Welcome technophobes, grease monkies, and motorheads

Welcome to a new'ish' site written by and with the imput from people who,s brains are so full of;
Technical abillity, Insane ideas, and the love of wierd and wonderfull shit, that there is no time in their over stressed brains for "CRAP" like spelling and punktuation.

Sunday, 12 August 2012


 Wow we have just hit the over 30000 views (nearly as many miles as my bike has done)
The reson why i started this blog was so that my friends could keep up to date with the progress of the latest bike i was destroying. 
Another reson is that i'm writing a book about 3 fuckwits (friends) that ride 3500 miles to a bike party in Hungary, and back.
I was riding my FZ750 rat bike, Rich was on his EXUP1000 that we had just put a new motor in the night before leaving and Jimbo rode a really tidey GSXR750 streetfighter that broke down befor he had left his house.
The book is nearly finished (not a mean feet for a dislexic technophobe that has never writen before) . I was hopeing that if it gets published i will be able to let you all know so that you could buy a copy and then i could buy a SHOVELHEAD...
 I was feeling absolutely amazing as I rode the short distance to the petrol station, nothing could have put me on a downer not even the site of Jim looking into his engine with a ratchet in one hand, a rolled up ciggie in the other, wearing his pissed off face. Jims pissed off face isn’t much different from his other face and Richie was stood in the background, grinning like a possum, eating wasps, so maybe it wasn’t that bad. Or was it…
“Morning Jimbo! What the fucks goin on?”
“Fucking piece of shit bike started running on 3 cylinders before I left the end of my road.”
“You should have had this sorted out and ready ages ago Jimbo.”
“Piss off!” replied Jim, the master of vocabulary.
Jim had had his bike ready months before me and Rich, so this was exactly how I thought this short but amusing conversation would pan out. In fact we were still fitting another engine into Rich’s bike two nights ago and only a week before I had pulled my bike out of the hedge it called home. Gave it a new layer of satin black, a back seat and charged the battery. As usual Jim was fully prepared but Rich and Me had left it very late, to get our shit together. Rich likes to think that he is always prepared ahead of schedule, but like me I think the saying; “The last minute is the most important because if it wasn’t for that, then nothing would ever get done.”

 Riding into the night, past Stonehenge and round the M25. I had the throttle nailed wide open, crouched behind the screen, singing ‘Hawkwind, Motorway city’. This is a song I always sing to myself when I’m ’in the zone’. The song fitted in perfectly with the quiet open lanes, bathed in the false orange glow created by the myriad of lights snaking into the distance. All the efforts of the day slipped away as I sped across the country soaking up the undulations of the road, the engine howling as the bike took the corners effortlessly.
It’s at times like these, when your mind is completely focused on everything that you are doing and all your surroundings, that you enter a state of ‘Zen’ calmness. The only thing you can be aware of is what you are doing, at that time and at that place and right now I was loving being where I was and doing what I was doing. This is a feeling, I think; you can only get on a motorcycle. Open to the elements it feels almost like your gliding a few feet above the warm hard tarmac, like an albatross gliding inches above the cold dark ocean.

 What happened next was the second time I’d nearly killed myself (that I know about.) The first time I nearly met the reaper was when I was very young. I pushed a penny in between the prongs on a plug and plugged it in, blowing a hole in the wall and me across the room. I think my dad had to revive me. My mum still has the melted penny somewhere. I think she needs reminding every now and then that I’ve always been an idiot.
 At this point a fella walked into the pub and towards our table. It was the bloke we had seen outside his campervan, watching us as we rode in. (It turns out that what I had assumed was an air of nosey-ness about him or a look of disgust, at our loud filthy bikes, was in fact a look of awe and admiration; as we were soon about to find out).
“Hi can I sit with you and buy you a beer.” He said in his broken English. “My name is Martin. My wife thinks I’ve gone for a shower” (he waved his towel and wash bag at us to illustrate the point)” But really I want to come and drink a beer with you men. I saw you ride in and I was thinking it would be much fun to drink beer and talk with you instead of my wife.” 

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