yen_powell

Yeah, UK meat production means we get all the bits you try not to think about.

Without wishing to sound like Vinnie Jones in that gangster film, because he's strange and called Dave. Bob knows him, he's one sandwich short of a picnic most of the time.

Found this old run report (wot I wrote for our local TRF group) on an old back up portable drive, pictures are lost apart from a few on my current hard drive pasted below. This would be about 1995 I reckon. WILTING IN WILTSHIRE I was awakened bright and early in my luxury farmhouse accommodation by the sight of John P (looking rather alluring in his special edition Paddington Bear Jim Jams) sneaking into my room and swapping the kettle for his and Phil’s broken one. Strange Dave my room mate had wanted to lock the door the previous evening but I had protested for fear of people talking about us. Luckily, suspecting John would try something like this, I had already swapped them around once. The sound of cursing was just audible from the other room above David’s snoring. Remembering that our super scary landlady was expecting us downstairs for breakfast, I woke David up with my special TRF tipping a person out of bed action (taught only to high ranking Rights Of Way Officers and passed onto me by Graham). David was less alluring in his Madagascan simulated leather cod piece with optional attachments. After enjoying a FULL ENGLISH BREAKFAST (the scary landlady’s capitals) with knobs on, we adjourned to our luxury farmhouse parking area in plenty of time to begin the long drawn out starting procedure on my immaculate DR350 ( well it is underneath the mud). Half an hour later the others took pity on me and had a go at starting it. John looked scornfully down at me and did his usual electric start mime. However I had the last laugh there when he realised he’d lost his bike keys. Strange Dave loaded his rucksack up with high grade coal for his antique £60 Victorian trials bike and topped up the oil (in the running lights). By this time the rest of that fine body of men, the Essex TRF Away team, had arrived. Oh how proud they looked as they struggled to change into their bike gear inside beach towels to protect their modesty. As soon as John appeared with his keys (found in the landlady’s bedroom for some unknown reason) we started off. The first lane was a gentle climb with gentle ruts. Unfortunately everything was invisible under the four foot high grass. At the first gate certain members were a little late due to stopping for a spot of low level sight seeing. The following five mile lane encouraged some to speed up but had some alarming black coloured puddles outside a cowshed. Splash through one of these and your socks are never quite the same again, neither is the bloke immediately behind me who copped most of it in the face. The next few lanes were enjoyed under a blazing Wiltshire sun and the others looked quite happy. I couldn’t have this of course, so when we approached the ford at Stratford Tony I sent David across with his camera and blocked the entrance to the shallow side with my lavishly maintained DR350. Naturally not one of the buggers had the decency to fall off for the camera. My plans thwarted I led my cattle I mean fellow trail riders to Odstock (the place not the Bond villain) where as I stopped to open a gate my goggles (hanging loose) flicked up into my eye and neatly removed my contact lens and flung it somewhere into the beautiful local flora. I didn’t panic, I made the special TRF hand signal for stop your engines and help me look for a tiny piece of perspex in long grass. Thirty seconds later and Strange Dave strangely spotted it, gave it a brief wipe on his babygro all weather bike outfit and attempted to reinsert it into the wrong eye. One eye watering badly I bravely led the motley collection of cut throats, car mechanics and gentleman’s jazz mag producers onward to Porton Down the famous germ warfare laboratory. Fearful that we might leave them with more germs than they started with, we quickly skirted around to Old Sarum. Here I decide to introduce some culture into the other riders lives with a brief explanation of Sarum’s history. However I don’t know any, so instead we just stared at a couple wrestling in some long grass.(Why I don’t know, but we saw a lot of this type of thing. Perhaps Wiltshire couples argue a lot at the weekend.) It was at this point I started to suspect that some of the hooligans faster riders were champing at the bit. Anxious to calm these thoroughbreds before one ran into the back of me I pointed them down the byway that runs cross country to Stonehenge. This track is 40 feet wide, straight for a mile and a half and smoother than Dave’s head. It has grass on it that an old age pensioner bowling champion would be proud of. Why oh why then, 30 seconds after shouting,” run free my proud beauties, get it out of your system”, were they all picking up Derek and dusting him down. His handlebars were rather twisted, in fact John P who has had a lot of experience with boy scouts declared that they had uncannily formed a double fluted sheep shagger knot. Derek was placed back onto his machine and by crossing his arms could still use most of the controls. We all roared up towards Stonehenge on the horizon, whilst humming the theme from the High Chaparral. Nothing could stop us now I thought until I saw the amount of traffic using the A303 which was between us and Stonehenge. In the end using the force, I closed my eyes and just turned right into the traffic. Honestly the language some tourists use, you wouldn’t think they were relaxing on holiday. We passed around the edge of Stonehenge, admired the tourists, and stopped on the byway just behind the monument. “Magnificent, isn’t it,” I cried. “About time they built something else now,” says John. And he calls me a Philistine!! Standing by ancient man’s greatest achievement, I carried out Braintree man’s greatest achievement and started my bike first kick. We headed of to Yarnbury Castle , a huge Iron Age hillfort. It sits next to the byway but is surrounded by fences stopping you visiting it. The next day I spotted a Sarum to Bath milestone sitting 20 feet inside the so called private area. On that day we climbed the fence and passed through the banks and extremely deep ditch for a sit down. Dave immediately began a dried sheep dropping bombardment on those on the other side of the ditch. Realising that his missiles were falling short due to their light dehydrated state, I threw a fresh missile. This went much further but was a bit messy to hold. Luckily as run leader I had taken the precaution of using David’s glove so as not to risk sullying my map. I carefully placed it back inside his helmet without him noticing. But all that was still in the future and Dave’s gloves and helmet interior were still clean as we passed Yarnbury Castle and onto the Salisbury Plain. Here the tracks split many times and there are little or no features to navigate from. Added to this there are numerous extra tracks created by the army that aren’t even on the map. At the first three way fork I used a cunning TRF navigational aid and picked the left hand track. Eeny Meeny Miney Mo took us along the side of the army’s Hercules landing strip and into Little House on the Prairie country. Fearful of unexploded artillery shells I had intended to rely on Dave’s GPS. When he revealed that he’d forgotten the batteries I sent him in front as a punishment. We emerged safely in the village of Chitterne and Dave quickly changed his underpants, put a fresh Hoover bag onto his airbox, emptied the chalkdust out of the old one and carefully placed it in the rear wicker basket for later reuse. Perhaps I should go into greater detail about Dave’s bike. Purchased for a mere 60 notes and authenticated by Arthur Neagus shortly before his death in 1984 from beeswax poisoning, this fine example of late Victorian machinery shows not only the excellence of pre-war Japanese engineering, but also how British tinkering can really bugger it up gradually as the years pass. Dave is immensely proud of his machine and has been known to call out anyone who hints at it’s parenthood or mentions the gear change arrangement. He once let me ride it in deepest Kent by the simple act of stealing mine and riding off quickly. Unable to get out of first gear I screamed off after him shouting the name of the County we were in. He eventually stalled and as he frantically prodded at the kickstart I wrestled him off of my bike. Back in steamy Wiltshire I was finding that as I attempted to travel across Boyton Down, the old eeny meeny trick wasn’t really as good as I’d first thought. After 20 minutes of going around in circles I saw a man with no chin in the middle of nowhere. I stopped and asked if he knew where he was. “Are yooo cheps teyarf ?” He said. Wondering why he was eating a plum I replied that we were. “ More of yooo cheps up yonder”, he enunciated as he pointed at the horizon. I immediately checked behind me to see if everybody was still with me. It was quite possible that with the circles we had followed I may have caught up with my own tail end Charlie. But no, Charlie was still there, so there must be native trailriders about. The posh geezer gave me directions with a warning not to stray onto his fields as some of his “cheps” were using tractors and might chase us. When we finally saw the “cheps”, they were driving about five or six- half million pound combine harvesters. All that money and inbred, I wonder if he wants to adopt me. By now we were coming to the end of the day’s run and as we approached Burcombe I was looking forward to a shower. I asked Dave to stay at the back and make sure no one got lost. This ensured that I got to the shower first and that there was no risk of running out of hot water. THE END

Thought I'd told you all about my T.A medical back in my 20s, already been searched!

He came home the night before and found a spare bolt in his trouser turn up. He's trying to see where it should have gone with his torch.

I meant the speed of my broadband was in the dial up range. Turning the huge key on the clockwork generator was a pain as well.

Because I now have a decent internet connection I am able to go through picture threads easily on this particular forum, something to do with the way the pics load here wasn't dial up speed friendly, so I have been following these brilliant write ups. I even feel I have recognised one or two places, especially the washed out road section, but of course it is a big country and I know that is unlikely.

Might be the stuffing coming out of the saddle.

So would you with only 450 miles on your clock (That would be about 1937 I reckon), I swear the bike still has bum fluff and acne.

This is all Most Excellent!

On the way home from work yesterday. First service tomorrow so I can actually ride the thing without worrying about racking up the miles. That house needs sails, it's looking a bit bald without any.

The only asphalting I do is all new with hot sealed joints so no over banding needed at all. Hopefully I won't evert have to supervise that again, I found that quite stressful, every road in London has someone who needs to get in or out and they all choose the day it needs to be closed to come out of the woodwork.

I've got a school photo somewhere from when I was about 12. I can cross a few off as no longer being with us now. Rough school, bound to be fatalities though.

If we all chip in we can get him one of those there twat suits I keep hearing BMW riders wear. Not sure what they look like, is twat better than leather for protection??

One of the things I found when we cleared my late Mum's house was my Dad's old RAF Police jacket. None of your American high quality material, this is 1950s/60s British material, it is like sand paper, it will take skin off if you're not careful. I can just about get it on but I can't get it done up, I have the pot belly my old Dad never did.

What about old Nasa moon shot surplus, Tom Hanks swears by it I hear.

That's where he keeps his little triangular sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

I've been using the waterless washing method for years!

In the UK STOP signs are the only octagonal shaped sign plate. The Give Way is the only upside down triangle plate. This is so they will both be recognised even when covered in snow. We are not supposed to ever build a new junction that needs a STOP sign, sight lines should always be good enough for a Give Way sign. Therefore the only STOP signs should be at old historic junctions where buildings or walls are unlikely to ever be demolished or rebuilt.

It could have been. Never much choice of hire bikes on holiday, it was that, a scooter or a 'lean back and think of leather wallets on chain' type bikes usually.

This was the BMW single, not sure what year it was?

I have ridden something similar, was a BMW GS single. Really nicely put together, but I felt I was never in the right gear, it always felt like it was revving too high or too low, acceleration or slowing down was fine. It was exactly the same when I had something with a similar engine in Rhodes. Not sure what make it was, picture below for the clever bike spotters.

Pick it up tomorrow morning, couldn't get it before as I have been away in Devon (by car) to visit the descendants. The plan is to ride to my mate's house tomorrow morning, he gets on the back of my bike (which he will own by the end of the day) and we both ride to the bike shop. Then he rides the Kawasaki back and I ride the Yamaha. I have owned three Yamahas, an XS250 and two FJ1200s. Yamaha are too late, their brand perception is already slaughtered.

Don't you be worrying about that, it's just the cateracts.

This is the monument, which you can look at for about a minute before someone tries to mug or beg from you. Spin round for a view of the Thames and Greenwich peninsula with the Millenium Dome. https://goo.gl/maps/ge3uLwGrbVFXVJDf7