So long, old girl ... and thank you

No, relax ... it's not Dearly Beloved. It's my blue bike, the old girl, the Yamaha XJ900S Diversion, that's gone. Somehow, I think she deserves that full title.

I got the phone call today: "Hey, Bruce, your bike's sold. Let me know here to send the cheque".

I was torn. Naturally, I was glad to have the money. But still I was torn. Oh, boy, was I torn! My brain kept telling me, "Yes, of course you have to sell it. You can't afford to have two bikes".

But my heart kept saying, "She taught you to ride again; she brought you and Dearly Beloved together in a new venture that you could share; she gave you a reason to look forward to riding; she took you and Dearly Beloved to places you would never normally have gone; she was faithful and reliable and ... just ... fun". (Did you notice my brain calls the Yammie "it", while my heart calls her ... "her". PC bullshit aside ... yes, the Yammie was a she because I was in love with her.)

There's an awful lot of life left in the old girl. I know she'll take her new owner to new places and new experiences. And she's forgiving, easy to ride and eager to respond to someone who even halfway knows what the hell he is doing. And someone else is going to get a lot of joy from her ... perhaps even go out to the garage late at night, as I did when I first got her, to climb on board when no-one else was around ... and just imagine. And smile.

But that isn't going to stop me feeling just a bit sorry and sad, tonight.

So here's to you, old girl. Thank you for the past 5 years ... and please look after your new owner the way you did me. Hope I see you around sometime.

Here she is ... for the last time:

Wallah!! Circle the bulls ...

I'm an editor in "real life"; have been for almost 30 years now. I work in a fairly narrow field—education. As Managing Editor for an international publisher, I set the editorial standards for the company. Our clients and commissioned authors are, in the overwhelming majority, teachers. You would expect a certain level of literacy from them in the manuscripts they submit for possible publication.

You would be wrong.

I always keep in mind my attendance at a Style Council many years ago, where I was first introduced to the term "the wounded bull syndrome", as it applies to editors. This is when we (editors) collectively and singularly begin to see ourselves as "protectors" of the language. When we see what we perceive as an attack on our beloved language, we form a circle, heads lowered, the same way bulls circle to protect one of their own who is hurt.

It's something to be constantly wary of. The language does not "belong" to us, nor are we its "guardians". The English language has managed to grow, change, evolve for many years now without (or despite) our help. In fact, its ability to do just that is one of its greatest strengths.

But does there come a point where the absorption of new words, phrases and structures actually weakens our language; in this case, Australian English? I think it does, to the extent that we begin to lose our own words, which are part of our unique heritage. For example, I commonly see now the word "curb" to refer to the raised ridge beside the road, rather than the (correct) use of "kerb". Similarly, the term "medium strip" (instead of median strip) has achieved a measure of respectability. Why? What's "medium" about it, as against "median", meaning "middle"? Why am I constantly seeing "sidewalk", "flashlight", "candy", "cookies", "fries" and "should of"? What's wrong with "footpath", "torch", "lollies" (or "sweets") and, most definitely, "should have"? Why do young people greet each other with "Hey!", and why are we all "guys"? We now have travel agencies advertising "vacation" specials; and we think nothing of "grabbing a cab". We "meet with" and "talk with" and I've had an (Australian) teacher teaching positional prepositions to students use "in back of" to mean "behind".

Please, while I'm being picky ... we have "swimming meetings", not "swim meets". So, I'm anti-American? Not at all! I admire them immensely, their freedoms, their "can do" attitude, their glorious countryside. Apart from repetition via the mass media, I just don't understand why we have to adopt their phraseology at the expense of our own. Oops ... hang about! I think I saw a baby in that bathwater you just heaved out!!

And then there are the sheer headshakers: signs in the supermarket that tell us the express lane is for 12 items or "less" (it's "fewer"), the ascendancy of the "polite I", where it is thought more correct to use "I" than "me", which leads to abominations such as "Mum spoke to my sister and I" or "Santa gave both Jessica and I a present". I've had "to all intensive purposes" (what does that mean) instead of "to all intents and purposes". Mind you, the one that threw I ... errr ... me most was when I first saw "wallah!". I had to go back and scan the context to find the wanted word was, naturally, "voila!" Sadly, I've seen it in increasing numbers of late. Even that former bastion of Australian English, the ABC, is drifting into a netherworld where sentences such as "Each of the accused men were interviewed by the police" are heard and read. And commercial television constantly reinforces the belief that it is totally ignorant of the rules for positive — comparative — superlative; both when and how to use them, and their formation. All hail the rise of "more—" and "most—" and mourn the loss of "—er" and "—est". I am not "more clever" than my younger brother, but my youngest brother is certainly the "cleverest" of us all.

And I haven't even started on the fate of the comma or its poor, endangered and elevated cousin, the apostrophe.

Perhaps later.

On two wheels

We have a new motorcycle. Well, new to us at least. My brother-in-law brought it in to Australia from the USA as a personal import vehicle.

For those who care about these things, it's a 2003 model twin-spark BMW R1150RT with just 40k kilometres on the clock and in showroom condition. It has a twin Corbin comfort seat, with rider's and pillion's backrests, larger touring screen, cylinder head guards, top case and what I'm pretty certain (yet to fully check it out) is a Stebel Nautilus airhorn that lets others know you are nearby in no uncertain manner! I've wired the Autocom intercom system and GPS into it and added a headlight protector.

Oh ... and it's red, 'cause red's faster.

"Big Red" at Mindarie Keys, Western Australia

Red is a step up from our previous bike, a 1997 Yamaha XJ900S Diversion, on which we did many thousands of happy kilometres together. The keyword is "together"; I enjoy riding far more when I have Dearly Beloved behind me to share the sights, sounds, smells and joys that riding brings. The BMW is, however, a quantum leap in terms of comfort for this poor ancient body. It's more of a "sit up and beg" riding position, with no weight on my wrists or shoulder muscles. And it's quieter ... no matter what you may think of screens on bikes, the larger screen on the BMW certainly cuts down on wind roar around my helmet. After 40+ years of target and field shooting, I am anxious to preserve what hearing I have left!

Mind you, I still miss the Diversion's four cylinder induction howl when I wound the throttle open and the revs started to climb ...

Anyway, here's the Old Girl ... and the bike. (Sorry, love, just joking.)

At Lancelin, north of Perth, WA

We had a "shakedown cruise" on the BMW when we took a couple of days off work, added them to a weekend, and headed south into the wine region. We did about 1200 km over four days and I am pleased to report I could still hear — and walk erect — at the end of it all. You can't ask for more than that.

I've been asked why we ride a bike (the "at your age" is implied!) and where we go and what we do on it.

I'll post more on that when the muse is upon me.

Thoughts of Bali

The news that Dad had died somewhat coloured my views of Bali ... obviously. But I would have to say it seemed less ... frantic ... than the previous times we've been there. Sure, there are still the entreaties to buy, but quite often a simple shake of the head was all it took to turn them away. I heard "G'day, mate" several times ... but also, I thought amusingly, "Hey, cuzzie bro!" ... and of course, "Hey, Grandad!"

We went up to Candidasa ... a couple of hours north on the east coast. It's fabulous, and just barely "tainted" by tourism. The people seem happier and more genuine. The food's good and the beer is cold.

We stayed at the Bayshore Villas ... and I would recommend them to anyone. The owner, Brad, is an Australian and only too happy to help guests and share his Bali knowledge with everyone. He knows the ins, the outs, the ups, the downs, where to eat and where to avoid, and who to buy from without being ripped off.

The accommodations are clean, neat and tidy. The food is good without being outstanding. The location — on the beachront, literally — is brilliant.

Here are a few photos that sum up my experience. (Well, apart from being in bed for three days, shivering and sweating at the same time, with diarrhoea, muscle cramps and blinding headache, that is.)

Goodbye, Dad

So Dearly Beloved and I were in Bali, on the first week of our fortnight's holiday, when I received the phone call from my brother: Dad died this morning. It was his 61st wedding anniversary, to the day. We knew he was ill; the diagnosis was lung cancer ... terminal, inoperable at his age. But that was just three weeks ago and they thought he had months to go. I'd seen him just a few days beforehand and he'd been lively, eating well and actually gaining weight!

I don't know for sure what happened, but I like to think that Dad knew he could cheat the indignity of a prolonged dying by just ... letting ... go. And so he did. He died in his sleep, apparently peacefully, without struggle or pain. If any of us could have actually planned his passing, it would have been that way.

Sadly, Alzheimer's has sunk its teeth into Mum and she only sometimes realises what has happened. It is a cruel bastard of an affliction.

So I flew home to help my brothers prepare a funeral. Today has been spent scanning photos of his life, creating a slideshow, and preparing music for the service. The images and sounds made me weep, a number of times. I am emotionally drained ... and I still have the eulogy to write.

I'm saying goodbye to my hero. Dad taught me to walk like a man, to have table manners, respect for my elders and authority, to ride a bike, to hunt, to shoot, to fish, to care, to realise men can cry without demeaning themselves and, above all else, to love, the way he loved Mum. I know I caused him grief over the years, but I also know he always found it within his heart to forgive me. I will miss his "Hello, Sonny Jim ... how are you?" sorely.

Bye, Dad; love you.

One perfect day

They don't come along all that often, do they? Perfect days, I mean. Sure, when you're a kid it may be your birthday, or Christmas Day, with the presents and food and going to sleep with carols fogging your mind.

But as an adult, those days become less frequent. Don't get me wrong: I still love Christmas ... to me, it is a magical day, when dreams can come true and little kids can believe, just for a while, in Santa. (Let's be blunt: even I still believe in Santa ... or at least the wonderment that is Christmas!) So, out of the blue, my last perfect day, totally unexpected, was a bit of a shock to the system.

Imagine this:

We're on the Divvie, Dearly Beloved and I, riding on the Brookman Highway from Augusta to Nannup (look it up on Google maps if you don't know it). It's overcast, but not raining ... until we're about 20 km towards Nannup. The cloud base drops to ... maybe ... 300 feet, and it starts turning black.

"What do you think?" I ask DB over the intercom. "Going to rain?"

"No", she says, quite gaily. "It's going to be all right."

Five minutes later it starts to rain. I pull the bike on to the shoulder of the road; there is nowhere else. DB jumps off and helps me pull my rain jacket on, while I hold the bike up. The rain is getting heavier now. Zipped up, I watch her in the rear view mirrors trying to pull on her one-piece suit. Hopping on one leg is not her forte ... and I'm sorry, but I get the giggles. Then the laughs. Until I'm worried I'm going to drop the bike.

But I don't, and DB gets back on and we take off.

Then the magic starts.

It's wet. The clouds are scudding overhead, trailing a mantilla of rain behind them. It streaks across my helmet, clouding the visor until I turn my head and the wind whips the drops away. The gum tree forest on either side of the road has but two colours: black and green. The trunks are wet and black; the leaves washed clean, green and gold and green. There is no traffic. It is just us at 110 km/h. Our kids, grandkids, work woes ... all are gone. We're wet but not cold ... and all of a sudden I feel ... elation.

"God", I yell into the intercom. "This is so much better than pipe and slippers at home!"

DB actually squeezes me: "Yes!" she yells. "People just don't know what they're missing out on!"

The road unrolls. The bike is feather-light; it hugs the curves. There is no-one ... just me and DB.

We trundle into Nannup. We have shared something so many couples could never even understand. We stop for hot coffee and toasted sandwiches.

Let the hopping commence ... the rainsuit at Nannup

I want the time to last forever.

It doesn't (of course); but it will live in my memory forever.

One winter's day

Today was one of those winter days we seem to get so often in Perth. The sky was a flawless blue with barely a wisp of cloud. There was little wind ... and no sign of rain whatsoever.

So it was inevitable that my thoughts turned to a quick ride on the motorbike somewhere ... anywhere. Fortunately, Dearly Beloved was in the same frame of mind. She wanted somewhere quiet, a little bucolic -- but with good coffee. (As she drinks decaffeinated coffee, her version of "good" and my version of "good" differ somewhat.)

So, Swan Valley it was. While the ride was soothing and the weather kind, it was anything but "quiet" in the Valley. In fact, it was so crowded at one stage we were wondering whether we'd  time-warped and it was really Father's Day. Most of Perth seemed to be there; car parking areas at breweries, wineries, restaurants, cafes, the Chocolate Factory, were full to overflowing.

Fortunately for us, Yahava Coffee, while busy, had room for the bike and us. I ordered the coffees, lashing out on the "3C special double shot" for me, and dropping my voice to a whisper when I ordered DB's decaf. I think some of the others waiting in line heard me though -- it was hard to miss the supercilious sneers and sniggers.

Wonder of wonders, we scored a table outside in the sun, overlooking the duck-filled dam. Looking away over the green vines to the Darling escarpment, watching the big jets thunder overhead on their way to Perth Airport, the sun filling our heads with cotton wool and the coffee rich and warm, we struggled to stay awake. We didn't even need to talk, just share the moment together. For 30 minutes it was sublime.

Even the traffic on the ride home didn't phase me. DB chatted to me over the intercom. I know she was talking because I could see her hands moving, reflected in the rear vision mirrors.

The old Divvy seemed to have a life of its own, gliding in and out of the traffic effortlessly, just a twist of the wrist all that was needed to pull away from the cars. A push and a lean and we heeled into the turns like an eagle banking on a wing. With the wind rush across my helmet, the smells and sounds of the road intimate companions, even feeling the difference in air temperatures as we rode, we were a part of the environment in a way you never can be in a motor vehicle.

Once again I am reminded of why I like motorbikes.

A painful birth

The first post in my new home. You can still smell the paint on the walls. The furniture is new, too, but I hope it'll get quickly broken in by friends sitting around and having a chat. So pull up a pew, take the weight off ... there's some beer and wine around here somewhere ... I'll join you as soon as I finish grilling this haloumi and sliced chorizo.

This blog will drift from topic to topic, seemingly at random; much the way my mind works. I hope we'll touch on topics as diverse as travel, motorcycling, photography, politics, the English language, food and wine and ... well, see what I mean?

The photo with my profile deserves a bit of explanation. It was taken for my grandaughter, Jaime. In fact, I'm wearing her beach hat in the photo. It seemed to me that, often, as we grow older, we lose that touch of silliness we had when we were younger. Life can be serious enough as it is, without deliberately being all po-faced all the time. So when I saw the photo, I thought "Why not?"

Actually, "Why not" is something I seem to be saying about a whole of things lately. I think that's good.

And here are two of the loves of my life; one far more than the other. My Dearly Beloved and our current bike -- a 1997 Yamaha XJS900 Diversion. The old girl (the bike, not DB) is a source of pleasure for both of us. I came back to motorcycling after a break of many years, as a lot of others do. But more of that later.

This will do for a start.