4/30/2004 04:39:00 PM|W|P|Desmodromic|W|P|Riding with James Dean Much has been said lately about the NS that the 18 year olds of this country are currently undergoing. Incidents involving theft, bullying, grevious harm, molestation, rape, unfair and unethical treatment, and sub standard food, amongst others, have been reported in the press, and various blogs. It is sad to note that what started off as a well intentioned plan to provide the youth of this country with a common purpose and sense of unity has now disintegrated into a quagmire of incompetence, cronyism, corruption and degradation. There seems to have been no proper standard operating procedures or manuals incorporated into the training, where both facilitators and trainess alike will have a clear idea of what is to be provided to them, and what is expected of them. Trainees are made to wait for hours, whilst activities that are planned do not start on time, or the camps run into transportation logistics problems. Sending young trainees into camps for indoctrination into something the government wants them to believe, and the way they are supposed to think, is a recipe for disaster. I have yet to meet the 18 year old who will do exactly as he or she is told. Teenagers are grudgingly compliant at the best of times, and forcing them to do something they don't want to is not the way to mold them into being better citizens. I give you a real life case. AZ is a young lad, just finished his high school, where he didn't do too well. He is a regular attendee at the track where we practise and race, even though he comes from a lower income family, and obviously did not have the resources to start racing superbikes. But he was keen, and enthusiatic, and wasn't afraid to learn, or work hard. He used to hang out with his friends, riding small 2 stroke bikes, usually stolen, or unlicensed, late at night, racing illegally on the streets, until one day he meet one of our group, and was invited to watch a track day. He was initially reluctant, but come out of curiosity. His friends had told him not to get ideas above his station in life, that superbikers were a pompous and arrogant lot, that we would all laugh at him from turning up on his small, cheap motorcycle. The opposite was true. We treated him like a younger brother, and showed him our gear, and our bikes, and welcomed his help for things like moving bikes around and getting water and stuff. And occassionally, more often than not, one of us would lend him a race suit, and helmet, and he would get the chance to ride a full monty race bike around a world class racing circuit, for free. We discovered that AZ had a talent for riding motorcycles. Raw, unfinished, rough, but talent all the same. He was young, and brave, and this counted in his favour. Until he got his letter calling him for the NS. He was devastated, because he would miss the initial practice days, and the first 2 races of the season. We had promised him a full ride in one of the races, fully sponsored, as a reward for all the help he had given us. We had all agreed to put forward $50 per rider, and this would pay for his race license and entrance fee and rental for a race bike. And he was really looking forward to it. We consoled him by saying he could do it later in the year, but he was inconsolable. 18 year olds are not known for their patience. So with heavy heart, he went off to NS, and hated every minute of it. We received numberous SMS messages from him on the bad food, degrading treatment, lack of organisation, that he was experiencing. He simply cannot wait for it to be over, so that he can come back to the thing he loves most. So thus, we have a case of a young man, who was being molded by his mentors, by people he looked up to and respected, who were giving him a direction and probably a career, taken away to submit himself to an ill executed government plan aimed at building so-called 'unity', that 'unity' being the official, approved government version. When at the track, he was learning everything he needed to know to becoming a useful, contributing member of society. With a little help from his friends. |W|P|108331440762587950|W|P||W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.com4/30/2004 11:20:00 AM|W|P|Desmodromic|W|P|Long Weekend As you may have noticed, I have posted a picture which is purely eye candy. Before anyone starts accusing me of being a chauvanist, please note that the picture is exactly what it is, eye candy. It could easily have been a picture of an exotic car or motorcycle. I do not condone the degradation of women, and believe that everyone is entitled to their pride and dignity. I also happen to enjoy looking at the female form. If any of you get upset, the door is that way. Don't let it bang your arse on the way out. It will be a long weekend this weekend. I was invited down south to attend a series of Clubman races by a friend of mine, who is also hankering after a Corse (Racing) top fairing for his bike, which I happen to have sitting in my store. Depending upon the availability of transportation, I will be at the track for a couple of days, smelling the fumes and being deafened by the noise. It's nice to just watch for change, and not run around like a blue arsed fly getting machines ready and psyching myself up for races. My young lad will be accompanying me. It will be his second experience of a race environment. The first time I brought him to the track was for the MotoGP in October of 2003. We got there when all the bikes were still in the pits, and there was an expectant hush over the track. He was thrilled to be at the grandstand, with lots of place for him to run around. There was a bunch of bikers and their girlfriends from the city state down south, and the ladies were thrilled to be playing with him and giving him drinks and sweeties. He was lapping up the attention, until Troy Bayliss fired up #12. His eyes went big with fright, and he ran towards me, looking for comfort. I carried him in my arms, and he looked down into the pits, expecting to see fire breathing dragons. I pointed out Troy Bayliss, and mentioned that he had met Troy the night before. He remembered Uncle Troy, and then started getting very excited. Everytime the bikes went down the straight, with a noise like tearing calico, he would rush down the stand, trying to get the maximum sound effects. I am glad he enjoys something I enjoy, and intend to let him grow up in a race environment, which was something that I was denied when I was younger, because no one in the family understood how a motorcycle could cost a million US dollars.|W|P|108329526722446684|W|P||W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.com4/30/2004 09:41:00 AM|W|P|Desmodromic|W|P|Girl Friday |W|P|108329266624893440|W|P||W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.com4/29/2004 02:45:00 PM|W|P|Desmodromic|W|P|Man's Best Friend I have always loved dogs, and have had dogs from very early in my life. It wasn't because of choice. Someone had dumped a bucketful of puppies outside our house, and we heard them yelping in hunger early one morning. Upon investigation, we found 7 mongrel puppies in the bucket. We took them into the house and gave them all a saucerful of milk each, and my mother said I could keep one. I choose the meanest looking of the lot, and called him Fido. Fido grew up to be a mean, evil tempered, short fused, son of a bitch. He was absolutely afraid of nothing, and had a habit of chasing cars. He regularly got into fights with dogs twice his size, and always sent them packing. He was the only dog I know who never lost a fight. Fido was my very first dog, and he taught me a lot about being responsible. He needed to be cleaned, fed, trained and so on. Which was a bit of a big task for a 6 year old, but I did it all. . He had no respect for anyone in the house, expect my dad, even though my mum cooked his meals and I fed him. When he came back after a night out on the town, scarred and bleeding, my dad would be the one to pin him down and apply iodine to his wounds. All the while trying to avoid his biting, snarling mouth. After a couple of years living in a huge house with about an acre of land in a small town, my dad was transferred to the big city. And Fido came with us in the car. During the journey, he sat in between my sibling and myself. Sometime during the course of the drive, we all fell asleep in the backseat, and my younger sibling must have nudged him or touched his tail or something, because he promptly snarled and bit my sibling, drawing blood. My sibling then had to sit in front with my mum on her lap, whilst Fido and I had the back seat all to ourselves. Coming to the big city was a shock to Fido. The sudden move to a small house, with a postage stamp sized garden upset him greatly. He couldn't get used to the fact that there were no chickens for him to chase, no cats to terrorise, too many cars to avoid. He became even more short-tempered. Once, a plumber came to the house, needing to do some work. The gate was unlocked, and Fido was sitting in the porch, watching the plumber get off his motorcycle and get his toolbag and parts for the toilet that needed fixing. The plumber came to the gate, opened and saw Fido. He walked in, saying "nice doggie, nice doggie". Fido took a deep breath and launched himself at the plumber, snarling like the Hound of the Baskervilles. The plumber saw the flying ball of brown fur coming at him and promptly dropped everything, beating a hasty retreat to the gate. He made it in the nick of time, with Fido closely behind, banging and barking away at the gate in frustration at not being able to maul the plumber. Fido then trotted back to the toolbag and stuff the plumber had dropped, and started sniffing slowly. He selected a toilet seat, and took it with him to his corner of the porch, where he lay down on top of it. I think he was using it as bait, wanting to see if the plumber would come back for it so he could have a second go. My mother had to come out and chain Fido, before the plumber would come back in. The toilet seat? Fido refused to let anyone come near it, claiming it as a trophy of war. To the end, he would lie down on that toilet seat, waiting for the plumber to come back for it. Fido died one day about 2 years after that, pining for the wide open fields behind the big house.|W|P|108322126675477014|W|P||W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.com4/29/2004 10:02:00 AM|W|P|Desmodromic|W|P|Riding Squidly Some of you who were reading my previous blog would remember that I once ranted about a group of riders I saw riding without protective gear on. Well, shame on me. Last weekend, after the race, a friend was too tired to ride his race bike back to my place where I need to look at the fuel injection system. Since I had driven to the track in the truck, I gave the keys to another friend, and rode the bike back, since my helmet was in the truck. Mea culpa.|W|P|108320541361506624|W|P||W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.com4/28/2004 01:46:00 PM|W|P|Desmodromic|W|P|Welcome back. This is part 2 of a non-directional blog. The earlier incarnation of my blog died a sudden death to myocardial infarction. Meaning someone found the blog who wasn't supposed to. For my earlier readers who have migrated with me, I thank you for your continued support. For my new readers, bear with me, and read on. More will be revealed as time goes on. Suffice it to say that this blog will not be heading in any new directions, but will continue to be much the same, warts and all. For those of you who actually know me in real life, or my cyber persona, please refrain from using either of those names in the link. The Necronomicon will do perfectly well as a blog title, I think. I have no desire to repeat my experience of last weekend. And thus, we find ourselves at a new beginning, and a new blog. New and improved? Mayhaps. Certainly I will be posting more about my interests, and observations, and opinions. Perhaps a little less about my professional life, unless I can suitably disguise it. Those of you who know what I'm talking about, will know, and the rest of you can sit in the dark and hope that someone lights a candle. To recap. I have come back after a death, a new project, a start to the race season, an end to a teasing game. Engage.|W|P|108313166516719160|W|P||W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.com