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RESTED and REFRESHED
It's been another manic couple of weeks for me (hence the absence of blog entries) culminating with just the tonic I needed - a week away from it all with friends and family in one of the remotest, most beautiful areas of Britain - The Lakes. A week ago on Saturday, Nick and Eva and their daughter C, myself, my wife and daughter all took off for a 17th Century cottage on the edge of a mountain in the tiny hamlet of Deepdale, a few miles from Ullswater. We were a 40 mile round trip from the nearest town. No TV, no telephone, no mobile phone signal. No emails, no internet...in fact, hardly any of the things that I take for granted on a daily basis. No central heating, (I never realised a real fire could be so captivating, so comforting)...it was like going back in time. It was bliss. We walked miles, climbed mountains, marvelled at tarns (mountain lakes). We drank, played games, listened to music. Slept in late, arose to chop firewood in the outhouse. Walked in rain, walked under sun. Through valleys, in brooks, across streams. We drank Old Peculier in the Dog and Gun, Keswick. Watched the sun set over St Bee's Head on the west coast. And when I ran out of money, marvelled at the technological tour de force that is my XDA II as it allowed me to surf the net whilst stuck in traffic near Cockermouth and sweep money from one account to another online.
Ordnance Survey map showing Deepdale Hall where we stayed, in the second grid down, far right. (Crown Copyright) With no TV or other technology to assist us, we were reduced to making our own entertainment of an evening, and nothing drew greater laughs than when Nick and I, emboldened by a bottle of wine, ventured to eat raw, the daddy of all chillis: the mighty Habenero. The potency of a chilli is measured in Scoville unitis, a system conceived in 1902 by Wibur Scoville who developed a method for measuring the strength of capsicum in a given pepper. Scoville units indicate parts per million of capsaicin, the potent chemical which causes the fiery sensation associated with chillis. Capsaicin survives both cooking and freezing, but apart from the burning sensation, it also triggers the brain to produce endorphins, the natural painkillers that promote a sense of well being. The Scoville scale begins at zero with mild bell peppers and moves to the lower range of peppers such as cascabels measuring 1,500 to 2,500. The Jalapeño is mid range at about 2,500 to 5,000 Scoville units. Chillis such as cayenne, aji and pequin will rate about 30,000 to 50,00 units, while the Habernero rates as the hottest and averages around 350,000-500,000 units. I've dabbled with all manner of illicit substances in my time, but I can't recall a rush like the one I got after eating that Habanero. It was immediate, a heat that seemed to emanate from my core and consume me. My palor turned red, I was drenched in sweat, overcome with the enormity of the fire that raged within me. It felt like every nerve in my body was alive, my brain working overtime to interpret the signals firing across its synapses. Then the rush, as the pain-killing endorphins flooded my system, a feeling of happiness and well-being. That, and tears of mirth running down my cheeks, mixing with the perspiration as I laughed like a kid. The only thing to mar the holiday occurred on the second day when I discovered that I'd lost my camera. A calamity for anybody, but when the camera concerned costs £4,000 and it's got £400-worth of lens attached, not to mention a £90 battery and £50 flash card, you can begin to understand my concern. Given that Iit is vital to my professional capabillities and I can't work without it, I could perhaps be forgiven for feeling a little less than happy.
Tornado Sunset (C) Sgt. Lee Barton DCC, RAF I'd been on assignment in Wales with the Royal Air Force two days before driving to The Lakes and having driven home on the Tursday night, just dumped my laptop, camera bag and other kit in my office. Come Saturday when we headed north again, I simply loaded it all up from where I sat. Two days later, I opened my camera bag to find several lenses, and my flash, plus assorted other kit, but no Nikon camera body. I drove the 20 miles to Keswick that afternoon just to get a signal on my mobile phone so I could make some calls to retrace my steps, but to no avail. I called the snapper I'd taken with me on the assignment, the car hire company I'd rented the car from...nothing. Despairing, I called my contact at the RAF base which had hosted us - she wasn't there, so I left a message on her voicemail and that was that. Imagine my relief then on Thursday afternoon when we were again in Keswick and my phone rang just as a Tornado F3 fighter flew screeched overhead at low level - it was my RAF contact, calling me to apologise for the delaying in responding to my message, but with good news: she'd found my camera! I still have no idea how, or where I left it there, but given that I'm back up there next week for the second part of the assignment, I shall be reunited with it then. Can't say what the gig is yet, but I'll write more after the event. I felt a little more upbeat after that, although not having my camera with me, I still felt like I'd lost an arm. It was torture, being in one of England's most picturesque areas in the midst of one of the most glorious autumns we've had in years without a camera to capture the vistas. The highlight for me came on Wednesday afternoon when we drove to my favourite lake, Wastwater. I've loved the whole of this region ever since my first visit but for me, Wastwater goes a step further – it is mesmeric. Access from where we were staying is via two of the most difficult roads in the country, Wrynose Pass and Hardknott Pass. One is a continuation of the other, a winding, single path tarmac surface over the fells which one shares with wandering sheep, a succession of inclines and descents of 30%, or 1 in 3 severity. The inclines can be negotiated only in 1st gear and the road continues in this manner for some 23 miles – up and down, at hair raising attitudes, with a drop of anything up to 1,200 ft on one side, and fast flowing mountain streams on the other. It is not a drive for the faint of heart.
Self Portrait with my XDA, Wastwater After a seemingly endless journey, the road suddenly twists to the right through a thicket of trees to reveal one of the most breathtaking sights I have ever laid eyes on – Wastwater itself, in all its eerie splendour. It is the most inhospitable, the most inaccessible and the most mysterious of all the lakes. Access is by that single route, a road which eventually comes to a dead stop at the far end of the water, hemmed in by mountains on all three sides. It is literally the end of the road, for there is nowhere else for it to go. It feels as though one has been led to the end of the world; ahead are the most terrifyingly high mountains, towering over the lake, oneself and everything around - Red Pike, Kirk Fell, Great Gable and Scafell Pike - England's highest mountain. The lake too is beyond superlative – there are few words to convey its mood, its sheer gloom. Along the opposite side of the lake, the horizon is dominated by a sheer wall of rock, scree and greenery, a towering 200ft high side to one of the fells, inaccessible from all approaches. On the map, the contour lines marking out the fell are close enough that one is hard pushed to get a fingernail between them. The fell’s side marks a mass of shingle, slate, ferns, heather and grass, painting a rich tapestry of textures and colours upon the scene as greys, dark greens and browns dominate. The lake, the deepest of all in England at 260ft reflects the leaden sky, an inky, impenetrable black. It is as still as a mill pond, mirror smooth, a gateway to hell and keeper of the earth’s darkest, most vile secrets. The feeling of mystery, of sheer enigma that the water engenders has to be felt to be believed. It is possessed of a deep, dark persona, a mystifying presence that dwarfs everything around and commands respect from all who see it. Its majesty is beyond doubt. Who can tell what secrets it keeps within the heart of its watery depths? It is a truly awesome sight.
Wastwater and the Screes, picture (c) Black Rat We lunched at the Wasdale Head Inn before driving to contemplate the vista, sitting on a rocky crop facing the water and its guardian fells, watching as the light played upon the surfaces, displaying the miasma of textures, the rough and the smooth, the deep and the shallow, the soft and the unyielding. Occasionally, a narrow, blinding single shaft of sunlight played upon the slate of the fell opposite, moving toward the lake’s end in a horizontal line as though God were shining a torch beam upon its surface. We drank in the sheer brutal beauty of our surroundings, humbled in the presence of such dramatic natural creations, hewn from the surface of the earth millions of years ago by force of nature alone. This was sensory overload, yet the serenity it elicited in me was wonderful. What a beautiful, desolate, profound place. We headed home on Saturday, completing the 310 mile drive in a record 3 hours 55 minutes along unseasonably deserted and jam-free motorways. First the M6, then the M1 and finally the M25, all absent of their familar saturday gridlock. The perfect end then, to an (almost) perfect week. |
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1.11.04 18:54 |
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ARMED POLICE IN LONDON HAND IN WEAPONS
As of last night, the news wires were repoting that 20 armed officers from SO19, the Metropolitan Police firearms unit have handed in their weapons in protest at the suspension of two colleagues over a fatal shooting. When he was shot, HarryStanley, 46, a Scot who lived in London was was carrying a chair leg in a plastic bag, which the two officers thought was a sawn-off shot gun. The Stanley family, originally from Lanarkshire, won a ruling in the High Court in April this year to have an open verdict from his first inquest quashed. PC Kevin Fagan and Insp Neil Sharman were suspended and could face criminal charges after a verdict of unlawful killing was returned at the second inquest into the shooting last Friday, five years after the event. The Crown Prosecution Service, which had previously ruled out bringing charges, said it would now review the case.
Reuters was reporting that after meetings yesterday involving members of SO19, 20 officers handed in their cards authorising them to carry weapons. A further 100 officers have have declared their support for their two colleagues and have said they want to temporarily withdraw themselves from firearms duty.
Armed and Ready: What SO19 officers used to look like before they handed their guns back (C) Black Rat. The prospect of more than a quarter of the officers in SO19 effectively striking over the case has led to two crisis meetings in the 400-strong unit. SO19 sources said those who do withdraw themselves from firearms duty will still turn up for work to perform other duties but they will refuse to carry weapons.
"More than 100 have now indicated they are not prepared to carry on at the moment until they review their position," said a source. "They are bitterly disappointed at the way the two officers have been treated and they feel unsupported." Yesterday, PC Norman Brennan, director of the police support group Protect the Protectors, called for an urgent meeting between the Home Secretary David Blunkett, Metropolitan Police Commissioner Sir John Stevens and the Greater London Assembly to resolve the growing problem. He added: "I fear the ramifications will be catastrophic for the people of London in our fight against terrorism, armed robbery and those who carry firearms as a tool of their trade. We're not robocops but are human beings who join the police service to protect the public and keep the peace to the best of our ability. And on occasions armed police have to make a life or death decision in a split second on the facts that you see at the time." Mr Stanley, a painter and decorator, was shot as he left a pub in Hackney. The father-of-three, had been carrying a table leg, which had just been repaired by his brother, in a plastic bag. The armed officers claimed that Stanley reacted to their shouted warn ing of "Stop! Armed police" by turning round and raising the object he was carrying upwards, as if about to fire a gun. They had been sent in search of a suspect after a man in a pub where Stanley had been drinking rang police to say an Irishman had left the pub carrying a gun.
Armed police officers receive no enhancement to their pay, no additonal benefits over their unarmed peers. Simply, they go out every day armed and ready to meet a threat with the appropriate level of force, never knowing if they will be forced to make a split second decision that could change their's - and others' - lives forever. Should an armed officer resort to the ultimate sanction, the second a round leaves the barrel of the officer's weapon destined for its target, it sets in sequence a chain of events that will have ramifications for all reaching far into the future. Get it wrong, and he's open to a charge of manslaughter, possibly murder. Even if he gets it right, he can expect to be immediately taken off of armed duties, questioned incessantly, suspended and second-guessed by everybody with an opinion. He'll be investigated, his every decison and action analysed by 'experts' and his life will never be the same again. If you think that's no hardship, consider this: no officer is ever fully right or wrong when he's made the decision to shoot - armed officers don't operate in a world of black and white, and every scenario has a million different potential outcomes. It's easy to say when he got it wrong - but never as easy to argue he was right.
Chief Supt. Paul Robinson, head of SO19. I can't imagine he's having a terribly good day at work today (c) Black Rat If we are to expect police officers to continue to volunteer for armed duty, then clearly there needs to be a review of the way in which we treat them when they are forced to resort to the use of ultimate force? Armed officers are trained to recognise the effects of 'perception distortion', a phenomenon which the mind produces when a person is under intense stress and the 'fight or flight' response is engaged with all senses in overdrive. When the body is in this mode, time appears to become elastic and certain elements of what the eyes see and the ears hear will become enhanced at the cost of other elements being missed entirely. When confronted by what is believed to be an armed man for instance, the brain often shuts out all extraneous information, focusing only on the element of direct threat. In this situation, your vision may become monochromatic, as the brain diverts blood away from the eyes to the major organs. Asked to recall elements of detail from the incident afterwards, each witness may give a differing version of events. This is because the brain dislikes gaps and will try to fill in a picture as best it can and will 'colour in' recalled monochrome memories according to what it knows. So for example, one witness may recall a gunman wearing a blue jacket and another may arfue that he was wearing a red jacket when in fact he was wearing a beige cardigan. Hearing is affected in a similar manner.
Stop! Armed Police! An SO19 officer shows what he won't be doing from today onwards. Can you blame him? (c) Black Rat With this in mind, you can perhaps understand the difficulties in trying to accurately reconstruct the sequence of events events some time after their occurence, let alone challenging the 'reasonable belief' in the minds of the parties concerned. During the First World War, soldiers were shot for cowardice when they displayed signs of what we now recognise to be combat fatigue. It took the courage of a number of officers with progressive views to counter the policy at the time by adopting a more sympathetic and understanding approach to cases of what, on first inspection, appeared to be men going AWOL during wartime. Thanks in part to their efforts, we now understand a great deal more about the effects on people of repeated exposure to combat and offical policy has changed as a result. Could we now be stood on the edge of a similar precipice with regard to policy towards those police officers who volunteer to take up arms in the line of duty to protect us? Glen Smyth, the chairman of the Metropolitan Police Federation, said the suspension of the two officers had provoked "anger and disquiet" among their colleagues. "It has been accepted that the officers who had been suspended were acting during the incident in accordance with their training. All firearms officers are now asking themselves if they too will be abandoned by the Met should they have the misfortune to find themselves in similar circumstances to those officers who are currently suspended, even if they were to act fully in accordance with their training," he said. The Policeman's Blog has a typically down to earth and erudite take on the whole affair. I have to say, I agree with him when he says, "I’m not sure this is really a protest move by SO19 and I don’t think they are on strike in the traditional sense of the word. My guess is (and I don’t know any of the AFOs involved) that they are probably thinking, “They did everything right, they followed the guidelines and they’ve still been shafted. If a similar situation comes in again I’ll probably do the same thing, I’ve got a wife, kids and a pension, so thanks, but no thanks.”". Like he says, "in the meantime if you live in London and you see someone with a gun, take cover." Quite. |
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2.11.04 11:01 |
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FREE SPEECH RULES (AS LONG AS YOU'RE NOT A BLOGGER)
I've been following with interest the story of air hostess Ellen Simonetti, the Delta Airlines employee who was fired this week over postings on her blog Diary of a Flight Attendant. Ms Simonetti, who blogs under the name "Queen of Sky" began her blog last year and it evolved into a semi-fictional account of life in the sky, drawing on her own anecdotes of people she'd met and places she'd been whilst working as a member of the cabin crew on long-haul flights from the U.S. But after she posted images of herself in uniform on her blog, Delta Airlines' management took steps to suspend her indefinitely without pay. Last week, she was called in for a meeting where she was told she was being fired for what Delta said were 'innapropriate images' on her website. No doubt Delta executives, already occupied with fighting off bankruptcy for the airline thought that would be an end to it. They couldn't have been more wrong. After the BBC website announced news of Ms Simonetti's suspension, her story achieved global coverage with the BBC's account of events attracting over 320,000 hits. This week, she said in a statement that she was initiating legal action against the airline for "wrongful termination" and appointed a PR agency to handle and coordinate the overwhelming number of media requests, including it's reported, one from mens' magazine Playboy. Delta has repeatedly declined to comment on what it calls "internal employee matters", and a Delta spokesperson reiterated this position on Wednesday. The spokesperson did confirm that there were "very clear rules" attached to the unauthorised use of Delta branding, including uniforms.
Ms Simonetti told Someone Else's Life she had received no warning or further explanation when she was suspended on 25 September, further adding, "As a result of my suspension and subsequent termination without cause by Delta Airlines I am moving forward with filing a discrimination complaint with the Federal Government Equal Employment Opportunities Commission, hired an Austin, Texas-based law firm to initiate legal action for wrongful termination, defamation of character and lost future wages and also retained a Dallas, Texas-based public relations firm to assist with the numerous media requests. The law firm and PR firm will be working together to ensure anything I say or publish will strengthen our case against Delta." Of the 10 images Ms Simonetti posted on her blog of herself in uniform, inluding the two reproduced here, only one showed her flight 'wings'. She removed all of the images as soon as she was informed of her suspension. "I never meant it as something to harm my company and don't understand how they think it did harm them," she said.
Her story highlights growing concerns amongst bloggers about conflicts of interest, employment law and free speech on personal websites and is reminiscent of the recent furore in the U.S surrounding military bloggers (or 'milbloggers'). Many soldiers in Iraq took to writing their own blogs offering readers a glimpse of unvarnished war reporting. But with no official army policy on blogging, it was left to commanders on the ground to act upon their own initiative with widely varyting results. A few of these blogs were shut down. One, "My War" saw its author, an infantryman in a U.S Army Stryker brigade, banned from missions for five days because of the blog. A Copper's Blog is a brilliantly written dry and ironic look at the day to day events encountered by its author, a serving police officer. Yet despite there being nothing particularly contentious about its content and the author stating clearly that the opinions contained within are his alone and not reflective of the police service, he writes anonymously fearing that to do otherwise would draw wrath from above, possibly seeing his out of a job. The spectacular rise of the blogging phenomenon seems to have caught many employers on the back foot and few have a clear-cut policy on dealing with those, like Ellen Simonetti who blog on their own time but touch on aspects of their professional lives. At worst, the pictures Ms Simonetti posted on her blog could be described as nothing more than 'playful'. Certainly, there is nothing about them which, given the nature of her blog, any reasonable person could construe to be detrimental to her airline. Some companies actively encourage employees to blog whilst others adopt a position more redolent of a rabbit caught in headlights once their employees' blogs are discovered. One of the areas where it becomes a problem is that they encourage blogging when it suits them, but they may not be particularly clear about when or if employees cross a line. Delta executives may have acted hastily in firing Ms Simonetti. The airline has been hit recently by dual pressures of rising fuel costs and fierce competition and has previously said it needs to cut between 6,000 and 7,000 jobs, as well as reducing costs by $5bn (£2.7bn) a year. Analysts have warned that the airline might have to seek Chapter 11 bankruptcy prevention. Last week, it struck a $1bn cost-cutting deal with its pilots which could save it from bankruptcy. The deal would see pilots accept a 32% pay cut in return for the right to buy 30 million Delta shares, unions said. And on Monday, it negotiated a deal to defer about $135m in debt which was due next year, until 2007. The airline also said it had agreed the terms of a $600m loan from American Express. Perhaps management thought that Ms Simonetti's was one less salary to have to pay. Should she prove successful in her quest to sue them over her dismissal, it could prove to be a somewhat more costly decision than perhaps they first thought. |
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3.11.04 15:10 |
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VALLEY GIRL - A FLIGHT OF FANCY
One of the more bizarre aspects of my existence is the dichotomy between my work and home lives. I can go weeks where I rarely seem to leave my desk, writing press releases and features from afar, just a few hundred words of puff that I can fit in around the school run and the vagaries of being a house husband. During those times, blogging is like a busman's holiday, a diversion to pass the time of day. Then there are the periods of news reportage which see me flying off at short notice to some far-flung, troublesome corner of the globe to write straight forward, factual reports of events such as earlier this year when I was based in Baghdad. Internet access is widespread, and I see and hear things which lend my blog a different hue. More frequently though, it's the features assignments that land on my desk with no certainty attaching other than that they will take me away on a journey, both geographical and intellectual. My recent absence from here is as a result of one such event. Whilst news reportage is the bread and butter of any journalist's work, it's the features that really inspire and encourage the passion which lies within, enabling us to really dig deep and immerse ourselves in the life of another. When an editor calls with a prospective feature for me to undertake, or I secure agreement for the publication of copy which is the result of my own inspiration, I feel a little like a cartoon character of my youth, a modern day Mr Benn with a twist. Inspiration strikes, I make a phone call, send a couple of emails, and the door opens on an adventure that leads me away from home to undertake a journey into someone else's life. I've written before of the Byzantine manner in which the inspiration for a feature idea can strike me. Sometimes, my natural sense of curiosity is pricked and I see a story in the everyday, as in the case of Bombay Sapphire Gin. Sometimes, my thirst for knowledge and lateral thinking combine and I seek further education in something I simply want to know more about, as in the case of a recent feature I produced about Martin Baker Ejector Seats. Occasionally, my attention is captured by something ostensibly straightforward that leads into something else altogether. As in the assignment that I've just returned from. One sunday last summer, I was sat idly channel surfing when I happened upon TV coverage of ITV's Formula Woman. This was a one-make race series with 16 female drivers selected from over 10,000 applicants. Watching this, one lady in particular caught my eye - 25 year old Juliette Thurston.
Flying Officer Jules Thurston, RAF: Seated in the cockpit of her BAe Hawk T1 Juliette, as well as displaying a bit of talent behind the wheel of a car, is also one of the Royal Air Force's most talented fast-jet pilots. She's an officer and combat pilot instructor with 208 Squadron, based at RAF Valley in Holyhead at the north-western most tip of Wales from where she teaches the combat pilots of tomorrow how to use a fast jet as a weapons platform. Flying Hawk T1 aircraft, her and her colleagues introduce students to the finer points of low-level flying, a skill which leaves no margin for error and where just 150ft separates forward flight at a speed of 7 miles per minute from the ground and almost certain death - opportunities for pulling the handle to eject are non-existent in the time it takes for a crash to occur at low level. Just before the end of October, armed with a commission, I drove the 300 miles to North Wales accompanied by my photographer Matt to meet with Juliette as a guest of 208 Squadron. The plan was to interview her, stay at the Officers' Mess overnight and drive back the following day. But this proved to be an assignment with a difference - with, er...'wings' on, if you like. In essence, Jules felt that the best way for me to get a handle on what she does was to put myself in the role of one of her students. So after being issued with full flying kit and gifted with the other elements that constitute a fighter pilot's uniform, I wandered the base talking to people and soaking up as much information as I could. The following day was spent at the base's Hawk Synthetic Training Facility where I received instruction in the rudimentary aspects of low-level flying this agile jet aircraft in a £20m simulator encompassing a fully representative Hawk cockpit inside a huge projection dome with a 270degree field of view provided courtesy of a multi-channel high resolution projection display. Here, I successfully managed to take off, fly a low-level sortie through the valleys of North Wales' countryside, before loosing off a missile from the underwing pylons and watching it snake at high-speed to destroy a cottage in the Welsh hills (well, enough English holiday homes were set on fire by Welsh nationalists in the early 80s - it was the least I could do). I even managed to land without crashing. Suitably impressed, she delivered the coup de grace. "Let's arrange a date for you to come back and stay for a couple of days and you can do this for real. How's that grab you?" Three years ago, providence shined upon me and placed me somewhat surprised and overawed in the rear seat of a Tornado F3 fighter jet as it flew me supersonically at low level over the North Sea. That was the realisation of a dream for a boy who had grown into a 33 year old frustrated combat pilot. I thought myself beyond privileged to have at least touched that dream and made it real. Now, I was being given the opportunity to do it again. I drove back that evening hardly able to contain my enthusiasm. The following week was spent on holiday in the lake district. A non-stop week immediately after our return which saw me on assignments the length and breadth of the UK before returning on Monday back to RAF Valley to play at being a combat pilot. I eschewed driving this time, relaxing in the First Class compartment of an ultra-modern Pendolino train courtesy of Virgin Trains.
Kitting Up: Zipping myself into a pair of anti-G trousers at the Quartermaster's. The hose leading from my adbomen doesn't lead to a colostomy bag - it's the connector that carries air to the G-pants! (c) Chryogen Arriving on Monday afternoon, I collected my flying kit, booked in at the Officers' Mess and enjoyed a few drinks in the bar with some of the squadron's pilots before being met by Jules and heading off base for a meal. On our drive back to base in her Audi S3, I got a first-hand demonstration of the skills that allowed Jules, along with 15 others to beat 10,000 women to a driving seat in the Formula Woman series - she's fast! Early Tuesday morning, it was off to the see the Station Medical Officer for a thorough once-over before being passed as fit to fly. After that, I sat in on one of three weather briefings by a Met Office scientist at the squadron's HQ. This was followed by our flight brief at which all those involved in our sortie laid out and agreed upon the rules, procedures and operations to be followed for that specific op.
Me, Pensive: Listening intently at the pre-flight brief (c) Chryogen. Our sortie was scheduled for a 12:10 departure as part of a 'battle pair' flying with our wing man as part of a tight formation. We were routed to transit across the Irish Sea and across to Barrow-in-Furness before breaking off and dropping to low level across the Lake District as a pair, flying through the valleys, across the lakes and over mountains, hugging the terrain. Military aircrews fly at low level for a number of reasons, but principally, because hugging the terrain means flying below the operational effectiveness of enemy air defence systems - in short, flying below radar cover. In peacetime, training for this is conducted at any of the UK's 18 designated Low Flying Areas, at speeds of 450 knots and at heights ranging from 100-250ft. At 11:00, I walked into the aircrew locker to where my flying kit waited. Dressing first in RAF-issue thermal cotton undergarments (required for its effectiveness against fire), next up was my flying suit and boots followed by the anti-G trousers ( increased G-Forces as produced by the tight, high speed manoeuvres fast jets are capable of causes our blood to gets heavier. Our hearts have evolved to pump blood round our bodies against a force of just 1 G and when this G-Force increases, our hearts are literally not strong enough to push our blood into our brains so instead, it pulls on the veins in our legs. As blood drains away from our brain it begins to shut down. We first lose our colour vision, then our field of view shrinks until, eventually, we lose consciousness. Anti-G trousers contain special bladders which fill with air and squeeze the legs, allowing you to remain conscious in higher gravity situations). Over my top half, I wore an officers' flying jacket and over this, I strapped into my Life Survival Jacket or 'Mae West'. Finally, I collected my Mark 4A Flying Helmet and oxygen mask, together with a pair of super-thin capeskin leather aircrew gloves and met up with Jules to walk out to the Hawk and get strapped in.
Jules: Completing paperwork in the ops room prior to our sortie (c) Black Rat The BAe Hawk is not merely a good-looking aircraft; It is agile and handles well, with a clean responsive 'feel' to the controls, and is regarded as great fun to fly - something that had been borne out by my sortie in the simulator. Its single Rolls Royce turbofan produces 5,200lb of thrust which, allied to a light weight of 18,390lbs fully laden is sufficient to push the aircraft to a maximum speed of 658mph, although it can achieve transonic speed in a 60 degree dive. Certainly, it's sufficiently agile and capable that the Hawk has been the mainstay of the RAF's illustrious Red Arrows display team since it replaced the ageing Folland Gnat in 1980. To say I was looking forward to flying the aircraft, putting into practice the elements I'd learned in the sim would be an understatement although I have to confess, based on past experience of high-G, I was feeling a little apprehensive to say the least!
Photocall: Jules poses outside our Hawk before strapping in. It had been a dark and overcast morning but almost as soon as Jules and I walked out to our jet, the clouds parted to reveal blue skies and bright sunshine. We walked ahead of the others to give us time to effect a photocall, and for me to get strapped into the Hawk's rear cockpit. It's a cramped affair, although the canopy, with it's tell-tale pattern shaped-charge running its length, is huge allowing exceptional all round visibility. I lowered myself into the Martin Baker Mk 10B Ejection Seat and secured myself via the 5-point harness, next attaching my leg restraint lines to the ejection seat (in the event of an ejection, these would pull my legs into the seat). On my left side, I attached the umbilical cord from the G-trousers to a plate that connected me to the aircraft, along with the oxygen hose and comms cable. Finally, I put on the helmet and oxygen mask, followed by my gloves. As the canopy was lowered and the order given to start engines, communication between Juliet and myself was via the intercom, the mics in our oxygen masks picking up the sound of our collective breathing, making it audible though the helmet's speakers. Within minutes, my mind would screen that element of sound out - but I made a mental note that if I needed to throw up later in the flight, Jules might appreciate my turning the mic off before doing so! Jules kept up a constant dialogue as we taxied out alongside the other jets in our flight. On the order to do so, I removed the firing pins to arm first the explosive charge in the canopy, followed by that for the seat itself and placed them in their respective slots on the console ahead of me.
Taxiing Out: Jules (front) and I leave the pan for RAF Valley's main runway and a flight of fancy. We were cleared for take off as soon as we turned onto Valley's main runway, the sparse, high level clouds affording us a view of deep blue and bright sunlight above. We held briefly on the threshold to the runway, the Hawk's wheel brakes straining against the 5,200lb of thrust developed by its single Rolls-Royce / Turbomeca "Adour 151" turbofan. After a slight pause, we surged forward in tandem with our wing man, 'rotating' to climb aggressively skywards, joined almost immediately afterwards by the other aircraft in our flight.
Wing Man: Climbing out over Anglesey in tandem with our wing man. (c) Black Rat Transiting across the Irish Sea was uneventful and to be honest, there was little to differentiate it from any other flight I've ever undertaken at that stage other than the close proximity of our wing man and the other aircraft in the formation. I took the opportunity to fully appraise myself of my environment and make myself comfortable - a relative term given the layers I was wearing and the limited movement afforded me by the ejection harness (once strapped in, the harness is tightened to draw you down into the seat and keep you there - the benefits outweigh the cost, especially when flying inverted or undertaking the rapid, tight manoeuvres that fast jets are capable of). Despite the air conditioning blasting out cold air on full power, I was already sweating profusely, a combination of the layers I was wearing and the greenhouse effect of sunlight through the canopy.
Alien: Self-portrait, 7,000ft and 500 knots over the Irish Sea. Witness the reflection of the clouds in my visor - it might be bright and sunny where we are, but beneath the cloud, at ground level it's distinctly miserable. (c) Black Rat Any discomfort I may have been feeling disappeared immediately we crossed over to the mainland peeling away from the formation with our wing man into a battle pair to drop down through several thousand feet somewhere over Barrow in Furness and level off at 250ft and 450 knots. Which is where the world changed for me.
Magic Carpet: Flying abeam of our wing man across a carpet of cloud covering the Irish Sea (c) Black Rat Consider. Perception of speed is a relative thing and your perspective of it is governed by your frame of reference. Travelling supersonic in Concorde for example was meaningless in terms of how it looked from inside because there are no static objects at 60,000ft to act as a reference point. At 250ft above the ground however, you suddenly become very conscious of your surroundings, especially when hills and mountains rise up on either side of you from the valley floor!
Road to Nowhere: Flying at 90 degrees to the horizon, 200ft altitude, speed 450 knots through the Borrowdale Valley, Cumbria (c) Black Rat Flying the length of Lake Windermere just above the treetops at 450 knots is an extraordinary experience but as nothing compared to the sudden, violent shift through 45 degrees that saw us flying at 90 degrees to the horizontal and hugging the valley floor through Ambleside. Low level flying is a dynamic affair built on shifting sands and requires immense concentration as the valley floor rises and falls beneath you, hills closing in as the valley changes direction, the odd mountain blocking your path and requiring a pull back on the stick and a sudden increase in power to negotiate. The world outside the canopy is a gorgeous miasma of golds, browns, ambers, greens, the Lake's Autumn colours swirling around in a kaleidoscope of shapes and hues. Suddenly, Ullswater appears below us. At 7 miles long, it will take us less than a minute to travel its length at these speeds. To our right, a series of mountains 2,156ft high, to our left a range 3,116 towers above us. Our wingtips have just the lake's breadth between them and the scree of the mountains either side and the thought occurs to me, at this height, this speed, any major system failure, or a bird strike through the front canopy and it's good night forever - by the time I could react and pull the handle, we'd have ploughed nose first into a watery grave. It's a sobering thought. North of Ullswater, we fly right over Deepdale and the cottage that I'd stayed at with my family just two weeks before. Then, I was watching the fast jets scream past at low level, just another of the many faces craned skywards to catch a glimpse of something so rarely seen in the south. Here and now, I look down through the canopy and see the awed faces of walkers staring up at us on the valley floor. On one mountain path to our right, I sight a group of walkers looking downwards upon us!
Break Right: Pulling a 4G turn as we cross the M6 just east of Penrith (c) Black Rat Clearing Ullswater, we break right, heading low over the M6 motorway at Penrith before a hard 6G turn left and across toward Carlisle. We're low, breaking left, right, left again, rising, falling, our wing man alongside and slightly abeam. Low level across fields, over the dome of Center Parcs' Oasis Whinfell Forest. A flock of birds passes us on our flight level some 40 feet to our right and it occurs to me once again just how dangerous low-level flying is. This is what I love about flying - the freedom, go anywhere, do anything, move in three dimensions. It's a dynamic world above. We break hard right, and I feel the anti-G system flood with air, constricting my legs. It tightens and I strain against it as my vision begins to fade, the sustained 5g making me fully five times my normal weight. Holding my camera at arms length is an impossible task and I sense my consciousness fading before suddenly we right ourselves and I'm back. With Sellafield nuclear processing plant on our nose in the distance, we part company from our wing man and peel off alone. I'm feeling significantly less than 100% now, the constant G of low level turns and sudden manoeuvres exacting its toll on my equilibrium. I'm fighting waves of nausea, sweating profusely. I've a frame of reference for this and it isn't getting any easier!
Wast Water: Flying right wing down, 150ft above Wast Water with the screes disappering into the water on our right. Contrast this image with this one taken by me just two weeks ago whilst on the ground below our flight path. Little did I know then I'd be seeing the same vista from a different perspective. (c) Black Rat Jules is talking to me over the intercom, keeping my mind focused in between to verbalising potential obstacles such as electricity pylons which, at our height, we're in danger of flying into. As we track south along the coast, I spy Wast Water, my favourite of all the lakes somewhere of to our left. I tell Jules and we break hard left and down. This is something else! We're over the water now, just 150 feet above its surface, the 1500ft high vertical wall of rock known as Wastwater Scree just to our right dropping straight into the lake's south-eastern shore. We fly alongside the point at which I stood just two weeks previous, gazing at the screes. Now, there are others there looking in wonder as we screech alongside them from nowhere and are gone just as quickly. Ahead and to my left, the Wasdale Head Inn and rising majestically on our nose, blocking our path, Scafell Pike - at 3,210ft, England's highest mountain.
Wasdale Head from 200ft: The Wasdale Head Inn is visible through the canopy as we pull up to clear Scafell Pike (c) Black Rat) We climb vertically to crest it, breaking hard right across its summit and below us, I see Wrynose Pass snaking away into the distance. We've been flying for over an hour now and as we climb out over the Irish Sea to around 15,000ft, I sense I'm losing the battle with the waves of nausea that are enveloping me. However, it's not just a question of reaching for the conveniently placed sick bag secreted under the map pocket in my G-trousers - I fumble for the switch on the oxygen mask that turns the mic off and fiddle with the release clip that drops the oxygen mask away from my face before I can let nature take its course. Arse, it's beaten me again. So, that'll be no prospect of me making it as a fighter pilot, then. That done, I feel a little better and besides, the views at this height divert my attention to illustrate perfectly just what I love most about aviation. Crossing the Irish Sea, we were pinned below an impenetrable layer of cloud, part of a frontal system moving down from the north. As we fly west, we break through into a different world of bright sunshine, azure, clear skies reaching as far as we can see. It's magical, a universe away from the dark, oppressive world below. Somewhere high above, we reach the edge of the frontal system and it's clear again to the sea below.
Frontal System: The leading edge of a weather front over the Irish Sea (just visible in the bottom right below the patchy cotton-wool clouds. Out of shot to our right are clear skies, with Anglesey off in the distance (c) Black Rat. Jules comes over the intercom, "You have control" and I repeat the affirmation. Suddenly, my mind is focused, the last tendrils of the nausea of a few seconds ago brushed aside. "It's all yours", she adds. "Make her fly!". I grasp the throttle in my left hand and ease it all the way forwards, the stick in my right holding us steady as I scan the instruments and watch our speed increase. "Aileron roll in 3...2...1" I warn Jules and flick the stick hard right. In under a second, we've rolled through 360 degrees. I immediately break left and feel the anti-G system squeezing against my legs and abdomen. We're at 90 degrees to the horizontal, max speed in the turn. I pull back on the stick to tighten the turn still further and feel the G increasing. 6G now, but I'm loving it - it's different when I'm at the controls. As a passenger, you're one step behind the events, constantly responding to what's happening, trying to anticipate and the G is a surprise - you don't know how intense, how sustained it will be. In control, you pre-empt, you know what's coming and its intoxicating, a high better than anything I've ever experienced. I thought flying the Tornado F3 was fun, but this is fast-jet flying at another level, the Hawk's legendary agility and benign character a joy. There's a joke within the fast jet community that a Tornado needs several counties to perform a tight turn - this does it on a sixpence. I pull a loop, invert us and then push the stick hard forward putting us into a dive down towards the Irish Sea. With sufficient height and the right angle of attack, this would push us through the sound barrier but we have neither the altitude or fuel left to do this, so I level off and hand control back to Jules for the flight back to Valley. It's been fun but it can't last forever.
Alien II - the Sequel: One and a half hours into the sortie as we break for home (c) Black Rat. The island of Anglesey is clearly visible below us almost in its entirety and I spot the runway off in the distance. Jules tells me she's going to take us in at a steep angle of attack to show me just what the Hawk is capable of and we dive down almost vertically onto the runway threshold, pulling up at just 75 ft for a go-around. Traffic in the pattern is busy - there are at least 4 other Hawks flying in our airspace, two ahead of us to land. We bank hard right, flying a lazy circle above Valley, awaiting clearance - which when it comes sees us straight in and down in a perfect landing. She's good, Jules. Really good.
Short Finals: Descending to land, just before the threshold to Valley's main runway (c) Black Rat. As she shuts the engine down and raises the canopy, I let my mask drop away from my face gulping in mouthfuls of fresh sea air as I reinsert the pins to make safe the ejection system. My legs are a little unsteady as I descend the steps to terra firma, but my grin belies the way I feel. The nausea is there in the background, I'm drenched in perspiration and I feel tired - oh so tired, but elated. Assignments come and go, and with each one to push the envelope of my imagination still further I think, "It can't get any better than this". But something comes along to up the ante, another dream fulfilled. I learn something, do something, change something and walk away with a different persective, a better understanding of the elements of other people's roles, their lives. I contacted Jules to conduct an interview and she unlocked the door to another of my dreams for me. And if people ask me what's so special, why is my job so different, what can I say? It's things, people like this. The money may be incidental compared to what I used to earn, and more often than not, the fallow times dwarf the profitable ones but you can't have everything in life and there has to be a compromise somehwere. Sod the money. This is what inspires me. I've put together a short film which illustrates perfectly the sortie that I flew. It's a combination of in-cockpit video shot by myself and one of the guys on the squadron, together with some external footage shot by other squadron members on the ground. Five and a half minutes in length and it's in .wmv format at a touch over 9mb in size. Wanna know how it feels to fly low level at 450 knots with hills either side of you? Watch this:
A quiet weekend lies ahead for me, the perfect end to what's been a manic week. Arriving home from Wales late on tuesday night, I scarcely had time to unpack before an early morning trek across the capital to a meeting at Heathrow Airport on wednesday, followed by a lunch meeting yesterday with a PR girl to discuss a restaurant launch. Enjoy your weekends - make 'em count, people. Normal service will be resumed here next week. |
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12.11.04 13:57 |
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GAME OVER
Sometimes, it seems there's a delicious irony running like an undercurrent through my working life to perfectly illustrate the extremes of the commissions that land on my desk. Not unlike my fellow scribe and blogger Freelance Tart, (she'll write anything for money!), sometimes we have to take the rough with the smooth. This time last week, I was snugly ensconced in the desered but oh-so-cosy first class compartment of one of Virgin's brand new pendolino trains as it sped me back to London. I was reliving the memory of how a few hours earlier, I'd taken control of one of the RAF's most agile fast jets somewhere over the Irish Sea and made it do my bidding. I'd spent two days consorting with some of the RAF's finest officers, enojoyed myself immensely and added some new and extraordinary experiences to my mind's database. Contrast that with today 's assignments: a day stuck at home, in mufti, churning out words to put to bed the five final outsanding assignments for the Agency. 10,000 words since 10:00 this morning on a raft of disparate subjects only one of which even came within a country mile of inspiring me (a piece for an upmarket boat magazine in Australia about a new yacht).
A piece about Jack Vettriano, Britain's best selling artist, a peice on architecture in London, another story with a maritime twist to it. And the piece de resistance? A story about packing tape! The commission was reminiscent of the punishment essays which one English master at my minor public shcool was fond of visiting upon students unlucky enough to turn up in detention on those days when he was in charge: "You, boy. Write a thousand words on the sex life of a ping pong ball". Fast jets to packing tape in the space of a week. Rock and Roll, eh? Still, on the upside, I can kick back and relax a little having cleared the decks of all but two of my outstanding writing assignments and the deadline for those is a month away yet. There's an ice-cold beer in the fridge waiting for me just as soon as I get these completed stories subbed and printed. Better still, it's my birthday tomorrow and I'm planning to do nothing remotely approaching work for the day. Only thing occupying me at the moment is how this time a year ago I was 35 years old, yet by this time tomorrow, I'll be on intimate terms with 37. Arse. |
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16.11.04 17:15 |
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ALEX HEADHUNTED FOR WEST END ROLE
Regular readers of this blog might recall that a year or so ago, I went to The Groucho Club to interview Charles Peattie and Russell Taylor - creators of the cartoon Alex. Peattie and Taylor told Someone Else's Life that they were considering bringing Alex to the London stage, something I reported here at the time. It was a tough assignment - the creators suggested that I might like to interview Alex, an idea I scoffed at initially. I mean, how on earth would I interview a two-dimensional cartoon character? But they had already worked that out - as Alex couldn't be made real, I'd have to become like him. And that's exactly what they did, drawing me in cartoon form and placing me at a table in the Groucho with a typically rude and conceited Alex. As his regular readers will know, Alex was born of the Thatcher years, the ultimate yuppie and an acutely observed satire on the booming financial community that sprung up in London at the time -particularly its stockbrokers and fund managers. Alex perfectly encapsulated the changing face of London culture under Margaret Thatcher but survived her to see global success as he was syndicated to leading newspapers around the world. Since his birth, his fortunes have ebbed and waned following trends and mirroring news and events in the industry which spawned him.
Annoyed and Bored: Alex keeps me waiting at the Groucho Club as he puts his wife Penny on hold to take a call from his mistress Wendy. The cheek of it - as members will know, mobile phones are banned at the Groucho! (c) Charles Peattie I'd pretty much forgotten that his creators were conidering making Alex into a real person, the anthithesis of the exercise that made me like him. So I was delighted to read news on the front page of yesterday's Daily Telegraph confirming that the play is written and Peattie and Taylor are in talks with producers with a view to staging the show early in 2005 (remember folks, you read it here first!) According to the report: Alex, the award-winning Daily Telegraph comic strip about a devious corporate financier, is to be made into a West End play. Its creators, Russell Taylor and Charles Peattie, who are putting the finishing touches to the script, confirmed yesterday that they were in talks with a number of producers keen to put it on. "The play is written and we're having meetings but that's as far as we've got at the moment," Taylor said. The pair got the idea for transforming the strip into a play after listening to a fund manager complain about how "totally bored" he was of attending the men's final at Wimbledon. "He had been to the event for 16 years on the trot and every spring invitations from four or five different brokers for him to choose from would land on his desk," Peattie said. "Putting aside the sheer ingratitude of the man, we realised that the City needs a constant stream of fresh ways to entertain jaded clients."
Peattie (left) and Taylor: The brains behind Alex, the cartoon character who earned them MBEs. in the New Year Honours, 2002. Er...recognition by the establishment? That's got to have dented their satirists' credentials.(c) Black Rat Alex first appeared in the London Daily News in 1987 as a parody of the then all-pervasive yuppie culture. It proved an instant hit. The 90-minute stage version - it has been kept deliberately brief so City types will "still be able to go out afterwards to dinner or Spearmint Rhino" - will be reassuringly familiar to fans of the strip, with a typically pacy plot as Alex struggles to juggle his job, marriage and social life. Taylor said no decision had yet been taken on casting Alex. "I am really looking for a young Alan Rickman, if such a thing exists," he said. "A posh and obnoxious young man in his 30s - but there don't seem to be many of those about." The play is expected to go on early next year. Hmm, 'a young Alan Rickman'? Rik Mayall could be a contender for that role too - it's not a million miles from his portrayal of Alan B'stard, MP. Can anyone suggest anybody else who might be suitable? On another note, many thanks to all those of you who kindly took the time to offer me your best wishes and confectionery for my birthday yesterday. Hell, the sun even shone for me - in a marked contrast to my birthday last year, which saw steely gray skies and torrential rain the weather decided to play ball. I had a lovely day, got everything I wished for and saw the day rounded off with a meal with my wife at a local restaurant. Perfect. |
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18.11.04 11:31 |
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BEST OF TIMES, WORST OF TIMES
The two years that I spent working as a motorcycle courier in London are amongst the most formative of my adult life. Sure, the ten years I spent working in the city gifted me the material goods; and the years I've spent working as a writer and photographer have shown me another side. But life as a courier gave me something else entirely - after the macroed existence of life as a city broker, it brought me down to earth and grounded me. I got fit; I earned every penny I received courtesy of my own efforts. And 'doing battle' - spending anything up to 16 hours a day on a motorcycle, mixing it and fighting for dominance with London traffic gifted me something else - the ability to ride like I was born to it. It's a steep learning curve and there are no short cuts - every working day means confronting your demons and facing the risks and dangers inherent in riding on the edge of traffic laws to earn that week's income. But at your peak, you develop a riding skill which is honed to perfection, almost intuitive. Six months, a year in, you know. It's that simple. Gap chasing, filtering, you ride at a pace and manner alien to other bikers because it's instinctive. The average motorcyclist rides 4,000 miles in a year - that's an average month for a courier; go figure. Like any skill, it goes off - you need to use it every day to keep it sharp and just a week away from work sees you fighting to regain your ability once you return. It takes a certain mind set to filter alongside stationary traffic on Shaftesbury Avenue, riding at speed on the offside of the white line in the face on oncoming traffic. It goes like this... Couriers don't cross London with one job at a time. Generally, every job is of the ‘life or death, must be there yesterday’ variety. So you’ll be filtering along Shaftesbury Avenue. You have 4 jobs on board all going west. The traffic is solid on your side of the road, fast moving towards you on the other. Riding on the offside into the face of the oncoming traffic, you’re thinking about your route to the next drop when you pick out your number from the noise on the radio as the controller tells you of another 2 pick ups en-route. So there you go, deftly weaving into the equation how those two pick ups fit in with the map in your head of the 4 drops you’ve got. Except one of those jobs has to be dropped before you do the first pick up because you’re against a deadline. And whilst all this is going on, cars are edging out of side turnings, seemingly blind pedestrians are walking out from between buses without consideration for filtering bikes. Tourists wander through every gap, the lights that you’re approaching are going red and you’re weighing it up ‘jump or stop’, when a police car on a shout steams past on the other side of the road. Just as your mobile starts to ring and the controller is on the radio again asking “How long to drop W1, Echo 15?”When you can do all that without thinking, leave other riders in your wake and sing along absent-mindedly in your helmet to the tune you woke up to that morning, you know you've got it. And whilst that skill might go off, you never lose it entirely.
Writing that, I'm reminded of a ride into London one morning back then on a rare day off, on my own R6 - not the shaft-driven leviathan BMW 1150RT or Honda Pan Euro ST1100 that I rode for work but my own razor sharp, 160mph race bike. Riding an R6 into and around town is purgatory in rush hour – all that raw power available, but unusable (like Atomic Kitten, all promise with no delivery). For the most part, it’s a lonely ride – line after line of cars to filter past, gap chasing - and being a courier, at speeds that most commuters just can’t match. All bikers like to ride with others of similar ability, its just that riding up to 2000 miles a week, we all see ourselves as a bit, well, ‘tasty’! I was about 2 miles into my 17-mile journey when I clocked him. I don’t know how I knew, but I did. It’s like some sixth sense that exists within couriers, developed in the subconscious to help you identify one another even when you're not readily identifiable as working. I was sat at the lights minding my own business, having filtered to the front of a mix of commuters on scooters, a Harley and a CB250. Quick subconscious thought as I’m eyeing the lights ("Hmm, no threats here. Oh for another courier to pull alongside me, someone who knows how to ride…") And there he was. I was the only bike that had ventured past the cars at the white stop line (why don’t ‘commuters’ protect their safety bubble?) until he arrived. I clocked him in my peripheral vision, and knew…just knew that this ride in to town, all 15 or so remaining miles, was going to be one to remember. We acknowledged one another, eyed the others’ bike (he was on a trick yellow VTR Firestorm), the lights changed…and that was it - an unspoken pact, but we both knew what to do. He was first away from Tally Ho corner, full throttle with a subtle wheelie to show me that he meant business; I’m on his tail to the next lights. My mind’s racing ahead, looking for threats, cars emerging from side roads…no, all clear in front, nail the throttle. We slow in good time, feet up…green light! I pass him, first away, past the infinite queue of traffic, along the centreline. There’s nowhere for him to pass me so he’s stuck there. A potent mix of dopamine, serotonin and adrenaline is kicking around my system now, I’m buzzing. It's like playing X-Box but for real - no extra lives here. I’m way in front now, and checking my mirrors, I see him held back by a car refusing to allow him through. I’m waiting at the lights as he rolls toward me, upping the ante a little by pulling off a perfectly executed rolling stoppie. And then we’re away again - he’s first, but I’m close on him. I know that this guy’s good…it’s not his stoppies or wheelies (any fool with a half decent machine can do them - on an R6 with its power-weight ratio, it's hard not to!) – more his awareness and riding position. Our pace is quick, but not excessively so; we’re making progress. We’re positioned defensively and reading the road far enough ahead to protect ourselves. As we take turns at riding point, we each watch for threats in front of us, signalling whichever of us is in behind to make them aware of whatever’s ahead. I know that this guy must have been a courier. It might not impart much to us, but there are few who aren’t who can ride with our confidence and agility in traffic.
And like this we ride, all the way into central London. It’s way early in the morning; traffic’s surprisingly light along the Holloway Road and the trek in passes in a blur. Next light’s red, he’s first there and it’s my turn to stoppie. We both smile and I ask him “How long were you a courier, then?” I’m spot on – after ten years on the road, he’s now a controller at a city-based courier company. The despatch Gods always have a trick up their sleeve to stop you from getting over confident though, perhaps evolution’s way of keeping us alive in the face of our own stupidity. I met my own nemesis just two days after the ride described above – nothing major, but an exercise in re-assessing my abilities all the same and in a very public manner! It was about 11:00am and I was plotted up on my BMW RT1150 in Bury Street, SW1 – around the back of the Economist building. It was one of the rare hot days, but it made up for the paucity of sunlight the previous few days and I was catching my breath between jobs. I’d done a few locals and was ‘standing by’, sitting with my feet up on the handlebars, coffee on the tank in front, Daily Telegraph in hand – the sort of situation that you can only get yourself into with any degree of confidence in summer, knowing that you’ll have time to finish your coffee as well as the paper because dammit, it’s August and it’s never busy. It was the arrival of an Addison Lee courier on a GT550 that made me look up. He parked parallel to me, dashed into an address in Ryder Street and ran out again. This did stop me reading…it’s August; surely he can’t be that busy that he’s in a rush? Arriving back at his bike, we acknowledged one another and I looked back to my newspaper, leaving him to puts his dockets into his top-box, side stand up and… CRASH!!! He’s laying on the ground next to me under his GT550, which he had been attempting to U-Turn. He gets up, and I help him to lift the bike up as I try to assuage his obvious embarrassment proffering small nuggets of reassurance… “So easily done, mate…did it myself only the other day (lie!)…It’s the bike, not you – those top boxes are a nightmare…” There’s no damage to his bike and after thanking me he rides off. I go back to my paper, basking in heat and the bright sunlight. My jacket is in one of the panniers, I’m sitting in tee shirt and leathers and I’m feeling pretty good about things. I smile to myself; despite my reassurances to the AddyLee courier, it was funny. Of course it was his fault. I haven’t done that for years, he’s obviously inexperienced… My radio interrupts the silence - “Yeah, Echo two six, into 79 Knightsbridge quick as you can, there’s a Bristol in there for you…” Life’s looking up. I get there in double quick time. Park the BMW directly outside, side on to the kerb and dash inside for the package. I’m pushing my luck now, but maybe, there’ll be something to go with it…Swansea perhaps. Exeter maybe..? The package is waiting for me (bonus!), I grab it and return to the bike. I’m miles away as I place it in the top box…Alright then, I’ll settle for a Reading to go with it…I stand alongside the bike and call base and get the reply “give it 10 round the corner”. Not unexpected. Best move, then, no point sitting here.
I know it’s going to happen as I swing my leg over the seat…and my momentum takes me all the way over the other side with the bike between my legs! No! This can’t be happening to me, not here, not now! I’m laying in Knightsbridge, surely London’s busiest arterial route with traffic at full flow around me, all 653lb of BMW's finest tourer upon me. I couldn’t have asked for a bigger audience to witness my stupidity if I’d done it at Highbury before one of Arsenal’s Champion’s League home games. At least AddyLee man’s embarrassment was spared by having an audience of one to witness his error! Actually, I blame the camber of the road at the kerbside. Yeah that was it! I never stood a chance against that. Big bike, too…no chance. That’ll be it, then, the camber…never did get anything to go with that Bristol, either! |
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24.11.04 15:11 |
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