And it's an early, early morning flit across the back yard grass to raid the greenhouse for just turned red tomatoes, and a healthy clump of basil leaves. Bare foot and dew between the toes. Them peppers, them's next; for the feel fine lunchtime dine.
Been to the Fat Cat Tap with Them Harvey Boys for a fight the noise battle. We unplugged and won. Too pooped to climb the one to eleven steps, bed beckons but the sofa's nearer...
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
Let it rain.
Brilliant weekend.
Gig, village fete, gig, steam rally.
Rain. Glimmer. Torrential rain. Evening sun. Rain, shine, rain.
French beans, peas, broad beans.
Beetroot for roasting with honey.
Digging my potatoes in a thunderstorm.
Friends for tea, blackberry whisky, sofa sleeping.
Perfect weekend. No gaps.
Gig, village fete, gig, steam rally.
Rain. Glimmer. Torrential rain. Evening sun. Rain, shine, rain.
French beans, peas, broad beans.
Beetroot for roasting with honey.
Digging my potatoes in a thunderstorm.
Friends for tea, blackberry whisky, sofa sleeping.
Perfect weekend. No gaps.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Nostalgia Nationals 2011
I'm a charlatan.
Drive my '24T Modified around pretty much as I built it, bar a stock 24 stud flathead replacing the tired 21 stud and a 3.54 axle change. Twenty years of glacial progress.
I'm at the Nostalgia Nationals surrounded by people tinkering. Checking. Adjusting. Changing something. Looking for a way to gain some precious tenths. With time to kill, the charlatan takes off the screen, silencers and mechanical fan belt. Three tenths difference that may have been the late afternoon air, a better dogleg first to second change, or just luck. Not even an oil light to keep the ammeter company - the dashboard tells me nothing.
We're here to remember Tony Cardy. Fellow member of the East Coast Sidewinders. Twenty five entries in the Flathead Meltdown to celebrate the passing of man who whittled and filed his way down through those precious seconds until he ultimately put his '27T modified way down into the 12's. Pump fuel through two carbs, fragile three speed, banjo axle, wire wheels and crossplies. And driven there and back.
Tony sweated the details. Who knows exactly what tricks he performed inside the engine, but weight was his obvious enemy. Every component skimmed, shaved, drilled and subjected to the hole saw in a bid to cheat gravity. Every superfluous part that wasn't required for that quarter mile trip, removed. Screen, headlights, radiator on a pile in the pits. Belt and zippo lighter too...
Quiet and cantankerous. Wicked humour and nervously serious. Our straightline featherweight. We celebrate your dedication and brilliance in making anchors fly.
Think it's time procrastination ceased and this charlatan started stressing the iron.
Drive my '24T Modified around pretty much as I built it, bar a stock 24 stud flathead replacing the tired 21 stud and a 3.54 axle change. Twenty years of glacial progress.
I'm at the Nostalgia Nationals surrounded by people tinkering. Checking. Adjusting. Changing something. Looking for a way to gain some precious tenths. With time to kill, the charlatan takes off the screen, silencers and mechanical fan belt. Three tenths difference that may have been the late afternoon air, a better dogleg first to second change, or just luck. Not even an oil light to keep the ammeter company - the dashboard tells me nothing.
We're here to remember Tony Cardy. Fellow member of the East Coast Sidewinders. Twenty five entries in the Flathead Meltdown to celebrate the passing of man who whittled and filed his way down through those precious seconds until he ultimately put his '27T modified way down into the 12's. Pump fuel through two carbs, fragile three speed, banjo axle, wire wheels and crossplies. And driven there and back.
Tony sweated the details. Who knows exactly what tricks he performed inside the engine, but weight was his obvious enemy. Every component skimmed, shaved, drilled and subjected to the hole saw in a bid to cheat gravity. Every superfluous part that wasn't required for that quarter mile trip, removed. Screen, headlights, radiator on a pile in the pits. Belt and zippo lighter too...
Quiet and cantankerous. Wicked humour and nervously serious. Our straightline featherweight. We celebrate your dedication and brilliance in making anchors fly.
Think it's time procrastination ceased and this charlatan started stressing the iron.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Shelsley Walsh
Last year I missed the first run with the flat-8 boys at Shelsley. Mirror. Check. More grey hairs. Right - not going to miss out again!
Poor old flivver spent the winter outside under a tarpaulin barely turning a wheel since Prescott until about a month ago when it was popped into a nice dry barn. Excellent then - shouldn't need a thing. Wrong. With a week to go, I dragged home a spitting, coughing, clutch slipping wreck. Engine out. Threw in another old cover and new plate, blew the dust out of an old Holley 94, popped it on, and we're back to normal (torque tube clunks, squeaking pumps, slapping pistons...). Even found time to wipe a rag over the dirt and varnish the string bound steering wheel. Had the chance to send on a set of Blockleys in the Buckland Automotive shop truck, so, on a gloriously sunny Friday, with scant camping gear tied on, I set off after work, met up with Sue & Adrian, popped in to see the progress of the Ben Nevis Centennial project at Tuckett Brothers - mad - and arrived just in time to pitch tent before the rain, walk up the track in fading daylight, get trapped at the top by a thunderstorm, and retire to the bar...
A night sans mattress, more rainstorms, and random wildlife prompted an early start - sticking numbers on a damp car, stripping off the cycle guards, carrying wheels up from the camp site... proper knackered when I noticed a queue forming at the signing on shed. Half hour lining up chatting to some lovely people and I have a prized'first thirty' yellow ticket which, time allowing, will let me get one more practice run. One more chance to break my car. Gulp. Not helped by the incredulous looks from those that realised I'd driven there? In that? Luckily I'm used to having my sanity questioned early in the morning.
Scrutineering over and, after realising I had to hand my ticket back in to book my practice runs, I had my first run up t'hill. And the rains came down. Visor steams up. Glasses steam up. First gear useless as the car stands still on the slippery start line, a tentative dribble up the hill, no braking and lifting far too early for the Esses, long uphill sprint to the finish, bogged down with a change into top... 54 seconds.
Another run, bravery increasing, slowing later into the bends, 51.8 seconds. Third practice, still very wet - forgot to close my visor, flicked it down on the climb for a perfectly vision free assault of 51.7...
Finally the skies clear and on a drying track we're into the forties with a 48 second climb. Excellent! Still lifting where I needn't, far too early for the Esses, and still not braking. I'm beginning to question my delusions of adequacy. Our high spirited entourage were treated admirably well by the cheery restaurant staff and, ignoring the weather, we took advantage of the open fronted bar. For some reason I thought now would be a good time to have another walk up the hill. Yup, it was still steep, dark, wet - and my only useful strategy decision was not to slide off at the Crossing corner into the hawthorn and not to brakes for the bottom 'S' until I smelt the wild garlic, or saw the bat fly over...
Sunday. Rain stopped at 5.30 but started up again in time for the first runs of the day. Luckily however, by the time the 12-strong ASBO's rumbled to the line there was enough grip to completely bog down pulling away in second. Kept it in second for a greasy bend run of 48.6. After lunch we had one more run on a pretty dry track. Queuing in the sunshine - it was lovely to have people come over asking questions, genuinely entertained to see us there. Pulled off the line with a tad of wheelspin in first, smiling as the announcer said "we were chatting to the flathead boys last night and they're all quite insane" lift a little for Kennel bend, again at the reverse camber of Crossing, out of revs and a late lift at the bottom S - but still too early! - hint of tyre squeal between the Esses, and a final breathless out of revs in second sprint to the line. 46.27 seconds. Waving to the marshals all the way back down. Lovely.
Back to pits, pop the wings back on, tie on the camping gear and charge for home. Four and a half hours burbling across the country with a tray of tomato plants for company and a friend's A roadster silhouetted against a never ending sunset in the mirror. Brilliant. Only a few more grey hairs till next time...
Poor old flivver spent the winter outside under a tarpaulin barely turning a wheel since Prescott until about a month ago when it was popped into a nice dry barn. Excellent then - shouldn't need a thing. Wrong. With a week to go, I dragged home a spitting, coughing, clutch slipping wreck. Engine out. Threw in another old cover and new plate, blew the dust out of an old Holley 94, popped it on, and we're back to normal (torque tube clunks, squeaking pumps, slapping pistons...). Even found time to wipe a rag over the dirt and varnish the string bound steering wheel. Had the chance to send on a set of Blockleys in the Buckland Automotive shop truck, so, on a gloriously sunny Friday, with scant camping gear tied on, I set off after work, met up with Sue & Adrian, popped in to see the progress of the Ben Nevis Centennial project at Tuckett Brothers - mad - and arrived just in time to pitch tent before the rain, walk up the track in fading daylight, get trapped at the top by a thunderstorm, and retire to the bar...
Scrutineering over and, after realising I had to hand my ticket back in to book my practice runs, I had my first run up t'hill. And the rains came down. Visor steams up. Glasses steam up. First gear useless as the car stands still on the slippery start line, a tentative dribble up the hill, no braking and lifting far too early for the Esses, long uphill sprint to the finish, bogged down with a change into top... 54 seconds.
Another run, bravery increasing, slowing later into the bends, 51.8 seconds. Third practice, still very wet - forgot to close my visor, flicked it down on the climb for a perfectly vision free assault of 51.7...
Finally the skies clear and on a drying track we're into the forties with a 48 second climb. Excellent! Still lifting where I needn't, far too early for the Esses, and still not braking. I'm beginning to question my delusions of adequacy. Our high spirited entourage were treated admirably well by the cheery restaurant staff and, ignoring the weather, we took advantage of the open fronted bar. For some reason I thought now would be a good time to have another walk up the hill. Yup, it was still steep, dark, wet - and my only useful strategy decision was not to slide off at the Crossing corner into the hawthorn and not to brakes for the bottom 'S' until I smelt the wild garlic, or saw the bat fly over...
Sunday. Rain stopped at 5.30 but started up again in time for the first runs of the day. Luckily however, by the time the 12-strong ASBO's rumbled to the line there was enough grip to completely bog down pulling away in second. Kept it in second for a greasy bend run of 48.6. After lunch we had one more run on a pretty dry track. Queuing in the sunshine - it was lovely to have people come over asking questions, genuinely entertained to see us there. Pulled off the line with a tad of wheelspin in first, smiling as the announcer said "we were chatting to the flathead boys last night and they're all quite insane" lift a little for Kennel bend, again at the reverse camber of Crossing, out of revs and a late lift at the bottom S - but still too early! - hint of tyre squeal between the Esses, and a final breathless out of revs in second sprint to the line. 46.27 seconds. Waving to the marshals all the way back down. Lovely.
Back to pits, pop the wings back on, tie on the camping gear and charge for home. Four and a half hours burbling across the country with a tray of tomato plants for company and a friend's A roadster silhouetted against a never ending sunset in the mirror. Brilliant. Only a few more grey hairs till next time...
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Suicide Masters no more.
Sunshine! Spurr-rring!
Past few months I've been in survival mode. The Skylark - trusty, crusty, rusty Transit has been put put out to pasture. Ice, fog, rain and darkness my grey freezing companions on the daily commute. No such thing as bad weather, jut inappropriate clothing. More so on a motorcycle...
Ah, but this morning! Warmness. And not from stopping and putting my gloves as close as I dare to the engine or accidentally leaning against the silencer in my leggings.
Smarted a little spending what I've saved on fuel recently to buy some tyres for the Enfield. Way back when I first ventured out on a motorbike, tyres were round things filled with air. One each end and made from something jurassic period black. Normally ribbed Speed Master front and zigzag Safety Mileage rear courtesy of Avon with a propensity to throw you down the road without a moment's caution. SM. Fondly dubbed Suicide Masters and always blamed without any consideration for the handling foibles of the worn out bikes they were fitted to. Never remember wearing any out, never remember buying any new either - but if they looked too perished there was always another set lurking on a scrap bike somewhere.
Big revelation! New tyres are are made of honest to goodness rubber. And grip! Even though they look the same as the Suicide Masters of (very) Olde I feel confident enough to go round corners and everything! Obviously this post is tempting fate like it's going out of fashion, but hey that's what it's there for. No matter how sad, I just wanted to share how loop-de-loop I am with my new rubber hoops...
Past few months I've been in survival mode. The Skylark - trusty, crusty, rusty Transit has been put put out to pasture. Ice, fog, rain and darkness my grey freezing companions on the daily commute. No such thing as bad weather, jut inappropriate clothing. More so on a motorcycle...
Ah, but this morning! Warmness. And not from stopping and putting my gloves as close as I dare to the engine or accidentally leaning against the silencer in my leggings.
Smarted a little spending what I've saved on fuel recently to buy some tyres for the Enfield. Way back when I first ventured out on a motorbike, tyres were round things filled with air. One each end and made from something jurassic period black. Normally ribbed Speed Master front and zigzag Safety Mileage rear courtesy of Avon with a propensity to throw you down the road without a moment's caution. SM. Fondly dubbed Suicide Masters and always blamed without any consideration for the handling foibles of the worn out bikes they were fitted to. Never remember wearing any out, never remember buying any new either - but if they looked too perished there was always another set lurking on a scrap bike somewhere.
Big revelation! New tyres are are made of honest to goodness rubber. And grip! Even though they look the same as the Suicide Masters of (very) Olde I feel confident enough to go round corners and everything! Obviously this post is tempting fate like it's going out of fashion, but hey that's what it's there for. No matter how sad, I just wanted to share how loop-de-loop I am with my new rubber hoops...
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