back at me.
Dateline : Ride Day Three
Location : Somewhere in Northumbria, near Hadrian's Wall
We are on a deserted country road and have been riding for a few hours, and having argued ourselves to a standstill on the origins of agriculture, are discussing the current fad for sponsorship. It seems, we agree, that practically anyone who indulges themselves in vacations like the one we are having, feels the need to get t-shirts printed, whip up some press coverage and raise money for a 'worthy' cause as part of the process. The reality is that cycling coast to coast, snorkeling across the Irish Sea or playing poker non-stop are, like all human recreations, simply indulgences of the participants - but a wierd mass-guilt seems to have grown whereby people feel the need to justify such activities by getting "sponsored" to do them. It is unfathomable, but we feel we are missing something by not having a 'point' to our ride. So we decide to call it Broken Britain: The Ride of Hope and occupy sometime during the next few days speculating on how big the welcoming committee will be when we reach Newcastle, and discussing the good we are doing bringing hope to a blighted nation.
This however, doesnt really make us feel any worthier so attention is returned to the utterly selfish passtimes of measuring each climb, enjoying the silence, spotting birds in the hedgerows, and towards the end of each day, thinking about the meal ahead.
Dateline : Ride Day Five
Location : Downhill towards Newcastle
It takes about a day and a half to climb to the highest elevation on Hadrian's Wall by a circuitous route. And it takes about an hour and a half to descend to sea-level at breathtaking full speed. Descending on a bike looks easy, and up to a point it is - you just stop pedalling. But with some experience, you learn that there is an art to descending - techniques to employ, and lines to take that result in a faster ride. And it only gets really exciting when you are just at the limits of your ability to control the bike, but - and this is very important - are aware that you are at those limits. At that point - when it is just stupid to even attempt to apply the brakes - there are decisions to make. Such as whether to lean even steeper into the corners, whether to crouch down lower, whether to start thinking about what will happen if the chain flys loose and gets jammed in the gears. At some points in the descent, we went way past that point, and it really did become a ride of Hope.
Dateline: Final Day on the Road.
The ride through Newcastle is horrible. Horrible because its through an identikit urban landscape. And horrible because we have to keep getting off to cross intersections. But mostly horrible because Red Bull has happened to Newcastle. In addition to being a favourite drink of alcoholics and heroin addicts, Red Bull are responsible for making sports like cycling, skateboarding, and even running, a fashion accessory. I dont really care about other hobbies, but the impact on such a Grand Old Man as cycling is to be regretted, and in Newcastle, once a favourite, down to earth Northern town, Bullites are everywhere. Throughout the rest of our ride, the on-road camarderie has been as it ever was. Passing cyclists wave at eachother, or you chat for a few kilometres if going in the same direction. In Newcastle however, steely eyed, lycra-clad, square-jawed Bullites overtake too close relentlessly. Approaching riders in this seasons 'must have' cycling shoes pretend to mess with their gears as we pass, refusing eye contact. Frantic 'exciting' heavy rock music pous from headphones and these boys look as if they want to look like they mean business. Personally, I doubt if, inbetween watching the 'Dave' TV channel, and flying off to Bucharest to 'grab a quick break' they've ever had the time to ride more than the ten mile poser ride along this horrible river path. There's a whole sporting culture developed of unfit, ill-informed ignorami (the plural of ignoramus) who, in the future will be fat lazy forty year olds, still drinking Red Bull and watching 'Dave TV' but with state of the art bikes gathering dust in the garage along with their snowboards, wind-surfers, skateboards and weights benches. The stuff should be banned.
Dateline: Evening of return to Hull
Location: Neighbour's back garden
"Hi, where've you been all week?" asks a friendly neighbour.
We are celebrating someone's birthday, and while I would rather be in a hot bath applying lanolin to some aching limbs, there is also a chance to talk, a little, about our adventures.
"Oh, you know. Just riding coast to coast. HAdrian's Wall actually. About 200 miles. Pretty cool".
"Wow" says the neighbour " That sounds brilliant. What charity did you do that for?"
Location: Large Mansions, Kitchen/Bicycle Storage Area.
"Wow, Nel" I enthuse "Bob the Bike (from Bob's Bike's) is great. A full service in preparation for my ride only cost me $23.00. Bob's doing a similar Coast to Coast route on Saturday, so I think he's sympathetic to touring cyclists and gave me a great deal"
"That's nice" say RHB.
Dateline: Ride plus TWO days
Location: Mile 74 somewhere between Silloth and Carlisle on the deserted Cumbrian Coast.
"What I dont understand," says Skarra, helpfully, "What I really dont understand, is why you didnt get the bike serviced before we left".
I insist, again, that I did. And I detail my conversation with Bob the Bike, whereby I explained the route, duration, expected terrain, weather and approximate speed of our expedition. And that I needed a full service, pointing Bob to regions of concern - the brakes, wheel balance, gears and interactions thereof.
I then return my attention to my rear wheel which is boasting three loose spokes. When I have decided what to do about that, I can turn my attention to the front brake cable, and then the failing gears - other victim of Bob's discount maintenance. Skarra is a time-served boffin, and is therefore relentless in his pursuit of logic and hence cannot understand how it can be that I claim to have paid for a bike service, yet the bike gives every appearance of having had no treatment prior to our venture other than being assaulted with a large mallet. However, the breed Skarra typifies - psychologists - are a sensitive crew, trained in the ways of the mind. They know when a rider might need not to be doubted, but supported. So he offers sympathy:
"You know, this maintenance work you had done is so bad, it makes you wonder whether the whole bike is going to collapse under you on a steep downhill". He laughs sympathetically shaking his head "The luck you've had so far, it would probably happen right in front of an articulated lorry on a blind bend. Are you sure that your emergency brake repair is safe? Looks a bit ropey to me. Sheesh, that Bob!". With these comforting words he tuts and wanders off for an ice-cream.
Most of this conversation occurs somewhere along the Cumbrian coast. It is an amazing place, with an air about it of being lost in time. From the windy little village of Seascale, past the Sellafield nuclear power plant where armed police cradle machine guns(still an alarming sight in the UK), through the charming resort of Maryport up to Silloth, locals, whether in cafes or bars, garages or at emergency bike repair stops are friendly and interested. Even in Whitehaven, which only several months ago was subject to a mass murder, there is chat and advice. The pace of life seems slow, even to someone used to Hull's village-like atmosphere, and the advice (directions, weather, how to ride, what to go and see) is, like most village-borne advice, completely useless. We leave Cumbria with the sense that most of the people we speak to have never been anywhere else and dont see the need to do so. IN talking to us, they're just being friendly. It is the closest I've ever been to experiencing the unreality of Chatwin's Patagonia.
Dateline: Ride Day One
Location : Barrow in Furness Railway Station
"What I dont understand" says Skarra "What I really dont understand, is how we can have booked tickets for ourselves on this train, with seat reservations, and booked our bikes on the trains at the station, and have tickets for said reservations only to be told that those reservations are meaningless".
"Now, now " says the guard of the 14.36 Barrow to Ravenglass "The reservations arent meaningless, its just that there are too many people on the train. So you cant get on."
"You mean" I say "We cant get on with our bikes?"
"No" says the guard "You cant get on at all. Train's full"
I'm trying to make sense of what I'm being told. It feels vaguely familiar.
"Do all of those people" Skarra points at the single carriage train, which, at the moment resembles more a mobile sardine tin than a method of transport "Do all those people have reservations?"
"Probably not" says the guard, "But they were here before you. If you'd been here before them, we could have accepted your reservations. But we still could'nt have taken them bikes. Your best bet is to wait for the next train. You'd be first then, and the guard would probably accept your reservations. Still, that's no guarantee you could get those on" - he nods at the bikes as if they are back engineered alien technology, fresh out of Area 51.
Suddenly the engine driver appears, full of authority, and with the demeanor of someone who once knew someone who rode a bicycle and therefore can relate to wierdos, he announces he will try to get the bikes in his cab. The assembled crowd of Cumbrians (about fifty) give a small cheer and he grabs my bike and proceeds to attempt to ram it into his cabin, with the pointless optimism of someone who has never moved a piece of furniture in his life. He obviously has less chance of succeeding that the crowd of farmers and race-goers have of sobering up before Christmas but perseveres for several minutes. Then, with a few comments about "over-sized bikes", "just not made right" and (mysteriously) "its a train not a bus" he abandons his efforts and flings the bike back at me.
Dateline : Ride Day Three
Location : Somewhere in Northumbria, near Hadrian's Wall
We are on a deserted country road and have been riding for a few hours, and having argued ourselves to a standstill on the origins of agriculture, are discussing the current fad for sponsorship. It seems, we agree, that practically anyone who indulges themselves in vacations like the one we are having, feels the need to get t-shirts printed, whip up some press coverage and raise money for a 'worthy' cause as part of the process. The reality is that cycling coast to coast, snorkeling across the Irish Sea or playing poker non-stop are, like all human recreations, simply indulgences of the participants - but a wierd mass-guilt seems to have grown whereby people feel the need to justify such activities by getting "sponsored" to do them. It is unfathomable, but we feel we are missing something by not having a 'point' to our ride. So we decide to call it Broken Britain: The Ride of Hope and occupy sometime during the next few days speculating on how big the welcoming committee will be when we reach Newcastle, and discussing the good we are doing bringing hope to a blighted nation.
This however, doesnt really make us feel any worthier so attention is returned to the utterly selfish passtimes of measuring each climb, enjoying the silence, spotting birds in the hedgerows, and towards the end of each day, thinking about the meal ahead.
Dateline : Ride Day Five
Location : Downhill towards Newcastle
It takes about a day and a half to climb to the highest elevation on Hadrian's Wall by a circuitous route. And it takes about an hour and a half to descend to sea-level at breathtaking full speed. Descending on a bike looks easy, and up to a point it is - you just stop pedalling. But with some experience, you learn that there is an art to descending - techniques to employ, and lines to take that result in a faster ride. And it only gets really exciting when you are just at the limits of your ability to control the bike, but - and this is very important - are aware that you are at those limits. At that point - when it is just stupid to even attempt to apply the brakes - there are decisions to make. Such as whether to lean even steeper into the corners, whether to crouch down lower, whether to start thinking about what will happen if the chain flys loose and gets jammed in the gears. At some points in the descent, we went way past that point, and it really did become a ride of Hope.
Dateline: Final Day on the Road.
The ride through Newcastle is horrible. Horrible because its through an identikit urban landscape. And horrible because we have to keep getting off to cross intersections. But mostly horrible because Red Bull has happened to Newcastle. In addition to being a favourite drink of alcoholics and heroin addicts, Red Bull are responsible for making sports like cycling, skateboarding, and even running, a fashion accessory. I dont really care about other hobbies, but the impact on such a Grand Old Man as cycling is to be regretted, and in Newcastle, once a favourite, down to earth Northern town, Bullites are everywhere. Throughout the rest of our ride, the on-road camarderie has been as it ever was. Passing cyclists wave at eachother, or you chat for a few kilometres if going in the same direction. In Newcastle however, steely eyed, lycra-clad, square-jawed Bullites overtake too close relentlessly. Approaching riders in this seasons 'must have' cycling shoes pretend to mess with their gears as we pass, refusing eye contact. Frantic 'exciting' heavy rock music pous from headphones and these boys look as if they want to look like they mean business. Personally, I doubt if, inbetween watching the 'Dave' TV channel, and flying off to Bucharest to 'grab a quick break' they've ever had the time to ride more than the ten mile poser ride along this horrible river path. There's a whole sporting culture developed of unfit, ill-informed ignorami (the plural of ignoramus) who, in the future will be fat lazy forty year olds, still drinking Red Bull and watching 'Dave TV' but with state of the art bikes gathering dust in the garage along with their snowboards, wind-surfers, skateboards and weights benches. The stuff should be banned.
Dateline: Evening of return to Hull
Location: Neighbour's back garden
"Hi, where've you been all week?" asks a friendly neighbour.
We are celebrating someone's birthday, and while I would rather be in a hot bath applying lanolin to some aching limbs, there is also a chance to talk, a little, about our adventures.
"Oh, you know. Just riding coast to coast. HAdrian's Wall actually. About 200 miles. Pretty cool".
"Wow" says the neighbour " That sounds brilliant. What charity did you do that for?"
 |
| Hadrians Wall |
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