Bikie Gang

When I sit on the bus thinking about it all I invariably find myself yearning for the next opportunity to be 'out there', in the uneven world, the rough places with no handrails and steep drops, heart pumping lungs bursting and eyes straining to grasp the beauty of it all. Then there's the lycra....


Never owned a sleeping bag let alone a mountain bike / I lied about being the outdoor type.*

Actually I didn't. I am and always will be the outdoor type. I didn't become an outdoor type to get the girls (as in the song) mostly because when I was a lad (a period of time increasingly quaint in its prehistoric qualities) outdoorsy types were more home knitted bobble hats and Kendal Mint Cake than Xtreme Lycra and re-hydration formulas. But I did and still do find a bit of extra-urban activity a great way to improve your social life even if it does mean falling over a bit.

It all started when I bought myself a mountain bike. This event was the culmination of a lengthy process of due diligence, throughout which the highest standards of fiscal rectitude, and consumer prudence were adhered to - a) Pub conversation, b) Internet search c) 'Ooh! That looks pretty!' d) CLICK.

One week later the large brown cardboard box arrived carrying my passport to a new life of vertiginous tongue swallowing adventure and all I needed was an Allen Key. Bugger.

Early tool related frustrations were soon forgotten when the following weekend I joined three colleagues on my first Basque biking expedition. We left the train after only 15 minutes and yet the town was far behind us as the first of the mountains which crowd around San Sebastian shouldered past us – we were surrounded. The only thing to do was climb! - actually a lovely latte and biscuity thing would be nice first.... BUT then we climbed!


It's wet in the Basque Country ( I think I've covered that before ) and with wetness comes mud, and mud makes cycling up hill as ...well lets just say it's hard. If you doubt that, get one hamster, put it in its wheel pour two parts runny clay one part cow pat over the rungs and watch it struggle on, paying close attention to its poor little hamster expression...not too happy I think we can all agree.

The hill went on, and on. Then in a turn of events that shocked no one it went on some more. I was fast running out of credible reasons to stop (sticky gears, call of nature, stone in shoe) and was in danger of regurgitating my lovely biscuity thing all over my new shorts. Breathing raggedly I stuck to the wheel of Bob 'King of the Mountains' Bob (who was clearly doing his best to refrain from whistling a happy tune as he glided upward) and hoped to avoid disgrace. Thankfully just as I could go on no further, we went on no further.

Going up seems so unpleasant – until you start to go down.

James our leader for the day “I am rubbish at directions – no honestly. Follow me!” gave myself and fellow greenhorn Karl some pertinent advice before the descent. “Just be careful of your brakes. The last bloke I brought up here broke his arm. Follow meeeee!” ...and he was off. There was nothing for it but to be off too.

This must be the steep bit I thought, before getting to the steep bit. I felt that the gradient, uneven terrain and my lack of an exoskeleton warranted at least a cursory investigation of the breaking options, despite what James has said. I pulled on a lever and found that rolling head long down a mountain was not quite as scary as SKIDDING headlong down one so I released the brake and held on tight.

If I told you that I had not several times during that first descent wished that I was elsewhere doing that cool safe and completely non-life-threatening elsewhere stuff I would be telling a half truth. I actually tried to wish this repeatedly but only got as far as “I wi..” before all brain power was again diverted to avoided bone crunching disaster. Then I fell.



Nothing heroic, no airtime, no cartwheeling just mud and pain. I slipped in a particularly aggressive swathe of muddiness lost the front end and gave my already twisted ankle a nasty bang. I didn't cry but it did make my leg jiggle uncontrollably which could have been mistaken by the casual observer as fear I knew better of course it was pain – oh, and fear.

It was at this point that I started to enjoy myself. The gradient eased the mud retreated and I swept down the mountain with increasing confidence. The relief high was beautiful, mixed with the sense of achievement it made for an addictive cocktail. All too soon we were back on tarmac and moments later plonked our mud splattered bodies in the local plaza for a well earned beer. I was already thinking of the next trip.

Since that first outing I have been up and down four more local hilly spots and in the sterling company of Bob, James, Karl and Paul** I look forward to nearly dieing in the great outdoors as often as I can manage.




* The Lemon Heads - For those who have never heard it listen here.

** All from Northern England. Coincidence? I don't think so..

Chalky

That's right I finally have a proper job, a trade if you will, I'm a chalky.

Sadly, chalk is a thing of the past so past we should be called whiteboard marker-'ies' but for obvious reasons we aren't.

Yep, I'm a teacher. Ok, I don't work in a proper school and the kids don't call me sir but I still teach, kids still sulk, I give reports, take registers, do marking, and moan about 'the youth', so for all intents and purposes I am a bloody teacher.

The idea of teaching teenage children has previously ranked alongside no. 892 Removing my own spleen with needle-nose pliers in my all time list of 'must dos', but so far the experience has been almost fun. It's true that 12yr old Javier, whilst failing to master the future simple tense, has trained his facial features to spell out 'you are the most uncool boring twat in the world I wish you would die so I could go home and be all cool 'n' stuff'', and its also true that I have been belittled by 13 yr old girls whose boots are more expensive than my wardrobe in a language I will never understand, but what has surprised me is how little effect these slights have had, and that I still like it when they get the answers right!

Luckily its not all hormone war-zones. When not empowering the youth of Donostia to better understand 50cent lyrics I am one of four new members of staff at Real Sociedad. La Real (as they are known locally) whilst having slipped temporarily into the second division of Spanish football are still a famous club who command a big following. Their training ground (where I teach) is a big stadium as it is. The trophy cabinet (which I pass on the way to my classroom) is brimming with odd shaped silverware and as I sit at my desk an almost life size photo of Xavi Alonso (ex-la Real now at Liverpool) watches over me.

Since my English school got the contract La Real have not lost a game. I can't help wondering whether the new found ability of the centre back Mikel Gonzalez to use the past continuous to describe the scene in a story or the relative ease with which striker Immanol uses the past simple to identify completed events or individual actions has got any thing to do with this success – it surely must.

Finally a note on the weather. If there is a wetter place on earth than San Sebastian its mayor has gills and the post is laminated. I was told yesterday that it has rained here everyday since October 19th, and I'm not talking drizzle, it's wet rain, the kind that seeks out your underwear soggying your smalls just to show off. Luckily the local luminaries have thoughtfully tiled ninety per cent of the city's pavements with polished white bathroom tiles to ensure minimum traction for all bipeds – genius!

Still you can see snow on top of the mountains so its not all bad eh?

I've been to London to see the Queen! Only part of that sentence is true.

I don't own a Underground Logo T-Shirt, plastic policeman's helmet or double decker bus snow-globe but I have come back from London a better man than when I left.

Regular readers (are there any other kind?) will remember that in my last post / thinly-disguised-therapy-session i was a bit 'down in the dumps' so what better to put the zest back in one's citrus fruit of choice than a visit to the mother country?

In an act of wanton environmental vandalism I hopped a plane from Biarritz to London. In fact the door to door journey was only a couple of hours more than if I'd taken the train but about $8.4 billion less expensive (compounding my sin of climatic GBH with honest to goodness greed) so I succumbed.

Not seconds after descending into the drizzle of Hertfordshire I felt my spirits lift On emerging into the sleet from Archway tube I felt a warm glow as the damp crowds bustled past, pinched faces peering from glistening coat hoods. I was home.

Well not really home. I have never been to Archway before. Usually when in London I can be found in Kentish Town availing myself of the not insignificant hospitality of my longtime friend and associate (ok, just friend but sounded grand didn't it? ) Mr Dan Leon. This time however I pitched my swag (one for the Aussie readers) with my new friend and none-associate Mairi Mclachlan. That regular reader will remember Mairi as the third intrepid explorer (along with Andrew Portors and I) who documented the pioneering of the Umbrella as a hiking accessory and provided tents for the expedition. well not content with such an impressive demonstration of Scottish hospitality she also put me up for the last few days, made porridge and the nicest fruit salad I have ever tasted.




In London almost everyone speaks English, an attraction that had hitherto eluded me, and not only that they understand me when I speak it! Oh the simple joys of uncomplicated communication! If it were only this relaxing bath in the English language that I gained it would still have been worth it. Luckily though there were other treats in store.

Last week Kerry and Dan had a baby (I haven't seen the video but I think Kerry took care of the 'having' bit). So i was lucky enough to be there to see her (Daisy Hazel Leon) on her first couple of days at home, give her a cuddle and marvel at the mesmerising effect a cute wickle baybee has on all around.

The day before I was in Rochester the national capital of useless porcelain figurines. I had come to the home of the ceramically challenged to catch up with Pete Sayonas, one time bar man at the University of Liverpool, and all time friend. I hadn't seen Pete in four years and It was great. Having examined the town's ornamental fetish we sipped a few pints complemented one another heartily and laughed about the world from the safety of a beer garden. So content was i on departing that I promptly fell asleep on the train back, awaking to the station announcer at London Victoria, worrying about dribble.


The highlight though was the Sunday. One thing the Spanish are unapologetically pathetic at is breakfasts. Having presumably joined the rest of the western world in accepting the scientific truth of the health benefits of a good morning meal the Spanish seem to have collectively shrugged lit a cigarette and ordered another coffee, breakfast!

Last Sunday I was able to enjoy the joys of toast, tea, porridge, The Observer, BBC radio, lovely company and a life changing fruit salad. Not only that but Liverpool beat Chelsea, and not only that but lunch (Served in an impossible snug pub in Highgate) was the kind that comes with Yorkshire pudding and horseradish sauce. On the relax-ometer its right up there with smoking half an ounce of opium in a flotation tank listening to Whales discuss cuddles.

All this followed a Saturday night 'early birthday drink' with old friends and new in my old stomping ground of groovy Hoxton. My hope of becoming cooler through geographic osmosis is yet to show any results but fun was had nonetheless despite having to deal with a barman who considered serving drinks to be beneath him – too much concentration required being cool.

Now i am returned and enjoying my first day at work... but more on that later.

Thanks to all who made my London stay such fun, especially Mairi who has now overtaken Kenny Dalgleish as my favourite Scot!

Oh, and its my birthday today which makes me happy too (happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me...)

The Doldrums

This blog would not be the searingly honest account of one man's struggle to find a decent cup of tea that it most certainly isn't, if I were not to share with you some of the more challenging moments of my escapology act. That is to say the shit bits.

Having successfully navigated the tempest of festivals, fiestas and fun that was my first 6 weeks 'in country', I have, of late, found myself becalmed. I have drifted into the social doldrums and my ship of state bobs listlessly as the party streamers on the pool deck of August fade in the cool autumnal sun.

Such is the lot of the solo traveler and indeed one would hope that having gone to the quite elaborate and not inexpensive effort of having left family, job, and friends to move to a place where I know absolutely no one and have only a tenuous grasp of the language that there would be moments of quietude such as this.

Nonetheless, steps have to be taken, there can be no excuses for sulking. But what steps are these?

The main enemy of any would-be social sailor is Shyness who, with his cunning accomplice Pride, conspires to limit the plucky adventure's opportunities to meet new people to invitations received and parties already know. The enemy of your enemies Shyness and Pride, and so your friend is of course Booze, or alternatively 'Just bloody growing up and sorting it out', but in the absence of such psychological gumption booze will do just fine.

So I have embarked on a series of nocturnal sorties with, for the lack of a better label, 'acquaintances' on the hunt for a social scene that can fill the sail and stir the lank waters of my lassitude. This has led me to drinks with English teachers, birthday parties with strangers, Spanish pop/folk gigs and American pub rock bands. So far the fruits of these efforts have not been bountiful but one cannot expect success overnight, “Life,” as Malcolm Fraser once remarked from the luxury of his Melbourne town house, “was not meant to be easy!”

So you find me on a Sunday afternoon sizing up the prospects of another evening of slightly drunken semi-awkward social maneuvering otherwise known as night life. Tonight its the American pub band venue again with a mustachioed man called Eneko (a friend of a friend of a friend) and colleagues unknown.

Step two is to move house. Its important to know when something has failed – a point lost on most Republicans – and my short stay with Morgan my Togoan flat mate has not been a success. Problems with a dank room lack of writing desk, and high rent gave weight to the decision but like most failed partnerships ours floundered on the rocks of mis-communication. The separation has been set (Oct 29th) and it should be a clean break, I don't expect to see my corkscrew again and Morgan will retain custody of the cleaning products he loves so dearly.

I will leave the description of my new abode to when I have moved in, suffice it to say that it has central heating, WiFi Internet and two Spanish flat mates.

Step three – get a job. Tick! Clearly the most successful means devised by humans to find someone to share a beer with has been the office. Offices have been ruthlessly efficient booze buddy factories since the invention of all day drinking and so its a shame that I won't be working in one. But I will be working in a school which owing to the proximity of annoying teenagers does just as well.

Meanwhile, slack waters slap at the sides and its time for another cup of tea....

A festivus for the rest of us

Who cares if one successful professional at an industry event tells another successful professional that they think that they're great and then that successful professional returns the compliment (very likely adding that they think they love them) and that, like everyone else who has spoken that night, they are thrilled even honoured to be there? Not many you'd think, certainly not the stuff of TV spectaculars right? Wrong! Such was the content of the oh so self congratulatory opening 'gala' of the San Sebastian International Film Festival (which I watched the other night – on TV, no cocktails and chit chat with botox brigade for me.).

Now I love cinema, I like a movie – some of them make a difference some of them make a profit I can like both -but a 1.5 hour TV show dedicated to watching rich, famous and successful people congratulating similarly rich, famous and successful people was a big ask. I sat through this rectum twisting tedium in the hope of learning something about the films to be shown at the Festival which runs for ten days attracting some pretty good talent, however the most I learnt was that Woody Allen thinks that Javier Bardem is an excellent actor (no shit Woody is that why you cast him as the lead in your latest movie?) and that his co-star can't speak a word of Spanish and isn't about to learn any.

Despite this entertainment crime of an opening night there are some excellent films being shown at the festival and I am looking forward to seeing a couple this week. On Wednesday night I'm off to see 'Tiro en la Cabeza' about a seemingly ordinary guy who kills two cops, then to round off the hilarity I'm hoping to get a ticket for 'The boy in the striped pajamas' about the holocaust. Ben Stiller is here but I don't think he's in either of them. I'll let you know the winner of the Juanathan prize at the end of the week and of course I'm simply thrilled and actually quite honoured to be here – I love all thank you, thank you, thank you...

MADrid

It wasn't really MAD although it was rad.

With Andrew visiting San Sebastian wasn't big enough for the both of us, so the both of us went somewhere bigger – Madrid.

I would be lying if I said Madrid wasn't awash with beautiful women, so I won't. Also Madrid in summer is well supplied with alfresco dining and drinking options all the better for the beautiful women of Madrid to catch a glimpse of me as I sip stylishly at my espresso – or so I imagine. If that wasn't enough entertainment for one lifetime there is also more high quality art than you can possibly eat and food that should be hung in the Louvre (or Prado in this case). There are also palaces, and fine shops, and more bars, then some restaurants, odd lifts and some more bars – suffice it to say that we had a good time.

The stand out however had to be the Sherry bar that one late night we stumbled into demanding Armenac.

It is an odd bar that wont allow you to take photos but they would not. The till was a hand cranker from the 30s, the sherry was served from the barrel into anonymous brown bottles then chilled in an ice bucket at the bar. The ancient staff marked your tab in chalk on the bar in front of you as you drank and whole place had the sepia tint from the exhalations of a hundred years of smokers.

Andrew and I became connoisseurs of differently aged sherry whilst admiring the faded posters advertising the world sherry festivals of the fifties and sixties. The din of a busy Madrid evening was inaudible replaced by the murmurings of the gaggle of local sherry lovers clustered around the end of the bar. A quite magical experience but on leaving you were left with the nagging suspicion that if you ever attempted to return you would not be able to find that bar again, and no one in the street would ever have heard of it....

A revolution in hiking comfort

I think its safe to say that more people would have conquered Everest had they thought to bring an umbrella. If, like me, you have taken time out from your drug infused orgy-fest of a lifestyle to nose around the odd camping/outdoor fun shop you'd know that the umbrella (or para-agua as they delightfully call it in Spanish) is not a common sight. Things are about to change. Thanks to the willingness of one Andrew Portors to shrug off convention and innovate the umbrella will soon be seen proudly deployed by the many Gortex fetishists that festoon our crags and dales – who, to a man, will be smiling with quiet astonishment at the comfort that the umbrella can bring to an otherwise soggy hike, wondering no doubt 'why the f**k didn't i think of that?'

The site of the umbrella revelation was “The Picos de Europa” a quite breathtaking mountain range that leaps from sea level to 2500m in just 15 kilometers making for plenty of vertical landscape with precipitous drops and soaring skylines. For the day walker as were Andrew, myself and our provider of tents Mairi, there is a great walk through the Picos along the Cares gorge. This walk has been made possible by the construction early in the last century of a small aqueduct that, for reasons I haven't been able to grasp' was cut into the side of the gorge half way up massive cliffs along with an access path in an engineering feat of mind-boggling awkwardness for benefits of dubious quality – that was our route.

The Spanish have a very adult approach to heath and safety issues in the mountains which boils down to one sign waring that stick figures can fall off ledges. They then invite you to walk 12kms on a sometimes very narrow path cut into the mountainside with drops of dizzying depth beckoning just centimeters away – no rails, no fenced off areas, if you go up to the tall places and fall off 'em that's your problem – all very refreshing.

I can't remember a more staggering walk – more Lord of the Rings than Lord of the Rings – if you are ever in Northern Spain with a pair of sturdy shoes you could find no better place to put them through their paces. Oh and there were goats too. Ok not in itself an amazing highlight after all they were not bears (and there are bears in those mountains) but nonetheless an unexpected encounter with a frisky mountain goat two foot from a swallowing chasm can be invigorating.