Kiwi Biker forums - Blogs - madbikeboy https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/blog.php/13016-madbikeboy Kiwi Biker - New Zealand motorcycle community en Sat, 02 May 2026 16:45:39 GMT vBulletin 20 https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/images/BP-Brown/misc/rss.jpg Kiwi Biker forums - Blogs - madbikeboy https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/blog.php/13016-madbikeboy Why does kiiwibiker have such a low level of technical support? https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2404-Why-does-kiiwibiker-have-such-a-low-level-of-technical-support Fri, 20 Jan 2012 12:01:30 GMT
Quote Originally Posted by Viscount Montgomery View Post
where's the best place to buy a sparkplug for my 250 and what sort of spanner fits my bike because the chain seems looser than it should be and sometimes falls off when I'm riding. Also is it OK to have wavy-shaped teeth on the back sprocket? Mine are smooth and quite rounded and look like a different style than on other bikes. I've noticed on hills there seems to be a slipping clacking sound, is this normal? I've fallen off a few times now, mainly just loss of control more than anything, how many more crashes will it take before I can be classed as a good rider?
What's a spark plug? As for the clacking sound, suggest you put your false teeth back in instead of leaving them on your saddle as you push your motorized bicycle up the hills.

Finally, in order to be the best rider in the world, get a kiwibiker membership :) ]]> madbikeboy https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2404-Why-does-kiiwibiker-have-such-a-low-level-of-technical-support Living with a GSXR1000 https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/629-Living-with-a-GSXR1000 Mon, 16 Feb 2009 00:02:13 GMT Living with a GSXR1000 (aka, the crack addiction)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It starts out innocently enough, you promise yourself that, today, for once, you're just going to take it a little easy. This is analagous to a crack addict promising just one small hit...

Living with a fast bike (GSXR1000), and why you should buy (or not buy).

I'm going to put aside all the macho stuff, the pub stories about needing more horsepower, and relate to you the reality of living with a GSXRthou.

I still have the Performance Bike article from 2001 that put the original against the benchmark fast bikes of the day, and the K1/K2 had to be pretty awesome to sideline the original R1. Subsequent iterations have gotten faster (well, more powerful), but they've also gotten more complicated (lost your keys lately?), and smaller. Smaller is an issue for me at six feet, I feel like a gorilla riding a tricycle on the latest 600's...

Putting aside the differences between models, what's it like living with one?

Well, it's fast. Scary fast for some, and for those that have little fear, the road rash and damage is normally expensive. This is not a bike that you buy once you get your full licence - my mate ZXRIDER almost got written off as one came past him on its side at a Coro ride - the overzealous rider had bought one as his second bike, too much front brake after entering a corner a lot too fast, and dropped it. ZXRIDER watched the bike go past, then he turned in - thank god for experience and good mirrors... "I told you so" just doesn't cut it.

It's fun in traffic. I can't describe some of the stuff I've done without it being used in court. Let's leave it as read that it's fast on the road. I've geared mine down, some people say 300 kph is academic - it's not, it's just too tempting. With the mods (God Bless yoshimura and an understanding bank manager) and the two teeth overstock on the rear, it'll lift the front wheel (not wheelstand, that's illegal on the road) in any of the first 3 or so gears without too much clutch abuse... it's also loud and obnoxious, which is how I like it. If Cagers have in issue with it, they can pull their useless big bores of their shitty nissans and then talk to me about it.

It's expensive on tires. I hear about people who plan their tire purchases based on getting a year's worth of life. I plan on what days / rides I can afford. For example, a couple of rides with the boys + Taupo track day. A Friday night in town (momentary and unexpected losses of traction can be expensive, but hey, chicks dig burnouts). Expect 2-3000 k's at most, if you're restrained - by restrained I mean physically tied to an large object and unable to ride. I've had a worst of 600 odd k's. I haven't made it to 2000 k's yet but it can be done. Apparently. It's like an urban myth, but somehow less believeable.

It's expensive for other stuff, it uses more gas than the company cage (well, it sounds so good at 10,000 + rpm...). It eats chains. It's not cheap to insure.

Why should you buy one?
1. At $10-12,000 for a mint one, it's a fucking bargain.
2. it's a great looking bike
3. It has tonnes of torque, it's well sorted, and if you leave it stock, it's a pussycat around town
4. It's easy to work out the hp/litre on a litre bike.
5. It'll embarass any car you can think of. Street racing is illegal, I've only ever done it on private racetracks. Like the night I rode between two slow assed rich plonkers on a racetrack called spaghetti racetrack (it's in italy, ahem), can you imagine Mr Merc and Mr Porsche in their uber expensive AMG/Gt3 when a cheap bike roars between them at 100kph faster than they're going?? Laughed?, fucking near pissed myself...


Why shouldn't you buy one?
1. The torque makes highsiding a reality if you back off once the rear lights up.
2. It's not a good bike unless you've cut your teeth on a succession of bikes, buy a 600 for 95% of fun sports riding, buy a 750 if you like riding really REALLY fast. A well ridden GSXR750 is as fast in the real world, but it lessens the pucker factor.
3. It's cheaper than a bitch mistress. But only just.
4. You may think you can control yourself, but the reality is quite different, you will ride too fast, and you'll find yourself laughing like a loon. This is normally an indication of mental illness. You need to be a little nuts to ride in the first place, so in this case, mental illness is like an entry requirement for a GSXR1000.
5. You will get to know your local police officers very well. Unfortunately, out where I live the woman cops are called Wayne and have mo's. I have no interest in getting batoned, so I've tried slowing down. 99% of cops seem to give the other 1% a bad name... ]]> madbikeboy https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/629-Living-with-a-GSXR1000 Slow learner https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/628-Slow-learner Mon, 16 Feb 2009 00:01:26 GMT Swingers in disguise.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Due to renegade master adding his 2 cents, I thought I'd add this little opener - read this as a giggle not a cry.,


I’m having more of those moments. The ones where you get off the bike and think, “oh shit”. At what point do you hand the keys of your litre sports bike to someone better equipped to live with madness. Where is the line, and how do you know when to quit before you cross it?

It doesn’t help, trying to be sensible. 1000cubic centimetres are more addictive than crack and porn. You start out thinking that it’s fine, everyone else is doing it, and hey, it’s not really addictive and you can quit when you want. And then you find yourself out of control and heavily addicted, with some dealer coming back in an hour to break your kneecaps if you don’t pay up. But, it’s not that easy, being addicted to crack means you can get help, there’s a 12 step programme.

Where’s the 12 step programme to cure the litre high? What’s the first step past announcing to the world that you have a problem? I know I have a problem, I get off 600’s and no argument, they’re quick (for a girls bike). I ride cruisers and find my mind drifting, and 3 seconds later the throttle is pinned out of sheer boredom. Buells? Fine, until mid-fourth gear, then I’m wondering where all the power has gone and why the speedo is moving like it’s in molasses.

Someone posted a link to a GSXR1000 that had been turbo’d. I found myself eyeing up the bike, wondering how I could justify more mods to mine. Or buying it outright. I have a screensaver with a lowered and stretched Hayabusa with nitrous and a turbo. Honestly, being addicted to porn would be more socially acceptable than the thoughts of pinning that on the way home in traffic.

It extends to other parts of my life too. I was chatting with a guy who works in my building, he owns a Lamborghini – I couldn’t get excited about the prospect of a ride in it; its slow in comparison to my bike so how could it be anything other than a disappointment. It’s like meeting the love of your life, no one else will ever be good enough to compare.

What am I supposed to do instead if I go cold turkey? Start knitting? Play an instrument? Learn how to make wicker baskets? I don’t even like most people, and the ones that I do like seem to wear dead cow for fun as well.

No joke, Madbikebabe and I are doing Japanese cooking classes – I’ve never felt like such an alien; the people there are nice, really nice. Nice is the most useless weasel word, it’s like saying something is bland, nice is the new beige. There is one couple who I swear must be faking the level of geekiness that they portray, maybe they’re both really kinky and are part of a swingers club. Tui.

So, full circle, when do you know it’s time to hand over the keys? The simple answer seems to be 3 months after you bought your GixerThou. I guess I must be a slow learner. ]]> madbikeboy https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/628-Slow-learner Setting Chinese relations back https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/627-Setting-Chinese-relations-back Mon, 16 Feb 2009 00:00:13 GMT Setting China/NZ relations back a decade or two...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm no racist, but it seems to me that there are alot of people of Asian descent that want to kill me on my scoot.

There's this cultural thing for Asians. Only really poor people ride motorcycles, therefore they have to yeild to the car people. And peasants ride bicycles. I ride bikes and motorcycles, so I get close calls - and most of those are either asshole truck drivers, fucking rednecks driving Falcons... Or Asian people.

So, last weekend, went over to ZXRIDER's to say gidday, he wasn't home, so went towards the racetrack, shit I mean motorway via the ** ***** roundabout thingee. Went through in the left lane next to Mr Asian Guy, he was in the right lane turning right than left, same as me.

He looks across and sees me (can't miss the GSXR with the loudest yoshi pipe in the world), he's got his windows open, and I see him nudge his Asian girlfriend and mouth something that look like "hey, watch me run this impoverished gwai-lo of the road", and he then changes lane onto me, and pushes me against the kerb. I ended up on the footpath.

It gets better.

Mr Asian Guy is laughing, deep belly laughs, at my expense.

I'm less happy.

So, in a manner consistent with the road code in terms of speed and overtaking, I passed the car, and as I passed I noticed that this guys mirror flew off his car. Not quite sure how it happened...? Not a good sign for his car's build quality for a wing mirror to just fall off...

I learned two things from this:
1. Bags of peas work really well to reduce swelling in your left hand when it comes in contact with something travelling about 60 k's slower than you.

2. You should never miss an opportunity to work conflict out between two civilised people with good, open communication and mutual respect. If that doesn't work, then gratuatous violence is also a useful tool.

Ride safe. ]]> madbikeboy https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/627-Setting-Chinese-relations-back Contemplation https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/626-Contemplation Sun, 15 Feb 2009 23:47:39 GMT Contemplation. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Someone asked me today why I’m so hard on a certain type of person, the old skiddy, and the current Craver/Moron Many. I didn’t have an answer for them, aside from a brief explanation that they... Contemplation.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Someone asked me today why I’m so hard on a certain type of person, the old skiddy, and the current Craver/Moron Many. I didn’t have an answer for them, aside from a brief explanation that they set a dumb precedent for newbies entering the site.

While that’s kind of true, and since after attending a funeral today, I’m feeling in a contemplative mood; I thought I’d better start telling the whole truth of why the Cravers of the world feel the force of my scorn and derision.

Let us get one thing straight from the get go. Knitting is a hobby. Golf is a hobby, (although even more frustrating that knitting). Even collecting stamps is a hobby. Motorcycling is more than that.

Motorcycling is much more than a simple way to pass time; while for some it starts out as pastime, or even cheap transport; after a while for some, motorcycling transcends the mundane. It transcends age, gender, socio-economic status, and even education. It is a love affair that is stronger than human relationships, and even after decades of not riding, even Born Agains come full circle to embrace the freedom and thrill again – the decades between a blur of normalcy with the release of riding again; gaining something so precious lost in youth and life mature.

And, it is thrilling. There are few activities where life and death, speed and visceral pleasure are so closely intertwined. More addictive than cocaine, we are solo thrill seekers, bounded only by physics and velocity, caught in a maelstrom of noise and speed. And danger. The linkage between game and game over is clear, even to the bystanders who watch with little understanding or empathy. To us, the players ourselves, we feel alive by walking that edge between soaring and the plunge into the abyss.

We honour those who die, but the young and shallow alike play like simpletons between the multitude of dangers; either blissfully unaware cloaked within the comfort of ignorance – or worse, quietly afraid but openly arrogant.

The Cravers of the world fall into the latter category. Their utter disrespect for something so unique and contempt for the experienced and wise of our community, their disregard and inevitable conclusion clear to all but them.

I’m not suggesting it’s some cult, some new religion; motorcycling transcends even that. It connects our soul with something more timeless. Visiting shrines like Ken McIntosh’s workshop, or standing by a racetrack feeling the velocity of the shockwaves passing with each bike’s passage. Sitting with others, talking in quiet tones about our individual experiences, creating shared understanding. The community of people – I am thinking of MOM right now as I write this after her work over the past few days, for someone else who had worked for our community of bikers. We have language, protocol, kata or of our own. Responsibility is the most sublime of duties.

But this, my friends, the people who get this without long explanation, is why I chose to share the company of people who wear dead cow, and why I’ll continue to criticise and deride the likes of Craver.

Mock this honesty if you will, but I think a fair few of you would agree with the sentiment. ]]> madbikeboy https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/626-Contemplation Wax lyrical and freedom https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/625-Wax-lyrical-and-freedom Sun, 15 Feb 2009 23:44:07 GMT Wax lyrical and freedom. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Grey queues and anonymous boxes, the sound of Nina Simone drifting. Freedom curtailed and permissions revoked, gale force winds and rain and Versace suit mix like oil. Dark grey... Wax lyrical and freedom.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Grey queues and anonymous boxes, the sound of Nina Simone drifting.
Freedom curtailed and permissions revoked, gale force winds and rain and Versace suit mix like oil.
Dark grey skies, God painted a monotone for the urban crawl, everything is dark, foreboding, depressed.

"Birds flying high you know how I feel
Sun in the sky you know how I feel
Reeds driftin on by you know how I feel..."

Out of nowhere, pillion with her man, brightly coloured arms in violent pink outstretched, soaring like an eagle, fingertips dancing with the joy of being free.

For a moment my soul connects and soars too. ]]> madbikeboy https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/625-Wax-lyrical-and-freedom <![CDATA[I'm an asshole]]> https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/624-I-m-an-asshole Sun, 15 Feb 2009 23:43:08 GMT Road rage, retards, funny faces, and tinted windows.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dennis Leary, poet, humanitarian, and comedian once wrote a song called "I'm an Asshole" - there's this part that described me on the drive into work this morning:

Sometimes I park in the handicapped spaces, While handicapped people, Make handicapped faces

I'm an asshole, (he's an asshole, what an asshole), I'm an asshole, (he's a real f**king asshole)

Okay, so this does have a point, and I'll get to that point, and when I do, I want that sound track running through your minds - hum it if it helps.

So, for the second time in as many weeks, I needed to drive the cage. Driving is a poor description, what I did was sit. In neat rows. Raging inside my car each time a bike roared past. Swearing. Not the bike, but me. I was swearing like a truck driver, or a sailor, or that kid with Tourettes that you went to school with. I mean, little things were setting me off - the fact that the traffic wasn't moving, the lame assed teenager who was so drug addled that me getting out of the car and inviting him into the gap before my car didn't make him understand, the fact that when Leighton borrowed my car, he didn't return the detach face for the radio and my iPod is out of juice, and the fact that I couldn't wheelstand or just squeeze through that gap.

So, being hysterically bored and borderline suicidal, I resorted to pulling funny faces at the people in the cars beside me. I have dark and borderline illegal tinted windows, so, that seemed like a really good idea.

Now, cue the music, "Sometimes I park in the handicapped spaces, While handicapped people, Make handicapped faces".

The point is, that it would have been better, if, in my haste to make the world better by pulling faces at all the beautiful people stuck in traffic with me; if I had of just remembered to roll the window up first... ]]> madbikeboy https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/624-I-m-an-asshole SIH - Part 5. https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/623-SIH-Part-5 Sun, 15 Feb 2009 23:38:08 GMT Stuck in Hell - ending it with a whimper... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I’d suggest you read one or more of my Stuck in Hell posts – this will lack a little continuity otherwise… I blame Georgie. No, really, It’s your fault. I had a... Stuck in Hell - ending it with a whimper...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I’d suggest you read one or more of my Stuck in Hell posts – this will lack a little continuity otherwise…

I blame Georgie. No, really, It’s your fault.

I had a moment of epiphany – I was sitting in a meeting, listening to my manager’s droning voice explaining something dull and repetitive with all the glee of the aging chubby wannabe off the Office (which for the record is not entertainment, it’s more like electric shock-therapy without the resultant sanity); and I realised that I could spend the rest of my life stuck in hell. Georgie and I had been discussing the meaning of life and work – it sounds trite when you write it like this, but stop and consider for a second – when was the last time you did something thrilling at work, when was the last time you really made a difference? Before there is any hand wringing, we need to exclude ambo’s and Zoolander, and perhaps even police people like ScumDog.

So, back to my moment – I was sitting there, trying to stay awake, and trying to write down the list of incredibly important stuff that I needed to update the team on (the word important was written with a sarcastic inflection), when I found my mind drifting. I’m a guy, so there’s a short list of things that my mind would drift to, as it happened I was thinking about running screaming from the building and jumping on scoot before Dilbert Cartoon insanity took over and middle age hit and I started to lose my boyish good looks. I got woken from this amusing reverie, and my manager made the mistake of asking what was so amusing as to put a smile on my face during a meeting – now, is it just me, but if people ask a question, why should they be annoyed at getting an honest answer. I mean, if she asks if her butt looks big, she deserves to know, right??

So point was, I hated my Dilbert Cartoon job, I hated turning up to work, punching the time clock, and watching my life spill away like sand within an hourglass while achieving fuck all.

I was trying to find some balance between sitting at home waiting for lotto, and working every hour under the sun and never seeing the house in daylight. The anti-career job I took was kind of fun, it gave me loads of time to write the Stuck in Hell series and get all introspective (whatever that means).

But I spent my time working with people who were afraid to think, and even more afraid to speak out about stuff that didn’t work. I never understood the Nuremburg defence until working for my current employers – during the Nuremburg trials, Nazi’s would offer the defence of “I was just following orders”. Applying this to my current job, it was totally okay to not do the correct thing because that was how it had always been done and the person was just following the “process”, corporate speak for orders… I really liked some of my customers, and I liked a lot of the bikers that I worked with; but being a little too outspoken, I was like a round peg in a square hole.

So, on Thursday, I quit my job.

I’m now on Garden Leave while I count down the days to starting my career again, I’m moving from one of the largest corporate in New Zealand, to a company with 15 people. I had beers with the owners of the new company the other day. I’ve never even seen the CEO in person of the other.

So, back to the point – when you get to the point where you cannot find anything thrilling about your job, and when you can’t make a difference because of the treacle like momentum of corporate life, is the rational action going postal, or is it removing yourself? I ask this because I can’t really write any more Stuck in Hell posts if I actually like my job…

I’ve just realised that I have written this entire post within mentioning wheelstands, speeding, or immoral behaviour. Hmm. A quick change of subject, I needed a new cage (handing the company car back), so I went shopping for a new car yesterday. I went to one car yard, and there was one of those stupid 650 Bergman’s sitting in the corner. Car dealer saw that I was looking at it, and started explaining how it was super-powerful, and how it would dust any other bike, and also how he was going to change his rear tire – and I swear I’m not making this up – for a car tire so he could get 30,000 km’s out of it instead of 10,000k’s.

Apparently, he’s going to ride 30,000k’s in a straight line. Dusting slow old Gixer’s, Hayabusa’s, and Blades.

So, in order to mention wheelstands, speeding, and immoral behaviour, I asked him if he’d be willing to put a little wager on his belief – I told him that my little scoot wasn’t all that quick, but it might be a fun match. I watched the mental process of him making the leap from scoot to scooter, and the mental picture in his mind of a Vespa, and the thought of his fat ass beating this young guy and winning some money...

I think he’s going to be somewhat disappointed when I turn up on a worked 1000cc gixer… I think that covers off the immoral behaviour, and I’m sure that there will be a little wheelstanding and speeding involved.

Georgie, thanks for the ear, and you were right, life is too short to spend it unhappy at work. ]]> madbikeboy https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/623-SIH-Part-5 Stuck in Hell - the first. https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/622-Stuck-in-Hell-the-first Sun, 15 Feb 2009 23:35:48 GMT Stuck in hell.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hi everyone,

I'm sitting in the office, I'm the only one here, I'm bored out of my tree - scoot is at home chained to the garage floor. And out of the small window to my left I can see blue sky.

This is hell.

I'm considering going postal, but there's no one here.

So, instead, I thought I'd write some shit to connect with my happy place.

I read once that Jesse James was riding in his Dad's Chevy Impala, and a bunch of Hells Angels rode past - from that moment he was hooked. I've had a couple of moments. The first was when I was about 11 years old, I bought a old 80cc chook chaser off my neighbour for $100 - I'd saved my money from my paper round for about a year. I hid it under the house, the likelihood of getting permission to buy a motorcycle was somewhere between winning lotto and getting hit by sewerage, ejected from a 747 flying overhead (I was 11, I had been told that this was a possibility, and I spent a good part of that year looking up each time a plane went overhead). That was the best and shortest bike ownership in my life. I actually got it going (proving that even if you're dumb, if you keep fiddling with it, something happens eventually). I pulled my first wheelstand on that bike. I had my first crash about 0.2 seconds later. The crash was bad, but explaining how I happened to be on a motorcycle. Much worse.

The second most impressive thing I saw in my impressionable teenage years was Mick Dohaan, sliding that evil bike around the racetrack. The most impressive thing was even cooler, it involved my first real girlfriend and two hours of sex before she started getting kinky and creative (catholic girls rock). But Mick left an indelible impression. I cadged rides on friends bikes, and I fell for an evil bitch mistress in a big way - if you've ever owned an RG500 or RGV250, this bit requires little in the way of an explanation; it was all the stuff of dreams, living from one paycheck to the next.

In 1999 I opened the throttle on a Hayabusa all the way. Forget Mick and kinky chick - this was like being saddled up on an ICBM screaming yehaar as I changed up, then up, then up, then up. Relentless. I think each time we ride through a mental barrier, you can't relate to whatever was the previous experience. It's like losing your virginity, the world looks a different way.

I was just finishing uni, seven years of study and little chance of affording something decent. I had to wait a while, then I went guarantor on a mates hayabusa loan - I had bought my first house, and what with the need to actually consume solid food (anything more expensive that 2 minute noodles was completely unobtainable), this got me close to bike ownership again. A couple of years later, one small incident, and a judge with no humor saw me resitting my licence again.

A brief flirtation with an RGV250 made me remember that the gold old days need to remain those, and not repeated (don't go back to ex-girlfriends either, you leave them for good reasons). I then managed to talk the then current fiancee into looking at a bike with me. I'd just bought her a new car, so she had no leg to stand on when I painted her into a corner. Mixed metaphors aside, I became the owner of 99 GSXR750. I rediscovered life and living on that bike. It was loud and obnoxious (well, it'd be rude not to be), and quick. I had little care for living because I so miserable at home, so I rode with the commitment of a suicide bomber.

After a bit of personal readjustment (leaving wasn't so hard after all) and with getting to the age where I thought I could actually co-exist with a fast scoot, I bought my current bike. I searched for months on trademe, I wanted a K2, I wanted one that had been owned by a slow old guy, she needed to have black rims, and be the black and metallic blue. I had to go to Christchurch to find her, and it was well worth every moment of saving, searching, and dreaming.

Life is really good now, so much so that when I'm sitting in my office cubicle, I can sit back and smile at the skinny 11 year old pushing his first bike home and under the house within the cover of darkness. I can sit in my happy place in meetings thinking of leaning into the corner, footpeg scraping, the sensation of the front wheel lifting as I roll the throttle. I can smile and nod at people at corporate breakfasts, all the while dreaming of my next track day, or the ride home from work through the traffic.

This is why I ride, it is also why I am - not just who I am. I love the roar of the wind on my lid, the sensation of accelerating faster than any other living thing. I feel odd and removed in the real world, more misfit than fit. I love the rest of my life now too - but I live for the moments where I pull the cover off scoot, starting her, listening to the oil lubricating the bike as she warms, the idle uneven and scratchy. Sitting astride her, becoming part of the metal cacohpany, pushing into first, then opening the throttle and lauching myself into adrenaline again. ]]> madbikeboy https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/622-Stuck-in-Hell-the-first SIH - Part 2. https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/621-SIH-Part-2 Sun, 15 Feb 2009 23:35:14 GMT Stuck in Hell again: Craving experiences -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Read my post Stuck in Hell before you read this one. It’ll make more sense. I’ve grown up on two wheels. Most kids learn to walk, and then to run, and then after some... Stuck in Hell again: Craving experiences

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Read my post Stuck in Hell before you read this one. It’ll make more sense.

I’ve grown up on two wheels. Most kids learn to walk, and then to run, and then after some bruises, they learn to ride. I kind of skipped some of the steps, I got put on a two wheeler really young, and instead of falling off, I just sorta rode. Bikes mean something different to kids – they offer propulsion, time away from parental control, and freedom to explore. I remember getting in so much trouble once – my older brother (who was the cause of most of my bad learning experiences) talked me into exploring the big overflow drains that live under Morningside. Can you imagine half a dozen 10 year olds (and a mislead 8 year old), cheap flashlights taped to our BMX’s (anyone under the age of 25 won’t know what they are) riding through a drainpipe. Nowadays, there would be an official investigation into how this happened, and someone would be called to account. In the days before political correctness, we just did shit and had fun doing it.

Well, it was fun until we got a little lost, and ended up spending a little longer than we first intended in the drains – but just to be clear, no one needed to search for us or anything, it was just more of an adventure than we thought. Which made us late for dinner. Which got us both in trouble. Not as much trouble as setting the bach on fire by accident when I was seven, but more trouble than I’d be in for that entire year of being eight.

This kind of has a point. The experiences that I had growing up meant that I have a certain amount of resilience and confidence when I’m a little lost or mis-directed. And it’s also the reason why I yearn for adventure. Pointless adventure that makes little sense to anyone under the age of 20, or over 45, or anyone who has to sit down to pee. An example. I bought my last car partly because it gave me an excuse to drive it home afterwards. From Queenstown. And I live in Auckland. It was a great roadtrip; the road sections were navigated much faster than PC rules allow, I got to explore roads that looked like spaghetti (think about it) – and common sense got thrown out the window for a couple of days. Or riding a bicycle around downtown San Francisco after a July 4th in the wee small hours, dodging drunks and hookers and gun carrying pimps, and laughing until our bellies hurt.

Okay, I will arrive at the point sooner or later. So, confidence and experience. I ride partly because it’s an experience. Cars are like self steered buses, they follow nice little lanes, and they sit in tidy rows for an hour in each direction crossing the Auckland Harbour bottleneck. They are separated from the air, with nice little airconditioning units and radio stations that place the occasional song between adverts. Bikes are an experience, we ride with more of a connection to the world around us, with more freedom, and with more involvement.

I once had a Lexus for a week, it was like sensory depravation. Polite elevator music as a soundtrack, sitting in a leather clad sterile environment. Riding my bike is like Metallica at full noise, standing between 50,000 screaming fans in the mosh pit.

Normal people don’t get it. They spend their lives in the tidy lanes, listening to ads explaining why they need to buy stuff they don’t need while they age without notice or care. They have blood pumping around their bodies, but the blood doesn’t contain adrenaline or oxygen.

So here’s the point.

Cesare Parve once wrote that “we don’t remember days, we remember moments”. Life for me is about moments, indelibly etched in my mind. Rides with my friends – Lance, Ben and Phil, riding the Clevedon loop in the heat; and sometimes the cold and the rain. The rush of the wind over my lid. The feeling of power, the sensation of speed. The nights of the northern motorway in the Cannonball lane. And the lights of the eagle chopper in the distance. For me, riding is a metaphor for life, about the extremes that define the middle, the flow of blood charged with adrenaline and adventure, and the distinct linkage between mistake and game over.

Rides down to Paeroa, the long way. Breakfast at the log cabin, listening to the scoot ticking as it cools. Sitting at the track – the shock waves felt physically as the fast bikes tear through the air at high velocity past where I stand dreaming of my next lap doing the same. The first time my speedo stayed static at 299, with 1,500 rpm to go. Going 1,500 RPM further and hitting the rev-limiter in top and keeping it there. It’s diametrically opposed to the sanitised existence of the Lemmings around me in the Dilbert Cartoon hell I live in; it’s life at full volume, perfect colour with high resolution and 10,000 watts of amplification. We had t-shirts made up once “absolute overkill is barely adequate”. Seems somehow appropriate for the level of experience I crave. ]]> madbikeboy https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/621-SIH-Part-2 SIH - Part 3. https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/620-SIH-Part-3 Sun, 15 Feb 2009 23:34:33 GMT Stuck in Hell, Part 3. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It’s been a few weeks since I posted Stuck in Hell and Stuck in Hell part 2. They were generally well received, and given that y’all are largely a captive audience, I thought I’d post more... Stuck in Hell, Part 3.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s been a few weeks since I posted Stuck in Hell and Stuck in Hell part 2. They were generally well received, and given that y’all are largely a captive audience, I thought I’d post more random flows of consciousness for you to digest in between those dinky polls and the latest “I crashed my ride” posts.

The sun is shining, not a cloud in the sky, and I’m stuck once again in my Dilbert Cartoon cubicle, waiting expectantly for 5.00.01 to roll around. So, I have two hours to burn. I mean, I have two hours to be a responsible employee, working diligently to make more dollars for our erstwhile shareholders…

Yeah, right…

Ten minutes gone while I contemplate how to write this.

I’ve always been obsessed with noise and horsepower. When all the other “normal” kids were out kicking a rugby ball around, or playing doctors and nurses – I was looking for some two wheel disaster to either rebuild, or to jump, or jump then rebuild. My mates and I would look for things to jump our bikes off, and they were the sort of things, that if we had any common sense, we wouldn’t attempt to jump off. Like garden sheds. Or into swimming pools from the second story deck. Or onto car bonnets. I saw that on a movie; but it’s less funny in real life to have the monumentally pissed off car owner chase you.

One day I saw a video of Evil K and his ill fated Las Vegas jump. It was a startling reality check to understand that I was a rank amateur, and this guy was using a Harley to jump canyon’s and Casino’s. And he was fearless. I made me realise the value of THINKING BIG. I realised that I needed speed, and in order to achieve speed, I needed more than pedal power.

Ironically, it was through pedal power that I got my worst injuries. Broken wrist. Wrists. Shoulder dislocations. Compound fractures (which are less cool and fun than they sound). Several concussions, (which kind of explains the ramblings that I pass off as literature). Collarbones, ribs, fingers, and my big toe. I need more reconstructive surgery for my right knee (fractured knee caps are no fun). I realised that if I really wanted to soar, I needed power, and lots of it. After all, the reason I was breaking bones was lack of speed. Certainly it wasn’t lack of brains, right?

So, being obsessed with doing stupid stuff, I needed to build an understanding of noise and horsepower. The two are intertwined in my mind, can’t have one without the other, right? The louder the better, because louder means faster. Speed is entirely visceral – 250 kph in my Alfa 166 was quiet and orderly, the roar of the motor furiously muted. Where’s the thrill in that? 150 kph on a virtually unmuffled RGV250, wind screaming over my lid, engine sounding like it was about to angrily throw a rod through the crankcase, ending in massive destruction and a huge fireball – just about perfect in the thrill stakes.

1 hour, 33 minutes to go. I type slowly; I have stitches in my index finger from an adventure last weekend, so I’m typing virtually one handed. Meaning with one finger.

I also started to realise that I was never going to be a good jumping stunt guy sort of rider. It was all a bit beyond me. Mainly because I started to realise that casts are really uncool, and chicks don’t actually like skinny kids with scars and casts.

But noise and horsepower were a real revelation. My teenage years were spent in the holy pursuit of speed, looking for some two wheel disaster to rebuild, to create more noise, and therefore more speed would be created (while all the other normal boys were kicking a rugby ball around or chasing skirt).

Some interesting facts. Cops do not have a sense of humour. On an unrelated note, public highways should never be used to test very useful theories about top speed. Did you know for example, that you can get more speed by putting your chin on the tank and by raising your butt out of the saddle. And that checking that you’re not leaning out when adding nitrous is best done on a dyno. And that cops with moustaches are generally less fun when you ask them about the health of their boyfriends.

Then university happened, and I could only dream of my next two wheeled DIY disaster. I can remember sitting in the university library, pretending I was reading actual university work. This was true for most of my mates too, except they’d be scoping out all the first year university girls, looking for weakness, looking for the girls with the looser moral values who would at least give head after a few brews at Shadows. I was hiding the latest performance bike magazine in my books – loose woman weren’t really all that high on the agenda.

I would sit and dream about which bike, and how to extract noise and horsepower – the bike that was the benchmark for me was the ZZR1100 (and to a lesser extent, the GSXR750 – I later bought one simply because I’d always wanted one from the way the reviewers would write about it being loud and fast). I had ridden a mate’s ZZR1100 a few times. It was long, and quiet, and kind of smooth, but it had huge power and torque. I used to ride it down the motorway late at night after finishing my bar job – 275 kph was a blast, but even then all I could think about was how much cooler it would be if it was louder – surely that would be worth some horsepower. Or maybe a turbo. I’d read about the CX500, and if a turbo could make that ugly assed POS faster, then surely it’d work on a ZZR?? Or a turbo AND nitrous. That’d be like Kylie Minogue AND her sister (it was the 90’s, give me a break).

Then I discovered real speed. The Hayabusa. You need to say the name with more reverence, like you’re saying the name of the hottest chick you ever met. Hayabusa. Now clearly, I’m writing this next bit about a mate’s experience, it’s not my own experience, and I don’t recommend speeding. But imagine my mate’s surprise, 3am, chin on the tank, butt raised up for a little extra speed (well, it worked on an RGV right?), on the rev limiter in sixth, wind screaming over my lid, engine sounding like it was about to angrily throw a rod through the crankcase, ending in massive destruction and a huge fireball – just about perfect in the thrill stakes - when he saw a police car on the side of the motorway (it was a private closed motorway, not a public road). A police car with surprised looking cop standing beside, complete with radar gun?? Lucky escape with that one. For my mate. Ahem.

So, here I am, sitting dreaming about noise and horsepower. The bike magazine hidden between textbooks has given way to the interweb – you can surf quietly between meetings and dream. While the married guys in the office are watching the office chicks walk by, discussing the chances of looser moral engagements at the next office drinks, I’m busy dreaming about adding a blower to the gixer. Or building a supermono, or a 450 moto (450moto.com). Or a Hayabusa, with a big turbo, lengthened swingarm, and the loudest exhaust in the known universe.

I’m an early thirties sad old fuck.

I’m going to be sitting in my rocking chair in the old folks home for unwanted familiy members who are losing their marbles and drooling. My mates will be sitting looking at the nurses, reaching for Viagra, and blessing their parkinsons (think about it).

I’m going to sitting staring at my mobility scooter. Trying to work out how to let the noise out and make more power.

4.42. Home time in 18 minutes, hope you enjoyed the read. ]]> madbikeboy https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/620-SIH-Part-3 SIH - part 4. https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/619-SIH-part-4 Sun, 15 Feb 2009 23:34:01 GMT Stuck in Hell, Part Four -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It hasn’t always this way – stuck in a Dilbert Cartoon cubicle, watching the clock roll around to 5.00 before leaping out the back door of the office. Before this, I had a slightly... Stuck in Hell, Part Four

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It hasn’t always this way – stuck in a Dilbert Cartoon cubicle, watching the clock roll around to 5.00 before leaping out the back door of the office. Before this, I had a slightly different lifestyle.

Before I get into this, this is sorta kinda motorcycle related, but the crazed meanderings of my aging mind means that it’s hard to stay on topic too long. Instead, I’m going to widen my monologue to include the wider surroundings that make up my life.

Work is a complex beast, when we rock up to barbeques, the small talk is normally “so, what do you do”. I’m kind of shy, so I like having a solid answer for that one, the sort of answer that kills the conversation, or at least diverts it back to the person asking the question. Vacuum cleaner salesman. Gynaecologist. Rocket scientist. What I actually do, is much less interesting, but more complex. While the job is not very interesting, I’ve gotten to experience some pretty neat stuff.

I guess the adjustment, the over-reach for normalcy, back to some sort of equilibrium where I get to see the house in daylight, and more than once a month – I’m trying to regain some balance. I’m happier than I used to be, it’s not so important to earn dollars, and I like just hanging out. I liked some of the career boy side effects – the money wasn’t bad, and I had great stories to tell my mates when I got back into the world, but my life was essentially shit, surfing a tsunami on a relentless search for the next big adventure.

When I was sitting at uni, looking at the latest Performance Bikes magazine, I had done the math a thousand times. If I wanted to be able to afford (I mean, really afford) the bikes that I wanted, I needed to earn mucho dinero. I wasn’t blessed with parents or a trust fund, so there was an element of necessity driving me to do it, but it was also about the life less ordinary. Robert Frost is one of my favourite poets – he wrote that taking the road less travelled made all the difference for him. I’m assuming if you’re still reading this, that your favourite author isn’t the guy who wrote “Pull tab to open”. But, he had a point. When I was studying, I realised that most of the really great entrepreneurs were somewhat crazy, or abnormal, or non-conventional. Jesse James is a good example, as is Richard Branson. The commonality is that they aren’t a good fit, but they’ve worked out a solid way to make money of their unconventional thinking. Sitting in an office is conventional, puching the time clock and shifting paper from one side of the desk to the other. Launching an airline when you can hardly read is less conventional. Building choppers and swearing a lot on American TV, also a little unconventional (albeit more mainstream now). I’m a round peg in a world of square holes, so this logic appealed to me.

So, when I left uni, I went for a few interviews. Interview number one was with an Accounting / Consulting firm. I walked out of the interview after 7 minutes. The interviewer was wearing a suit and tie, and he looked like an automation – I could see myself looking like this sad fuck after 20 years of kissing ass and being labelled with the glorious and seemingly out of reach title of “Partner”. It seemed to lack a bit of adventure, plus I couldn’t imagine being married to a Remuera Ice Queen and boning my secretary. I went back to the workshop where I was working and couldn’t even tell my buddies what I had been up to.

Interview number two – CEO type guy, food stains on his shirt, cell against one ear, landline against the other. He said the word frustrating 11 times in the first interview. I started on the following Monday, by the Thursday of that week, I was standing giving a presentation in front of a bunch of MD’s across the Asia Pacific region of one of the worlds largest companies. Nothing like the deep end. With a bunch of sharks sharing the pool with you.

I ended up seeing some interesting places. I got to see actual gunfights in South East Asia. I got mugged in India. Actually, as an aside, this is kind of an odd story. I arrived in Mumbai for a meeting with an Oil company (Mumbai is the new name for Bombay), and I couldn’t sleep. I really wanted to take photos of the Gateway to India - this is a stone arch, below which English immigrants would disembark from their steamship, and enter India to make their fortune. I was staying at a hotel (5 stars, and dirty bottled water) in Chowpatty beach, and I figured it would be a nice walk. I got about halfway before two gentlemen, carrying little knives, interrupted my little wander. So picture this, I’m not small, and these guys would have been about 40 kg dripping wet – holding what looked like Swiss Army knives. A mental picture of Crocodile Dundee – “that’s not a knife, THIS is a knife”. Holding back the laughter proved impossible when the meaner of two asked, and you’ve got to imagine this in a heavy Indian accent – “We please be taking your camera now”. They seemed really put out that I couldn’t stop laughing at them.

On an unrelated note, Mumbai doesn’t have an ambulance system like what we picture when we think of St Johns. They have a large population, almost 18 million people in a place the size of Auckland; the ambulance system works on a triage system, if they make it to hospital alive, then they get looked at. Imagine Dumb and Dumber sitting on the side of the road, nursing broken bones, waiting for an ambulance to appear, and then the ride to hospital on the bumpiest roads in the world. Priceless.

While I was living in Kuala Lumpur (and this bit is bike related), we went go-kart racing. The track was pretty neat, and we talked the owner of the track into letting us use his 6 speed, 250cc race karts. His safety briefing was succinct, and to the point, and something that perhaps the nanny state officials here might consider – he might have used less punctuation, but he said “hurt yourself, we no care, hospital on hill, you get self there”.

I was racing against a group of Asian work buddies, needless to say I was faster, but I came within a tenth of a second of the lap record with an average speed of about 160 kph. The record was held by a mechanic from one of the F1 teams racing at Sepang. But, I did it at night, with a single light standard in the middle of the track. That was fun. But racing the people working at the track on their Honda and Suzuki step throughs – even better. Picture this – late at night, still 30 odd degrees – wearing jeans and t-shirt, open face lid. The bikes were grounding out, feet pegs scratching furrows into the soft tarmac. There was honour at risk, so anything went, shoulders, elbows, even the occasional deliberate shove.

The next day, sitting in the executive restaurant at the top of the Petronas twin towers, having to explain the bruises created a gale of laughter. This was punctuated by the lighting tracking down the outside of the building and thunder that sounded like it was happening in the room with us.

But, all things come to an end. I enjoyed the nutty life that I was living, it was out of control and different, and hard to explain at barbeques back in the world. But it was the life less ordinary.

Now, I’m sitting at my desk, with my soul floating disconnected about me, soaring at the thought of being out of Dilbert Hell and being on my bike this weekend at Taupo. Is it a coming of age? Or is it the letting go of the misadventures of my youth. Is this part of the aging process, where we become more responsible? Don’t get me wrong, my life is in better balance, I love my home life, and I get more time to take in the smells and sounds of the places around me. Life is slower, and better.

But I still yearn for the road less travelled. ]]> madbikeboy https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/619-SIH-part-4 Stuck in Hell series https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/618-Stuck-in-Hell-series Sun, 15 Feb 2009 23:31:59 GMT Stuck in Hell 6, Quoting Camus on Biker site... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It seems to me that others more fortunate in life seem to balance professional lives, personal lives, family lives; I seem to be able to manage only one at a time... Stuck in Hell 6, Quoting Camus on Biker site...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It seems to me that others more fortunate in life seem to balance professional lives, personal lives, family lives; I seem to be able to manage only one at a time of the two available to me. I wrote the Stuck in Hell series (for those of you who care) when I was struggling with work balance, sitting in a Dilbert Cubicle hell with a stupid “Office” wannabe as a manager. Since my professional life seems to be working astonishingly well, I guess this instalment of Stuck in Hell must relate to the other life category listed above (I don’t have any family, so that one’s ruled out by cancer and drunks in cars).

Who was the Greek hero who spent his life rolling a huge rock up a hill, only to have it roll down the other side? Written by Camus, Sisyphus is symbolic of man’s futile search for meaning, belonging, and clarity in world devoid of values, eternal truths, or even a God. Camus was asking if there was any point, when there was no deeper meaning, just acts. No longer bound by a hope or vision for a better future or eternity, absolute moral freedom is the result; with little or no meaning there is little point to adhering to common rules or integrity, sanity or common sense.

Devoid of hope, there is hopelessness, and without integrity there is only the painful fall into the abyss of the void. Hopelessness, recklessness; the part we fear most is the animal caged released. We have the capacity for love and honour, but few choose honour or the truth of hearts. In this Brave New World, we have been reprogrammed by want and immediate fix of Soma. Drug me, if you love me, honey, kiss me till I’m in a coma... We carry our burdens of pain and angst quietly for the most, unless we have access to that part of us beyond reason or care.

1000cc’s of fuel injected fun – also a moral compass of sorts. When Jekyll and Hyde are hidden in leather, both come out to play indiscriminately, sense and sensibility unpacked in zip up cow hide. When my internal moral compass is struggling to find north, Scoot reveals my character in a grudgingly honest, almost stark, way. Annoyance with everyone in my way, I’m carrying a bundle of pain in my soul, GIVE me ROOM to pass at velocity where the pain subsides!!! Posh blonde caged in German steel, nose in the air, rolling her window to provide a buffer or chasm between her world of quiet chatter and accountant husband and mine of mechanical cacophony... A quick look, my anger aroused at her scathing rejection of me and what I represent, and soon tire smoke and screaming Yoshi reinforce her stereotype, as well as the audience of waiting cars and pedestrians.

Fuck her, fuck them, it’s Hyde in control, my moral compass swinging in circles, as lost as the hope I used to own. But on reflection, revealing my character or lack thereof, I am Sisyphus with too much horsepower and too little self (or want of) control.

In this moment, I’m stupid, reckless, out of control, and justifying it with the lack of reason or care.

Move aside, give me a wide berth, the weight you see holding me down is my baggage of pain and loathing.

But, ever faithful Scoot warns me, she shakes her head in disgust at my roughness, and she squirms before she steps aside for the longest 3 inch slide to the left in my life. Her moral compass warns me that I need to park up and walk instead.

So, here I sit contemplating life and love, and the erosion of value and values, watching my soul being circled by vultures named calamity and treason, wondering about the meaning of Sisyphus and me – Stuck in Hell again. ]]> madbikeboy https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/618-Stuck-in-Hell-series