Lovely weather, psycho bikers, muppets & twisties!
Discussion
Sunday gone, 8.30 AM, pig rolled out, Zymol HD cleanse, applicator pad and microwipe in hand, kneeling mat at the ready.
One panel only though, or so went the plan and then a nice pre-dawdler session at mach 2; I'll just shine up the boot, methinks...but alas, by around 2PM, the whole blackness was looking reasonably pukka, if not quite the crowning glory at Palm Beach (too many stone chips for such la-de-da-ism, if you don't mind) and it was time for an irresistable tootle.
Sunroof open, windows down, and The Rolling Stones inviting me to paint it black (presumably a reference to rubber on tarmac).
But within minutes of leaving DeR Central, it was clear the massed ranks of tossology were having none of it.
Not to worry, with all the portals open, it was enough to pootle and enjoy the combined cacophony of the Jagger 'massiv' featuring Ya-Kid-Ferdinand providing the bassline, all suffused with the soft scents of an uncommonly clement day, as I subconsciously referred to the EVO lesson I had read the night before, re. waiting patiently for passive overtaking opportunities.
And soon enough, one did arise; the box was stirred, the juices sufficiently fluid and warm; down went the hammer, up went the decibel count, as the locale's most hatefully surfaced B-roads threw all their evil, negative pot-holed camberism at the hard pressed Bilsteins. It was enough for me to cancel a beat or three in the coronary department as the tiny Techart twicthed it's protest but thanks to my blind faith in over engineered chassis control, things quickly resettled back into a less frenetic groove.
I was able to enjoy a thoroughly legal progress then, for a good mile or two; revelling in the sheer challenge of driving something with it's engine in such a fundamentally questionable place but really feeling the nuances of the physics involved: such an intimate, loving experience for any with the merest whiff of Castrol in the area of the pituitary gland. Other cars no doubt deliver variations on this theme and I love the notion of a TVR, Noble or Ferrari serving up different thrills in similar circs but there and then, I was happy to be in this one of the other icons. Not a state of poseur's smugness, just pure, unadulterated bliss.
But then I hit the convoy of infinite dribble.
35-40 mph in the most blatant 60. If I had been Madcop, I would have pulled over several of the caravanista and summarily exectuted them, Kosovo style, at the roadside, as a warning for other such motoring retards.
There were overtaking opportunities for sure but only if your vehicle displayed the GSi insignia along it's flanks. This was frustration of the very worst variety. Doing half the speed limit with 500 bhp aching to have a jog is not what my stressmeisterologist had recommended for that afternoon's therapy.
Eventually, we joined the main drag where overtaking was inevitably just a few seconds away.
However, I had not factored in the increasingly common, multiple-psycho biker effect. Now normally, I'm a great fan of bikers; fellow 'makers of progress' but thoughtful all the while. Well, not today, sunny Jim, oh no. EVERY Goddam opportunity was being blocked, either by a phalanx of Foggarty progenics firing massively too wide on the approaching carriageway or the Bazza Sheen (RIP) Squad, trying to emulate their hero's current state of being up my frickin' chuff, aggressively penning me in, to suffer the wake of the trilby death party.
The sheer arrogance and indeed recklessness of these two wheeled mentallists was in total contrast to my normal experiences so please don't think I'm your usual anti-bike git: frankly, I love 'em. But what IS starting to p1ss me orf is the way many of 'em feel compelled to travel in large fecking groups.
You're blocking the overtaking routes you selfish barstewards!
So back to the EVO guide: if the traffic's just too bad, so it recommends, abandon that particular route. So I did and proceeded along a much slower, still frustratingly busy, C-road. And what's the first thing that's in the way? Not Mrs.Bouquet in the 1986 Accord 1.4 but Fat boy Zane on his bloody hog, bolt upright with p1ss pot helmet and hard lovin' gross chick riding-a pillion. All low speed, bellicose twin piped wideness and seemingly oblivious to the pent up black blob harrying him astern.
Several aeons later and out of sheer exasperation, having indicated and holding sway long enough for him to clock me in the mirrors (you know, the shiny reflective thing protruding from the binnacle?) and it was cog-drop-boot and past. I'm sure there was a moment of rightward shimmy, enough to alarm one or two badgers a la Domster but at least I was past.
Through a small local village and then two or three miles of frankly unused, reasonably smooth, MIRA-esque serpentine twisting. This, by contrast, was a pure micro slice of Route Napoleonic joy. Again, largely within the speed limits here, enjoying the simple mechanics of the driving process; low speed hairpins with slow enough entry so that even if things broke, just a little bit, even an ordinary Joe comme moi felt recovery might not be too overwhelming a prospect. The whole 'oneness' of the car felt stupendous and being able to string a few sequences together along what passed for my idea of a racing line, with perfect hazard visibility all the while, was truly the stuff of dreamy test drive imagination.
All too soon, though and paradise was lost but unlike Milton's post conjectural repose, I was still faced with the small matter of dispatching the area's only low density m-way and my God, how I hit the 3 lanes running; brain replaying previous forays on the continent and my lust for some extreme helter-schnellter restrained only by the faintest protestations of my licence, hard-wired to the brain cells loosely identified during lobotomised procedures as 'common sense.'
Even there, unfortunately, the motoring canon fodder would have been better placed hacking away at the seam than cluttering the highways and byways of what by rights, I arrogantly hereby suggest should be the preserve of Luftwaffian poundage. I say this purely as a result of the seemingly newfound caveat within The Highway Code (Numpty Editon) which appears to render that old triumvirate of mirror, signal & manoeuvre as an entirely unnecessary sequence of impact prevention.
Hey-ho.
Anyway, the upshot is this, I fear. Trackdays - even I'm resigned to the reality that in practice - they may be the only way.
See you at Silverstone in July, eh Don? (You can show me how it's done; I'm sure I'll be quite hopeless.)
Chin, chin from the northern wastelands.
One panel only though, or so went the plan and then a nice pre-dawdler session at mach 2; I'll just shine up the boot, methinks...but alas, by around 2PM, the whole blackness was looking reasonably pukka, if not quite the crowning glory at Palm Beach (too many stone chips for such la-de-da-ism, if you don't mind) and it was time for an irresistable tootle.
Sunroof open, windows down, and The Rolling Stones inviting me to paint it black (presumably a reference to rubber on tarmac).
But within minutes of leaving DeR Central, it was clear the massed ranks of tossology were having none of it.
Not to worry, with all the portals open, it was enough to pootle and enjoy the combined cacophony of the Jagger 'massiv' featuring Ya-Kid-Ferdinand providing the bassline, all suffused with the soft scents of an uncommonly clement day, as I subconsciously referred to the EVO lesson I had read the night before, re. waiting patiently for passive overtaking opportunities.
And soon enough, one did arise; the box was stirred, the juices sufficiently fluid and warm; down went the hammer, up went the decibel count, as the locale's most hatefully surfaced B-roads threw all their evil, negative pot-holed camberism at the hard pressed Bilsteins. It was enough for me to cancel a beat or three in the coronary department as the tiny Techart twicthed it's protest but thanks to my blind faith in over engineered chassis control, things quickly resettled back into a less frenetic groove.
I was able to enjoy a thoroughly legal progress then, for a good mile or two; revelling in the sheer challenge of driving something with it's engine in such a fundamentally questionable place but really feeling the nuances of the physics involved: such an intimate, loving experience for any with the merest whiff of Castrol in the area of the pituitary gland. Other cars no doubt deliver variations on this theme and I love the notion of a TVR, Noble or Ferrari serving up different thrills in similar circs but there and then, I was happy to be in this one of the other icons. Not a state of poseur's smugness, just pure, unadulterated bliss.
But then I hit the convoy of infinite dribble.
35-40 mph in the most blatant 60. If I had been Madcop, I would have pulled over several of the caravanista and summarily exectuted them, Kosovo style, at the roadside, as a warning for other such motoring retards.
There were overtaking opportunities for sure but only if your vehicle displayed the GSi insignia along it's flanks. This was frustration of the very worst variety. Doing half the speed limit with 500 bhp aching to have a jog is not what my stressmeisterologist had recommended for that afternoon's therapy.
Eventually, we joined the main drag where overtaking was inevitably just a few seconds away.
However, I had not factored in the increasingly common, multiple-psycho biker effect. Now normally, I'm a great fan of bikers; fellow 'makers of progress' but thoughtful all the while. Well, not today, sunny Jim, oh no. EVERY Goddam opportunity was being blocked, either by a phalanx of Foggarty progenics firing massively too wide on the approaching carriageway or the Bazza Sheen (RIP) Squad, trying to emulate their hero's current state of being up my frickin' chuff, aggressively penning me in, to suffer the wake of the trilby death party.
The sheer arrogance and indeed recklessness of these two wheeled mentallists was in total contrast to my normal experiences so please don't think I'm your usual anti-bike git: frankly, I love 'em. But what IS starting to p1ss me orf is the way many of 'em feel compelled to travel in large fecking groups.
You're blocking the overtaking routes you selfish barstewards! So back to the EVO guide: if the traffic's just too bad, so it recommends, abandon that particular route. So I did and proceeded along a much slower, still frustratingly busy, C-road. And what's the first thing that's in the way? Not Mrs.Bouquet in the 1986 Accord 1.4 but Fat boy Zane on his bloody hog, bolt upright with p1ss pot helmet and hard lovin' gross chick riding-a pillion. All low speed, bellicose twin piped wideness and seemingly oblivious to the pent up black blob harrying him astern.
Several aeons later and out of sheer exasperation, having indicated and holding sway long enough for him to clock me in the mirrors (you know, the shiny reflective thing protruding from the binnacle?) and it was cog-drop-boot and past. I'm sure there was a moment of rightward shimmy, enough to alarm one or two badgers a la Domster but at least I was past.
Through a small local village and then two or three miles of frankly unused, reasonably smooth, MIRA-esque serpentine twisting. This, by contrast, was a pure micro slice of Route Napoleonic joy. Again, largely within the speed limits here, enjoying the simple mechanics of the driving process; low speed hairpins with slow enough entry so that even if things broke, just a little bit, even an ordinary Joe comme moi felt recovery might not be too overwhelming a prospect. The whole 'oneness' of the car felt stupendous and being able to string a few sequences together along what passed for my idea of a racing line, with perfect hazard visibility all the while, was truly the stuff of dreamy test drive imagination.
All too soon, though and paradise was lost but unlike Milton's post conjectural repose, I was still faced with the small matter of dispatching the area's only low density m-way and my God, how I hit the 3 lanes running; brain replaying previous forays on the continent and my lust for some extreme helter-schnellter restrained only by the faintest protestations of my licence, hard-wired to the brain cells loosely identified during lobotomised procedures as 'common sense.'
Even there, unfortunately, the motoring canon fodder would have been better placed hacking away at the seam than cluttering the highways and byways of what by rights, I arrogantly hereby suggest should be the preserve of Luftwaffian poundage. I say this purely as a result of the seemingly newfound caveat within The Highway Code (Numpty Editon) which appears to render that old triumvirate of mirror, signal & manoeuvre as an entirely unnecessary sequence of impact prevention.
Hey-ho.
Anyway, the upshot is this, I fear. Trackdays - even I'm resigned to the reality that in practice - they may be the only way.
See you at Silverstone in July, eh Don? (You can show me how it's done; I'm sure I'll be quite hopeless.)
Chin, chin from the northern wastelands.
As regular PH'ers know I'm a very keen 2 wheeler but I must admit there is a huge growing number of Sunday riders who have the riding abiliies of tapoles and the road manners of Attila the Hun and they all seem to travel in groups with equally untalented mates.
I normally pass most of them in the twisty bits while astride my relitively speaking quite underpowered machine.
My own personal frollics come from cars in the winter on the empty b roads and bikes in the summer when the slow numpty quota & huge tailbacks just do my head in.
I normally pass most of them in the twisty bits while astride my relitively speaking quite underpowered machine.
My own personal frollics come from cars in the winter on the empty b roads and bikes in the summer when the slow numpty quota & huge tailbacks just do my head in.
See you at Silverstone in July, eh Don? (You can show me how it's done; I'm sure I'll be quite hopeless.)
You will indeed, sir! Let us hope we get a day similar to last year during which the sun beat down on other's roofs and my helmet (it being mandatory to enjoy one's hoon sans canvas). As to being hopeless - surely not, sir...
What group are you in? Are you staying locally? And see you there!
mrsd said: I had fun. Burning off evil little 911sGot to agree though, first really nice Sunday of the year always=blue rinse, caravan, Rover 214, rug on the parcel shelf, trilby wearing numpties
Were you driving the family uberwagen Mrs D? Insurance is always cheaper when there's a sensible lady driver on the policy...
Also, has Jarel still got his 911?
Cheers
Domster
Thanks Kev but you knows whari mean, non?
There you are, expending hours of precious time, fondling and stroking your loved one and smearing it in overpriced gunk, fantasizing about an idyllic wee jot of hoonery which proves frustratingly, time and again, to be just that (at least off track): the stuff of dreams alone.
Btw, Mrsd, these bikes are only burning one off by choosing a tactic of blatant width advantage - yes, they're incredibly accelerative, no doubt - but if the cretins I was dealing with showed a modicum of normal biker care, I suspect certain peasants of the porquine variety might keep with 'em a tad more successfully.
It's their assumption of 'droit de passage' that peeves me so, though I must confess, I can understand their feeling of invulnerability.
There you are, expending hours of precious time, fondling and stroking your loved one and smearing it in overpriced gunk, fantasizing about an idyllic wee jot of hoonery which proves frustratingly, time and again, to be just that (at least off track): the stuff of dreams alone.
Btw, Mrsd, these bikes are only burning one off by choosing a tactic of blatant width advantage - yes, they're incredibly accelerative, no doubt - but if the cretins I was dealing with showed a modicum of normal biker care, I suspect certain peasants of the porquine variety might keep with 'em a tad more successfully.
It's their assumption of 'droit de passage' that peeves me so, though I must confess, I can understand their feeling of invulnerability.
One of Derestrictor's salacious ancestors at work...
Notice how the prose style has been passed down through the generations
www.thesun.co.uk/article/0,,5-2003121317,00.html
Notice how the prose style has been passed down through the generations
www.thesun.co.uk/article/0,,5-2003121317,00.html
Don said:
See you at Silverstone in July, eh Don? (You can show me how it's done; I'm sure I'll be quite hopeless.)
You will indeed, sir! Let us hope we get a day similar to last year during which the sun beat down on other's roofs and my helmet (it being mandatory to enjoy one's hoon sans canvas). As to being hopeless - surely not, sir...
What group are you in? Are you staying locally? And see you there!
Er, I invited our Northern chum, Don. More the merrier and all that. Guess he'll be staying "Chez Thomas", unless he gets a better offer.
We'll all queue nicely though. Promise
Don unt Gregenstein;
Just renewed my PCGB membership and there were still places left for July 25th.
However, I'm suddenly wondering about noise regs and whether the pork's illegal or something?
Any advice?
Btw Don, you're talking to the trackday equivalent of one of Domster's pre-cogniscent spermatozoa, in the consideration of all things Silverstonic.
I shall be like the muppet in Clarkson's latest outpouring, except rather than tip-toeing around in an RS, I shall be the L-plated gibbon avec blowers.
Having said that, I would hope to be an early learner and with any luck, sufficiently emboldened by a lap or three, feel confident enough to squeeze Theodore McThrottle and explore the resolve of Berhard von Bilstein.
Just enough to really appreciate some nice, relaxing, speed.
Just renewed my PCGB membership and there were still places left for July 25th.
However, I'm suddenly wondering about noise regs and whether the pork's illegal or something?
Any advice?
Btw Don, you're talking to the trackday equivalent of one of Domster's pre-cogniscent spermatozoa, in the consideration of all things Silverstonic.
I shall be like the muppet in Clarkson's latest outpouring, except rather than tip-toeing around in an RS, I shall be the L-plated gibbon avec blowers.
Having said that, I would hope to be an early learner and with any luck, sufficiently emboldened by a lap or three, feel confident enough to squeeze Theodore McThrottle and explore the resolve of Berhard von Bilstein.
Just enough to really appreciate some nice, relaxing, speed.
GregE240 said:
Don said:
See you at Silverstone in July, eh Don? (You can show me how it's done; I'm sure I'll be quite hopeless.)
You will indeed, sir! Let us hope we get a day similar to last year during which the sun beat down on other's roofs and my helmet (it being mandatory to enjoy one's hoon sans canvas). As to being hopeless - surely not, sir...
What group are you in? Are you staying locally? And see you there!
Er, I invited our Northern chum, Don. More the merrier and all that. Guess he'll be staying "Chez Thomas", unless he gets a better offer.
We'll all queue nicely though. Promise
Count me in for drinks the night before
GregE240 said: Are you coming as well then Dom? If so then do you mind a drive up to Daventry?
If so, no worries. Think we may frequent a local eatery rather than have me attempt to poison you all by wheeling out the BBQ.
If I am free, I will be there... absolutely. Will try and pop along as a passenger on track as well (if allowed). Sounds like a great fixture
Hey DeR,
Sorry to hear about the Numptista ruining your perfectly planned day off.
If track day's don't do it for you, you'll have to consider a bit of Late Night Banzai R...."Dawdling"...acing. Of course if that doesn't work either you'll have to consider the Crack Cocaine of the trackday world with a visit to Nurburg during a public day.
DAZ
PS - played with an Esprit on saturday:
www.pistonheads.com/gassing/topic.asp?t=32269&f=17&h=0
Sorry to hear about the Numptista ruining your perfectly planned day off.
If track day's don't do it for you, you'll have to consider a bit of Late Night Banzai R...."Dawdling"...acing. Of course if that doesn't work either you'll have to consider the Crack Cocaine of the trackday world with a visit to Nurburg during a public day.
DAZ
PS - played with an Esprit on saturday:
www.pistonheads.com/gassing/topic.asp?t=32269&f=17&h=0
Okay folks, just to clarify then:
The "trackday" being mentioned is on July 25th - the Friday after the GP...its a PCGB event, but spectators are welcome. Don's going with the Red Peril (well, we had a Barron, and I couldn't think of anything else suitable)
The night before, if DeR is going to make the trawl from the Northern Wastelands (read Bolton), I'll organise a meet up/scoff in a pub or something - there's a couple of good 'uns near me.
Of course, if anyone wants to join us, you're more than welcome.
The "trackday" being mentioned is on July 25th - the Friday after the GP...its a PCGB event, but spectators are welcome. Don's going with the Red Peril (well, we had a Barron, and I couldn't think of anything else suitable)
The night before, if DeR is going to make the trawl from the Northern Wastelands (read Bolton), I'll organise a meet up/scoff in a pub or something - there's a couple of good 'uns near me.
Of course, if anyone wants to join us, you're more than welcome.
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