Inchy's Alpine Adventure: Day 3

We're woken at 7am by the bells of The Church of Saint Mary Madelaine of Morzine, as we have been every morning as it's directly opposite our hotel. Another tasty continental breakfast of croisants and fresh bread and we're off again for more of the same incredible trails and downhill runs. Amazingly Fat Albert has rejoined us, albeit armed with a bizarre surgical back support which cost him €70.
I get a front blowout half way down a fast singletrack which sends me straight over the bars and onto my arse, but it's a relatively painless off and I'm back on two wheels after a quick inner tube change.

Then around half past three, the rain starts, and by rain I mean RAIN! Within 30 seconds we're all as wet as if we'd jumped in a swimming pool. We adjourn back to the hotel where we bump into a bunch of guys from Barrow In Furness who've driven overnight to get here, arriving at eight o'clock and heading straight to the pub.
I get the feeling it's going to be a long night.

Inchy's Alpine Adventure: Day 2

77.3 kilometers, 7.5 hours and an unbelievably sore arse.
In other words, one of the best days of my life.
Today I've ridden my bike harder, faster and through some of the most beautiful countryside I've ever seen.

We only had one casualty today. Fat Albert lost it on a particularly nasty Black Grade downhill section. He went earth, sky, earth, sky, earth . . . with a thump.
Almost immediately, a young woman stopped to help, removing her helmet and letting her raven locks flow free. At this point the uttered the sexiest phrase I've heard a woman say in a long, long time:
"My friend is . . . ow you say, a medic?"

One man down.

Inchy's Alpine Adventure: Day 1

It was a surprisingly good flight to Geneva this morning, mostly because I was too busy worrying about my precious bike banging about in the hold of the plane to experience my normal in-flight jitters.

We're barely out of the terminal and already I'm impressed, Geneva is a beautiful city.
We arrive in the mountain town of Morzine, busy basking in 35 degree heat. There are bikes everywhere, mostly covered in thick mud and all a lot more heavy duty than ours. I suppose tomorrow will be interesting.

As I type this, we're having 'a few beers' and picking our trails for tomorrow.
The night is still young.

Toodle pip.

Inchy's Alpine Adventure: Prologue

35 kilograms.
Sounds quite heavy, doesn't it? And if you were told by Easyjet that 5 1/2 stones was your baggage allowance for a flight then you could stick the kitchen sink in and still have enough capacity to bring back a stuffed donkey and all the fake clothing you could possibly want.
However, if your essential holiday supplies includes a mountain bike, a helmet, body armour and assorted tools and spare parts, then 35kg seems like a distant target rather than a limit.
Nevertheless, at 8:20am tomorrow morning I shall be forcing myself onboard yet another dreaded airliner to make the short flight to Geneva and thence onwards to the Alpine sport mecca that is Morzine.

I have to admit, the thought of waking up and seeing The Alps from my bedroom window sounds amazing, and the thought of throwing myself and my bike down the side of said Alps also sounds amazing . . . ly dangerous, hence the "extreme sports" medical insurance that we've all had to take out which includes a "ten million pound repatriation fund", even though I only live in Scotland, not on the moon!

Don't worry, boring updates are sure to follow.

Would You Care To Dance?

The good old awkward moment, a social nightmare that we all deal with from time to time. For me, that time was first thing this morning.
My motorbike needed a new rear tyre, so off I trot to the tyre centre at the bottom of the road with the wheel in the back of the car.
The pimpled youth who is apparently the manager has the tyre ready for me, I'd ordered it beforehand, that's how slick I am. 'Danny', as his nametag tells me, suggests I wait in the appropriately named waiting room as it'll take 10 minutes to fit the tyre and that I should help myself "to coffee, 'n that, ma man". I secretly hope he becomes the victim of a violent crime.

As I park my rear in a seat in the waiting room, as far from the other customer as possible, the silence begins, only to be broken a few moments later:

"Inchy?"

I turn and look at the man who has dared to intrude on my waiting space.
He appears to be older, slightly heavier and with less hair than me, though that must be hard to believe. "That must be his Vectra getting two new tyres that I can see through the window" thinks I.

"Yes" I say.

"Aye, I thought that was you, how you doing, mate? I've not seen you since school. How you been?" says the intruder.

"School?" I think to myself "but you must be way older than me??"
I start to wrack my early morning brains trying to figure out who the hell this charlatan is.

"You don't remember me, do you?" asks Captain Mysterious.

"Erm . . . " is the best I can come up with.

"It's me, G_____ _____!" says The Captain *

"Oh aye, I didn't recognise you, mate. Still early!"

I say, neglecting to mention that the extra weight, bad goatee beard, shiny head and couture by Mat Alan didn't help my recognition skills either.

It's at this moment that I should point out that me and Captain Mysterious here absolutely detested each other throughout high school. He was in the school football team and I didn't like football, which clearly marked me out as a 'poofter', a fact that he took great pleasure in reminding me of whenever our paths would cross. How I laughed the day that he pissed in my bag during the PE class. All in all, he was a shite of a man.

"Oh so it is! Fuck's sake, it's been years!" I say, joining in with the social pantomime that is small talk"

"That your Vectra is it?"

I venture, and on and on we go, dancing around the elephant in the room that is the fact that we hate each other.
The minutes seem like hours and eventually Danny the manager breaks the magic by announcing that The Captain's Vectra is "good to go".
Captain Mysterious heaves his bulk out of the chair, clasps me firmly by the hand, and tells me that he hopes that it's not another 21 years before we bump into each other again and that if we do we should go for a pint.
I find myself bizarrely agreeing, even though I find quiet comfort in the fact that The Cap is on his second wife after the first one saw the light and buggered off with "a prick 2 doors down".

My faith in human nature is restored.


*Name withheld because he's a wanker.

Scenes From A Happier Time #2

When I was 5 there was no greater moment in my life than a Sunday afternoon, just after Farming Outlook finished, because that meant that the greatest tv show ever was about to start! (That's not saying much with only 5 years of tv viewing under your belt!)

Space: 1999, which according to wiki only ran for two amazing years, consumed my life.
I had a fleet of model 'Eagle' spacecraft with their interchangable crew compartments (still got one of them), I had a communicator device that Blue Peter showed you how to make out of toilet rolls and plankton and I even had a rare Airfix model of the Mark IX Hawk which made a fleeting visit to Moonbase Alpha once or twice.
This show had everything. Great special effects, cheesy acting, the entire cast of The Bill/Grange Hill/Bergerac, Martin Landau, yes, Martin Fucking Landau, and it had what can only be described as The Most Kick-Ass Theme Tune EVER!

I would have happily given up my Evel Knievel stunt bike, my Crossfire AND my Ricochet Racers to spend one day as Alan Carter, Eagle pilot.

Moonbase Alpha, we mourn your passing.

Nokia Sports Tracker Beta

Nokia Sports Tracker Beta

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Too Cool 4 Skool

I updated an entry on Wikipedia today.

I'm feeling very geeky.

Transformers: Revenge Of The CGI Designer

I'll say one thing for Michael Bay, he certainly knows how to put his stamp on a film. That stamp being a plot full of more holes than a Bulgarian dual carriageway, a penchant for uber-slow motion panning shots and more computer generated imagery than the Christmas issue of Vogue magazine.

This is backed up with a cast of varying talent levels, from Shia LaBeouf on one hand, attempting to play the paradoxically naive and fragile all-action superhero, to the great John Turturro who easily pulls the star spangled rug from under young Shia's feet.
Then there's Megan Fox, a woman SO sexy that I'm pretty sure that every single member of the cinema audience, male or female, would have gleefully clubbed a baby seal to death with their own severed leg if it guaranteed a visit to her 'lady garden'. She's outrageously, spectacularly, monumentally attractive and Michael Bay makes full use of her broad range of acting abilities, she can look happy AND sad.

He's a patriotic lad, Michael Bay. The human heroes of the movie are the good ole' fighting men and women of the US of A, but he clearly supports the 'special bond' that we Brits have with our Yankee cousins by including Matthew Marsden, he of Corrie fame, as a member of the rather vaguely titled United Kingdom Special Forces helping out the Yanks, not that they need it.

You might get the impression that I had a negative reaction to this film, but you couldn't be more wrong. As a means to kill two and a half hours it's great fun. The action is huge of scale and the CGI is simply incredible. The scene where Optimus Prime makes a valiant last stand against Starscream and Megatron is utterly realistic, and therein lies the key.
You simply have to suspend all reality with this film and enjoy it for what it is - fun.
It's not going to win a Best Picture Oscar, and is probably going to be remembered more for Miss Fox's outstanding cleavage, but it's just a film. Lighten up!

Autobots, transform and rollout!

8/10

Run Fat Boy, Run!

See the bloke on the left?
That's how I imagine I look when I go for a run.

See the bloke below?
That's probably what other people see when I go for a run.

I've recently arrived at a point in my life where my own level of fitness has become an issue for me, both in a personal and potentially professional capacity, so, like many men my age, I've pulled on the trainers and started running again.
When I was a kid I ran everywhere, but I was a sprinter never a distance man, and came second at nearly every school sports day 60 metre event (Damn you Scott Patterson!), but then 'life' came along and brought beer, kebabs and Sky TV with it!

Now I don't want you to think that I need Jerry Springer and the Falkirk Fire Brigade to cut me out my house or anything like that, but I could happily lose half a stone or so and make myself feel better at the same time, all of which would help me on my beloved mountain bike.
Win/win situation then.

Well it would be if the park at the end of my road wasn't full of people doing the same thing, most of whom DO look like the couple in the top pic, sprinting around with their skin tight clothing, healthy patina of sweat and iPod nano strapped to their arm.
I, on the other hand, resemble Willem Dafoe emerging from the jungle in the scene from 'Platoon' where he takes a bullet, my face fixed in a visage of discomforture.

There's something to be said for just letting yourself go.