The truth is out there

As many of you will know, Weston's Grand Pier burned down a couple of years ago and the cause of the fire had local people gossiping. Well Carol and Rich found footage of what caused it to happen.

You saw it here first folks. 

Death Trap Mk III The Movie

Well, you could say that it works, the grin factor alone is worth all of the confused looks I get while riding the thing. So here she is in all of her splendor. Death Trap Mk III.

I owe a huge debt of thanks to the man who welded the frame, Biker Rock Radio's Mr G. Nothing has snapped yet despite crashing it up curbs and through potholes. So if he can weld up something that I can't break, you know that he is good.

If you like the music, then check out the bands who provided it. Both pieces of music just fitted so well with the project.

The first song I believe in Anarchy is by a very good Punk Band called the Tantrums, who we are lucky enough to know a couple of the guys from. You have to love the anarchic spirit of the music, just as you have to love the anarchic way we built this mad machine.

The second piece of music, Fools is by multi-instrumentalist Chris Walker and believe it or not he plays every instrument you hear in the piece. Not only that but he writes the music too. They guy is seriously talented.

The Tantrums

Chris Walker 

WTF! Two wheels, pedals and a sun lounger!

There is a time when art and engineering combine into making a beautiful machine and then there are times when humour and engineering combine to make something that just forces the artists to laugh!

Firstly before we get into this story there are a couple of people I need to mention. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Biker Rock Radio DJ and fabulous Welder, Mr G. It was Mr G who has spent several hours of his time making this ludicrous machine for me. I also owe a debt of thanks to our friend Wayne who made the frame for Death Trap Mark One, a frame that sadly caused me to crash on the first ride!

So ladies and gentlemen, I now present Death Trap Mark Three!

It lives, my creation lives!

It even goes up hill!

The science behind this is simple; a recumbent bicycle is a very efficient way of propelling a human being around under their own power. They are more aerodynamic than a conventional bike and when covered with a full fairing can speed along at some very impressive speeds for a pedal powered machine. However you wont see that many of them in the mainstream for two reasons. Firstly learning how to ride one of these takes some doing and secondly, the officials who run cycle racing banned them from competitive use!

This machine is my attempt to get back into cycling because following some pretty heavy duty medical treatment, I am no longer able to ride my precious mountain bike as much as I would like. Because of this lack of cycling I have been stuck on motorbikes (which I love) or being a pedestrian (which I really do not enjoy).

We still have a couple of small issue to sort out, the front wheel has a speed wobble that makes the whole bike feel terribly unstable on sweeping corners and my cheap trainers slip off the pedals really badly. However, riding it is a riot and had me in fits of giggles. 

Going down hill!

Gareth the builder having a go.

Getting started is the hardest bit.

Death Trap Mark Three is on the road folks, so look out for us!

A list of thanks to the people who have helped by providing old bikes that I can chop up for spares.

Gareth the Welder.

Wayne the Motorcycle engineer.

Alex for giving me his push bike.

Pete at Bicycle Chain.

Steve and Sue at Bridge Motor Works.

Various People who have donated bikes.

Carol for ferrying me about to pick up bits and for bringing the bike home on top of her car.

"This is easy!" Two seconds before she fell off.

If anyone would like any welding work doing, Gareth is available and can weld almost anything. Do get in touch and I can pass his details on.

Good bye my friend

Today was the funeral of one of our friends, Heather. She was the sort of person who always had a kind word for every one she spoke to, she was gentle, kind and supportive and when we found out that she had passed away, it felt like a bright star had gone dark. She leaves behind five beautiful children and a partner all of whom must feel bereft.

It is hard to be happy at the loss of someone so lovely, but today her family and her friends including us celebrated her life as she would have wanted. Despite the joy that was spoken of her, the truth is that all of us present would have wanted to still have her there with us. 

There are no words that can stop the hurt that those who loved her must feel. We at Curious Adventures will miss you Heather, New Year at Scallys wont feel the same when you are not there.

Heather and Brains

I would guess you are now on the most curious adventure of them all now. Rest in peace dear Heather and our condolences go out to the family and friends of this kind and gentle woman.

Spring is coming and new life is breaking through the cold

Thank you for my friends

When I heard that one of my very closest friends had been involved in a car accident, my first thought was to her well being and hoping that she had not been hurt. Remembering back to when another dear friend of Curious Adventures had a nasty bike crash some time ago, my fears for dear Jan were somewhat serious. Fortunately Jan climbed from her ruined car almost unscathed, a miracle for which we are thankful.

So once she was home safe and wine had been drunk, we planned on how to retrieve the bits that she had been forced to leave in the knackered car. So last Monday I got my bike out of the garage and picked up Jan from her flat and we set out for the dealership that was assessing Jan’s car. After an hour we admitted defeat and stopped, pulling over into a safe place where Jan phoned the dealer. After a quick chat we rode home. The dealership had relocated from Weston Super Mare to Bristol. The rain had soaked us both.

On Tuesday I had a day with another dear friend which involved tasting Japanese fast food as a celebration of his Birthday. The evening passed joyously and upon my return home I pondered a trip to Bristol the following morning with Jan. I borrowed Carol’s Sat Nav unit and picked up Jan once again. This time we set out for Bristol, heading down the A370 towards the motorway. As we exited the roundabout and swooped into the sixty miles per hour speed limit I accelerated my precious Sylvie and we tore down the road towards the next roundabout, as our speed dropped we entered our lane and I brought the bike to a halt at the roundabout and waited for a safe moment to pull out. As we pulled away and curved into the corner the back tyre gave way and went completely flat. I managed to stop the bike safely and Jan and I were forced to push the bike to the safety of the side of the road.

Once parked safely in the supermarket car park, I phoned our friends Steve and Sue of Bridge Motor Works and requested a pick up and repair. Despite being swamped with work, Steve collected us in his fantastic works truck and loaded Sylvie into the back of the truck. She was carefully strapped down and Jan and I climbed into cab of Steve’s truck. We then unloaded from the truck once we had got back to Steve and Sue’s workshop. Sylvie was sat on a paddock stand and her back wheel removed, the hole was located and worryingly it was almost too large to repair. However we were lucky and Steve was able to patch us up. By the time we were ready to go again it had got too late and so we retired for the evening.

Jackie the dog, Sue & Steve our rescuers.

Thursday dawned bright and dry, so Jan and I decided to set out once again. The injury to my shoulder was now horribly painful due to the amount of exercise I had undertaken trying to ride my bike, so we decided to take Jan’s van. The engine purred into life and we prepared to go. I stepped out into the street and waved to Jan to back the van out. The gear box screamed and growled as she tried to get it into gear. The van resolutely refused to move, the clutch was completely unable to disengage the drive from the gear box making it impossible to change or even engage a gear. Defeated once again, we phoned Steve and Sue and arranged for the van to be picked up and repaired. This was after I spent two hours trying to adjust the clutch cable which was at the limit of its adjustment. That evening we retired to Scallys and played cards.

They are good Folks at Bridge Motors.

Friday dawned once again bright and sunny, a perfect spring morning and I was just about able to climb out of bed and climb into my bike gear. Jan was ready bright and early and finally we had run out of time, after Friday the car would be taken away and crushed. So once again we pulled Sylvie out of the garage, loaded up the tank bag and set off from Bristol. The pain in my arm, hand, shoulder and neck was horrible before we even passed the point of our puncture.

We passed over the motorway and descended onto the A370 to Congresbury, we had a lovely ride on quiet roads and I managed to keep just below the speed limit. Finally we hit the limits of Bristol and once again I pulled over to a quick rest and to switch on Carol’s Sat Nav. Once the Sat Nav was on, we promptly got lost and went in completely the wrong direction. After a hundred meters of travel, the small screen suddenly flipped as it worked out which direction we were moving in and by then it was too late to turn around, we were committed to a road of heavy traffic.

We stopped for another rest a short while later after nearly running a red light. The light had changed to amber as we approached and I had pulled on the brakes but with our momentum I had to pull a little harder, this made the bike dip her nose down and Jan slid forwards on her seat a little. As she slid forwards, she slid into me and I was pushed into the fuel tank, however we were still moving forward and I had to brake a little harder, which in turn caused Jan to slide a little harder into me! We stopped at the lights in fits of giggles and Jan readjusted her seating position!

Our break was in a lay by behind a resting coach, we spent a couple of minutes chatting as I rested my arm and shoulder before we remounted and set off once again. From there it was a few more minutes before we were pulling up outside the dealership. We parked up and wandered inside before being directed back outside and into the car park. Sat in the far corner was Jan’s Mazda, looking almost fine, yet as we drew closer I started to see the damage and was suddenly shocked and grateful for the safety of my friend.

One crunched car

The car was crooked, shorter on one side that it was on the other. The drivers door was staved in and firmly jammed closed. The drivers seat was stuck fast and would not move back or forward no matter how hard we pushed it. The rear door would not close due to the bent chassis and the drivers window would not fit in the door frame anymore. How Jan managed to avoid being hurt I just do not know and when she showed me how she had to crawl from the front to the rear of the car to exit though the left hand rear passenger door.

Jan and her protector

We cleaned out the car of the various things that gather in a car when it is used every day, empty bottles, a few biscuits and a duvet cover! We also found the few things that we needed like the CDs and the little mascots that we decorate our cars with. It was an emotional moment and then we climbed back onto Sylvie and headed our way back home.

In the day to day running of our lives do we ever think about those we hold dear to us? When I heard that one of my most beloved friends was in an accident, my response was of worry and fear. Seeing the car confirmed that I had been right to worry. On the way home I was thankful for the safety of my friend and when I needed a rest so we popped into see Wayne, another person I am thankful for.  

Be safe out there folks, the roads that we love can be a dangerous playground.

Bath or Bust (buggered bits permitted)

I am sure that you know this truth for yourselves, there is a point in your life when you have the glorious summer, it is a time in your life that can never be repeated or bettered in terms of the things that you do to excess. 

The summer of 1996 was the summer that would really be the end of my childhood, despite my actually being in my twenties. I had spent the summer holiday pursuing my glorious hobbies of climbing and mountain biking, while also getting to know a group of friends who were about to become so precious to me that even now, I will never ever forget them. By the end of the summer of 1997, my degree had come to an end and I was forced (sulking and swearing) into the adult world and a very poor show I made of it too.

As I sit here at the end of 2012, it feels like a very long time has passed since that glorious summer of 1996 and the spring of 1997. Yet when a link to 1997 suddenly reopened, I could not let it pass by unremarked or unvisited. Looking back at who I was then, I cannot help but feel that I was so terribly young, so blatantly naïve and still so innocent of life. I am not in any way saddened by this, although at a push I may admit that I miss the carefree nature of it all, but where I am now is a life of greater experience and with so much less sadness. So where is this rambling introduction to a curious adventure leading you may well ask?

Ahh, the memories of warm dry days.

From out of no where came the messenger on winged feet who stated boldly that HE was back, my dear old friend, my climbing companion, my tandem stoker and my teacher. The emblematic Dr Livingstone as it were, the man who vanished, the man who taught me about my inner strength and my having the courage to do the things that scared me and not just the dangerous sports. So the chance to meet up with a most dear friend could not simply be missed and Carol and I made our way to see him and enjoy a moment of his delicate company, his witty word play and his compelling stories of daring. After an evening of reminiscing over the old times shared and talk of new and curious adventures undertaken since, we ended our evening and wished each other well and more new exciting adventures to come. As we parted again, I never expected to see my friend again and I truly was somewhat saddened.

A short while later, I was informed that Mr Mysterious was once again in the beautiful hell that is Bath and that he would love to meet us for a coffee and a natter. To do so would mean a trip to Bath via motorcycle though given that Carol was at work during the week and could not take the time from her day to drive me there. So my friend and I agreed on a time to meet on that Thursday morning. Before leaving my warm and comfortable home I swallowed enough pain killers to keep my shoulder suitably mellow, I slowly and rather painfully donned my bike leathers and the water proof outers and then got my precious Sylvie out of the garage. Being the powerful warrior woman that I am, I was going to see my friend no matter what and if things got too nasty, I had my TENS machine in my handbag!

Sadly, Thursday morning dawned with rain, the persistent heavy rain and dark clouds of winter, but at least it was warm. Freezing rain is not great for riding motorcycles whether you are broken or not. So with a full tank of fuel and my engine purring I made my way through the rain on worryingly slippery roads and from deep with in came the sort of smile that only an adventurer can understand. Riding in the rain is not horrible if you are warm. Warm and dry is preferable, but warm and wet will do. Cold and wet though is dangerous and at speed on a bike, the cold wind can quickly suck the heat from your body. I though had the pleasure of not only riding through the rain while staying not only warm and dry, but also of being comfortable and almost pain free.

My first stop was just passed Churchill when I had to pull over for a short rest for a few minutes, fighting the bike along the soaked busy town roads that had the rainbow of spilled diesel across them had made my shoulder ache rather unpleasantly and taking five minutes out helped to ease that pain. What I did not know though was that from Churchill, the roads were about to become somewhat more epic and I can say now that with hindsight, it was an adventure that I will treasure for many years to come.

The road from Churchill to Bath goes through the Mendips and is surrounded by some of the most beautiful scenery that Somerset has to offer, the cloud clung to the hill sides like avenging wraiths, smoky claws dropping down into the gullies. The fields ran with sediment heavy, wood stain brown water, looking more like a winter marsh than the baked grazing land that they had been in 1997. My speed was steady, I was not blasting along, but I was making steadfast progress in a manner that the conditions safely allowed. The tyres on my bike held a constant firm grip on the road no matter what the rising waters could leave behind as their evidential detritus trail of naughtiness. So if you want to try a truly fantastic tyre for all conditions, give some thought to ContiMotions by Continental, they really are very, very impressive.

I passed the turning for Burrington Combe and the road conditions grew even more treacherous, the metal drain covers at the side of the road puked forth thick dark water rather than swallowing it down and a steady river of water was starting to flow down the side of the road. My concentration was held fast as I slipped into that state that experience climbers know well, a stillness of the soul and the absolute awareness of what you are doing. I have only felt this feeling when I have been involved in either complex technical climbing or when painting delicate works of art. For me, the rest of the world vanishes and all that matters is the task being undertaken, it is like a level of deep thought, a place where the brain is so at peace with what is being done that it ignores everything that is not relevant at that moment. It is the complete submersion into the moment and I love that feeling because at that moment, I am not a rider on a motorcycle. I am instead the machine. The engine is my heart and its pulse is my pulse.

The roads conditions continued to deteriorate when a steady trickle of gravel began running down the middle of each lane being carried by the water from the hills above. The streams at the side of the road had become torrents and ahead of me approaching at speed was a large delivery lorry. I saw the wall of water rise up as the truck rushed through the flood with an urgency known only to delivery drivers on a deadline. The water was a foot deep and I approached this ford across the road with trepidation, my speed reduced to a level that I felt comfortable with and yet not so slow that I would stall if the water proved too deep for my nerves. The steam from the sudden emersion of my exhaust pipe and the resultant hiss were most gratifying, but what was more pleasing was the realisation that I was no longer afraid of riding in floods. In 2008, I crashed a training bike while traversing such a flood and have never forgotten the feeling of fear as the bike failed to follow my lead and instead careered almost unguided into the back of my instructor’s bike.

My next flood was even deeper and it covered both sides of the road for some distance, the grin on my face was suddenly and viciously wiped off though when a large van sped through from the other way and the wall of water hit me in the chest with the force of a punch. The impact on my helmet threw my head back and yet my Sylvie just carried on unflinching of such dangers. The road could have held nothing but dry tarmac for her, given the relaxed feeling she gave at the handle bars. My precious Suzuki SV650 just continues to inspire and impress me and for all of her subtle quirks she is a truly magnificent machine.

From that point the road developed into a series of sweeping S bends so deluged that I pondered the need for a jet ski. Yet with every rain soaked and water washed curve, the absolute involvement with the activity grew within me and left me hungry for the next perilous curve until once again I was the morph of woman and machine. My tempered, swift and even relentless little bike swept through every corner as if she were a train on rails, through the floods and muddy puddles that occasionally came up to her engine cases and which would erupt a cloud of violently hissing steam as it ran over the hot exhaust pipe. Finally and with a little sadness that my journey was over, I passed through the village of Corston and then past the entrance to my former place of study, Bath Spa University. From there is was a quick blast down the duel carriage way, a trip I remember doing on a bike once before with another dear friend. I was a pillion upon his recently rebuilt CB750 and what a fine machine it had been.

Sylvie simply and capably danced along the miles, the biggest limitation to her that day had as always been me, crippled as I was by shoulder and other forms of pain. Given how well she handled the bad weather and even how well she handled the snow only a couple of years ago, I would happily say that she is one of the finest road bikes out there, her light weight and impeccable road manners make her a constant joy to live with and yet at a moments notice there comes forth the sharp little demon horns and she lets out the hooligan from with in that furious little heart of an engine. My SV650 is more than just a plain commuter bike, she has soul and passion under that insectile fairing and I can honestly say that I love my bike.

As for Mr Mysterious, well that is a story for another day.

Back in the days before they invented colour.

You Madam, are clearly an Arse Hole

Yesterday afternoon,  I popped into the local sorting office of the Post Office to collect a packet that they needed me to sign for, but could not get when they delivered due to me being out. This is a common enough task I am sure and many of you will have also undertaken such a task.

Yet, while I stood waiting in the queue that stretched not only across the room, but into the next room and then through the front door outside into the cold, I noticed a sign on the wall. I am sure that you are no doubt well aware of the tedium that is a long queue and rather than strike up a conversation with someone who could potentially be a maniac, I chose to read  that sign. It was a a piece of laminated A4 paper and was typed in Bold large print and read as follows. 

Verbal abuse of Post Office workers will not be tolerated. Any such abuse will cause the counter to be closed and the Police to be called. 

It all seemed a little harsh, after all how many of us grew up loving Postman Pat? Are people really that bad tempered, rude and obnoxious that they can shout abuse at lovable Pat and his black and white cat Jess? 

When I am waiting in a queue I have noticed that time becomes strangely relative. Maybe you have noticed this too. While waiting in line to be served by what ever counter you are waiting for, keep an eye on your watch and see if time slows down for you too? It is an unusual effect of queuing and I am sure that Einstein also noted this. Outside, life continues at normal speed, but inside, time slows down and then when you step outside, it all jumps on you with a sudden leap forcing you to catch up with a jolt! 

When I finally got to the front of the very long continent crossing queue, I came face to face with the woman behind the counter, let's out of congenial politeness call her Postwoman Patricia, although she really did not have a cat, black and white or otherwise with her. It was however right at that very moment that I suddenly understood the need for the big bold  print sign. 

It seems that the Post Office are now employing people who have no understanding of basic manners or customer service. I was spoken to with such venom and bile that I was utterly taken aback and started to laugh. Which caused others in the continent spanning queue behind me start to laugh too. I remained polite through out our brief relationship of service user meeting service provider and not once was I given even the vaguest of half smiles or the slightest nod of fake good will. I am forced to ask what could have possibly caused such an attitude from some one who no doubt has a home and a family and maybe even a black and white cat? 

Was it perhaps the excessively long hours she was forced to work by an uncaring system of Governance, simply to be able to provide sustenance for her family? Maybe it was an uncaring management system that forces her to be placed in a position where she must spend all day indoors in a building that slows down time? Or just maybe, after a long hard shift of dealing with other human beings, she was simply tired and grumpy? I seriously hoped that by giving her the opportunity to be rude to me, she could go home and relax, probably by cuddling her precious cat, black and white or otherwise. 

So that was the post office, but what else do we deal with on a almost daily basis? Have you ever met a Chugger? Do you know what a Chugger is? Well, a Chugger, my dear reader, is a person employed by an agency for an hourly wage to stand on a busy high street and charity mug shoppers, no matter who they are. These are the people who charities hire at vast sums of cash to stand there in town, with their fake smiles of joy and then tell you what a terrible time what ever Polar Bear, Political Prisoner, Starving Child or Patch of Rain Forest is having right at that very second. In fact that very second that you are wandering about enjoying the richness of your own fat contented lives. They tell you this while they stand there, noble and brave, unafraid of the elements, the hunters, the torturers, the warlords and the loggers and try to make you part with your top secret bank details, so you can pay their charity some of your hard earned cash.

Now remember, there are some things that you really need to consider when dealing with Chuggers. Namely, how much of your charitable donation is going to fund Chuggers likes them? How much of your charitable donation is being paid out into a large salary to the Chairman of the board of the company that runs the Chuggers? Also bare in mind that some of these Chuggers will be on commission,  the more suckers they get to sign up to their very worthy causes, the more cash they can earn, so that they too can give it all to charity! Of course they give all of their wages to charity, because after all, they can survive on the warm glow of just smug self righteousness.  These people will also tend to step right into path and try to engage you in conversation. How do I know this you may ask? Because in this last week I have encountered these people and it left me feeling rather annoyed, both with my self and with them. 

My reason for feeling cross with myself is because I broke the golden rule of dealing with Chuggers, I acknowledged their existence. They work in packs you know, I managed to slip past the first and then was almost tripped up by the second, causing me to have to stop in my tracks. Yet it was the third who got me. As I tried to walk around him, he walked into my path and just kept coming. Now as much as I hate being rude, I could take no more after a day of bad news and worse officials. So as he closed in me I told him to Fuck off! This is not like me, I am a member of several charities and pay directly from my bank, having researched my chosen charity and then found them myself. 

The young man did not stop smiling as he continued to close in on me, but he did inform me quietly and while still smiling that big fake smile that I was in fact, an arsehole! Now, as much as this may be true and yes I can admit it, I did not need such a man dealing with my emotions on a day when I am barely able to deal with them myself. One swift word later and the man with the fake smile was silently think that I was an arsehole, but at least he then had the good grace to keep it to himself. However, the town council are aware of Chuggers and they know that they can be trouble. I know this because I phoned them up once I got home and made some inquiries. Chuggers it seems are able to work our streets by the good grace of our councils and they have conditions placed upon them.

So I have some advice for you if you encounter Chuggers who are annoying, make a complaint, talk to your local officials and get these annoying people off of our streets. Then because you are caring and do want to give to charity, go and research one. For me, I chose a couple of human rights charities that works world wide, a local wild life charity and another one that has meaning to me. It is not that hard to find a group that represents your beliefs and you know what? If you do this, you really do not need chuggers. 

As for the Post Office, maybe they do get people in there who are so rude and violently aggressive that it justifies the bold print sign, but does that really justify them being rude to all of their customers?