So ... I've been riding

I've been riding ... in the USA, with my brother-in-law. We rode about 5000 km over 12 days, through the NW and west. Unfortunately, Dearly Beloved couldn't join us this time, so it was just two fellas on two bikes (BMW R1150RT and R1150R).

America is such a fabulous place to ride. There is so much variety; one minute you can be above the snowline on a mountain pass at just a few degrees above freezing, and a couple of hours later in flat, rolling farmland at 39°C, followed by temperate rainforests in fog and drizzle ... all in the same day.

Of course, I wouldn't be me unless I made a few pointless observations.

• As a generalisation ... and I'm not talking about the big cities here ... Americans drive better than we do. They're more considerate, particularly of motorbikes. They actually pull over to let you pass, or smile and wave you through an intersection. Other bikes all wave to you; a sort of low-hand "brothers of the road" thing. It's quite actually ... unless you're cranked into a turn at 130 km/h at the time when you have to take a hand off the bars! Having said that, riding the eight-lane "slab" into Sacramento was, to put it mildly, less than fun. Californians, please ... those little flashing things on the corners of your cars? Use them! Or do you think they only have so many flashes when they come out of the factory, and when they're used up ...

• Roadside stops ... bars, cafes, motels ... specifically cater for bike riders. "Bikers welcome" is often seen; unlike here where you get the evil eye followed by a sort of uneasy shuffle if you turn up with helmet and boots.

• It was particularly distressing to see the number of closed businesses. Especially hard hit seemed to be motor vehicle and motorcycle dealerships, with rows of empty carparks and showrooms. We saw on at least three separate occasions where entire shopping malls had been closed and fenced off with cyclone wire fencing. Others which were under construction when the GFC hit were simply abandoned, unfinished.

• It took me two days (all right, no-one said I was smart!) to figure out another big difference — the roads over there are almost completely litter-free. When I think of the verges here in WA, I have to feel ashamed; there's no other word for it. Even full-on tourist destinations, where the volumes of traffic are immense, were clean. Americans don't trash their own nest!

Crater Lake: And not a piece of litter to be seen!

• We have to introduce a "turn left on red if safe" rule here in Australia. It works so well in the US (turning right there, of course) and helps to ease traffic congestion and frayed tempers. They even have stop signs with the notation that if you're turning right and it's safe, there's no need to stop. Can you imagine our road planning and policing geniuses contemplating anything like that? You'd hear their heads popping all over Australia.

• Speed limits are policed, of course, but generally no-one (including the police) worries about 8 – 10 km/h over the posted limit on the open road, provided it's safe. Of course, go beyond that or speed through a township and expect to get hammered — and they have far more police on the roads than we do.

• What about prices? Well, generally speaking, to live in America I estimate it costs about 50% of what we pay here. Housing prices we're probably familiar with, but (depending where you are) you can buy a 4 x 2 modern home with aircon and heating and all the bits we expect, for around $250k to $300k. (Yes, I know there are places that are much more expensive than that ... but there are plenty that aren't, too!) Food? Let's see ... how about fresh cherries at $1.95USD a pound (about $4.00AUD a kilo); breakfast of two eggs, hash browns with peppers and onion, a ham steak, two slices of toast and endless coffee for $6.00AUD; beer at $6.00AUD a six-pack (much cheaper by the carton); petrol at about $0.98AUD a litre; 1.5 litre bottle of Dewars scotch at $34.00AUD ... and so it goes. I also bought a pair of active noise-reducing headphones with aircraft adapter. The sound is fabulous and the fit amazing. I bought my wife a similar pair in Perth for $125AUD. I think mine are better (active vs passive) and more comfortable ... and they were $49.95.

• Americans love their country; they are proud of it and want you to enjoy it too. They want you to have a good time, and hope people will make you welcome.

• Their meals are ginormous. We've always joked about it, but I think it's got even more so lately. I ordered a Mexican omelette for breakfast at a diner, thinking it would be a fluffly omelette like here with some chopped capsicum, red onion and maybe some chillis. It had that when it came back ... except it would have been made with at least 4 or 5 eggs, and was folded around a cup of taco meat, with mexi-beans and gravy, and four types of shredded cheese on top PLUS a slab of homemade hashbrowns that would have weighed the best part of half a kilo PLUS two slices of toast. The poor waitress was quite nonplussed when I couldn't manage even a third of it; she thought there was something wrong with it.

• Anything else? Yeah, I want to go back and do it all again ...

We're all immortal, right?

Well, when we're young, we're all immortal, right? We're all six foot tall and bulletproof. FTW!

I was lucky .. I guess I have what you'd call a "muscular" physique. Certainly, when I was younger that was the case: 32" hips, 40" chest ...

Smoking? Might affect other people, but not me. Started at 15 ... hit 70 a day for brief while in the late 70s (Winston tastes good like a cigarette should) -- no cough, no wheeze; what's the problem?

Then, in the late 90s, I gave up. It was bloody hard. I was saying goodbye to my best friend. Why did I do it. Two reasons: (a) I was becoming paranoid with every cigarette I lit; and (b) my dearly beloved said if I gave up she'd buy me the new target rifle I lusted after.

So, 22 September 1995, at 12.30 pm, I flicked my last ciggie into the gutter at the gunshop. It was pouring rain. Suited my mood.

I got the rifle and something else: chronic indigestion. For near on five years I battled it, quaffing Gaviscon like cheap wine. Going for a walk meant pausing, often, until I could get rid of the huge belch that gave me relief. The pain would run up my armpits and into my lower jaw. My doctor, against his better judgment but at my insistence, put me on Nexium ... it helped.

Then, one weekend, driving down south, I had to pull the car over. We'd only driven for an hour, and I'd drunk the best part of a bottle of Gaviscon ... and it wasn't working. Back home, a few weeks later, I got this really strange chest pain late at night. For some reason, I got out of bed and into a hot shower. Kneeling on my hands and knees, it felt better. But still wrong.

Dearly Beloved wasted no time getting me into the car and into hospital. Blood pressure was 200/120. They tried to get a drip into my ankle ... both ankles .. and were just about to do a cut-down when she managed to get it in.

Spent a week in the cardiac ward .... remember I haven't been in hospital for anything actually wrong since I was five!! Colour ultrasound, MRI and some nuclear thingo ... nothing. They called me "Mr Mystery Man". Sent me home at the end of the week with "Nothing wrong with his heart".

My GP, bless him, STILL wasn't convinced. (Thanks, Darryl ... I owe you everything.) Sent me for a radioactive stress test. Yeah, yeah, I did it... went back to work ... and got the phone call from Darryl ... "Get in here, NOW". The only words I remember from his phone call were "gross irregularities".

Angiogram -- Melbourne Cup Day -- and I insisted on calling back into work for the lunch, even though we knew by then that surgery was inevitable. You see, that "indigestion" was acute angina ... and I could have ... literally ... dropped dead at any time.

Woke up two weeks later from a triple arterial bypass in ICU. My wife and girls were there. I'm sorry for putting them through all that. Thing is, I never, for one instant, thought I wouldn't come sailing through the other side. They weren't quite as sanguine.

I found out later, it wasn't all lifestyle (smoking) although that didn't help. Genetically, I have some narrow blood vessels leading into my heart. "Your mother's fault", said my surgeon. I went and smacked Mum. (No, of course I didn't ... but it helped to know that.)

Two days later and morphine is gone .. best I can get is Panadol Forte. THEN I find out I can have a glass of red wine with my evening meal ... true; it's prescribed! It arrives with a sheet of clingwrap over the top. It is, I'm sure, "Chateau Cardboard", but the first mouthful brings tears to my eyes ... I'm back in the real world and it's the best wine I've ever tasted. My wife asks for a mouthful ... she gets HALF a mouthful!

Home again after 7 days and I start walking ... each day I get stronger Another week and I go back to wotk ... half-time for the first week.

NOW ... I've been working with weights; I walk at least 45 minutes ... at "brisk" pace ... every day; I ride and heave around a 400 kg (fully loaded, two-up) BMW touring motorcycle. Dearly Beloved and I have done several overseas tours, including a two-week, 5115 km motorcycle tour of the N-W USA. I'm going back to do another, similar, tour this July.

I had a colonoscopy today. I loathe them. BUT, there was no sign of cancer and I'm free again for another few years.

Yes, I'm mortal ... but by God I'm going to enjoy the time I do have left!!

On riding a motorcycle

Most of my friends my age are aghast that Dearly Beloved and I jump onto the BMW and actually ride around the State on it. It's a "death machine" and we're not even called "organ donors" anymore because there's not enough left to donate.

Crap!

Yes, bike riding has an element of danger. Well, that's great!! I do not want to live what's left of my life cocooned from danger or excitement. I want to see, hear, feel and smell the real world. I want to feel the road beneath me, feel the bike lean to my command, feel the tyres bite into the tarmac, feel the push from the engine as we accelerate away ...

We just spent a quick two days away on the 1150RT. We only got half an hour from home for breakfast and it rained. The lady at the counter told me there was a storm warning for where we were heading, with localised flooding. The weather bureau radar on the iPhone told me we'd miss most of it. So we kept going.

Six hours later, we'd had just two "showers"; nothing drastic at all. We had our wets on and actually enjoyed our ride.

We stayed overnight in a very isolated country "town", called Quindanning. Next morning was not raining, but socked in with fog. We waited until 9.30 and left. It was unreal ... just us and the road. Was it dangerous? Perhaps. Roos would have been hard to see, granted. But they're not usually out and about in that weather. And all the other traffic (the little there was) was driving steadily and headlights on. I actually felt safer than the day before when I was driving a major highway in fairly heavy traffic.

By the time we got home I was totally supercharged. I wanted to ride more; even though I knew I couldn't. We'd done some 650 km in two days and yes, I was tired. The RT, two-up, full panniers and top box, is no lightweight.

But the memories!!! I went to sleep last night dreaming of the road and shifting gears and leaning and looking for the apex and ...

Tonight will be the same. And tomorrow, at work, I know I'll be able to slip away mentally if I have to.

So, all you people who ask "Why the hell do you ride" ... the answer's simple ... It makes me alive! And I'll do that as long as I can ride safely on the roads and I can still get a leg across the saddle.

It's the law

I've just done four days as foreman on a jury for a criminal trial in Perth. I have no wish to go into details, because I don't want to identify any of the people involved. However, I do want to make some comments on what I saw, heard and experienced.

I have always considered jury duty to be a civic duty; the responsibility of citizens who enjoy all the rights and privileges our legal system gives us. But from the moment I told people I had been called up, it was "Oh, you poor thing. Can't you get out of it?" When I said I didn't particularly want to "get out of it", the response was incredulity. "What? You can't be serious! Get the company to write you a letter or something." (In fact, it's no longer that easy to get an exemption -- as it shouldn't be.)

So, at the duly appointed time, I joined some 120 others at the court for "pre-selection". Wow! Tattoos, piercings, muscle tops, torn jeans, "holey" T-shirts -- and that's just the prospective jurors! Little old square me in business trousers and shirt was decidedly odd man out.

We became a number -- no more names. It reminded me of the movie, Zulu.

Pvt. William Jones: What's he up to, 593?
Pte. Robert Jones: Oh, I think he wants to be a hero, 716.
Cpl. Frederic Schiess, NNC: Haven't you rednecks got names instead of numbers?
Pte. Robert Jones: 'Tis a Welsh regiment, man! Though there are some foreigners from England in it, mind. I am Jones from Bwlchgwyn, he is Jones from Builth Wells, and there are four more Joneses in C Company! Confusing, isn't it, Dutchy?

So I became, along with everyone else, a number. It was, of course, for our own benefit -- privacy and anonymity. Disconcerting, nevertheless, to have your identity, your "youness", stripped from you.  So, you sit in rows in seats reminiscent of an airport waiting room, listening to messages over a PA, reading or watching the flat screen TVs. Finally, instead of a boarding call, the clerk gives you a brief talk and shows you a cheesy DVD about "being a juror". Or was it "Upon landing in Singapore"? Oh well, it was about as enthralling.

Then they hold a ballot to select prospective jurors. In each case, they call more than twice as many as could be needed -- and I'll explain why later. I've never won more than $39.95 in Lotto, so I was safe. And of course, my number came up in the third jury. We gathered, sizing each other up. ("God, he's old." "Mmm. she's nice." Lordy, he's not white -- hope he understands English".) Our lovely jury clerk introduces herself and off we trundle to the courtroom.

It's here you suddenly realise that, hell, this is serious. The accused is already in the dock, and watches you as you file in and sit down. Procedures are explained, and the defence and prosecution attorneys chat to each other after a friendly handshake. After all, this is just work -- nothing personal intended.

There's a rat-a-tat on the door and we stand. The judge comes in, we bow, and he smiles and invites us to sit, the Clerk of Arraigns (deadly serious lady -- is her face trowelled on?) conducts a ballot to choose 13 of us. Two are excused and there is one objection. I'm on the jury. So, 13 -- but why? Surely a jury is 12. Yes, it is ... but we have an extra in case anything happens to one of us. Just before we retire to consider our verdict, there will be yet another ballot which will reduce us to the required 12. I'm elected foreperson, so I'm with it for the long ride.

It's a sad case. A tragic case, really. We listen to prosecutor and defence, watch pre-recorded (it's a retrial) and live witnesses. My heart goes out to complainant and accused. Four days later, we have to make a decision. One of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I wrestle with my own thoughts, intellect and emotions for hours at night. I don't want to be here; I don't want to do this. As far as I can see, there can be no winners -- only losers.

The judge (charming fellow; wouldn't like to upset him, though) gives us our final instructions. For 90 minutes, he summarises the case and explains the relevant rules of evidence and what we can and can't take into account. There are two charges against the accused, and we must find on both, separately, and return a unanimous verdict.

Back in the jury room, there are a few nervous jokes and banter that disappear quickly as we realise the true weight of what we have to do. we're talking prison sentence, destroyed lives, families ripped apart.

I write on the board the judge's words: "Guilty beyond reasonable doubt". If we cannot get to that stage, we are told, we MUST acquit.

It takes us three hours to find not guilty on both counts. Why? We simply don't believe the prosecution did prove "guilt beyond reasonable doubt". When we call our jury officer back to say we are ready, we are all shaking, some quite visibly.

The jury stands, as does the accused in the dock. The Clerk of Arraigns asks whether we have reached a verdict.

"Yes", I reply.

"On the first charge, what say you? Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty."

I'm trying not to look at the defendant, but out of the corner of my eyes I can see his face dissolve at our verdict.

"On the second charge, what say you? Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty", I say, and I can see the defendant is starting to cry.

"Is that the verdict of you all?"

"Yes", I answer.

The judge pronounces the defendant acquitted. There's no clue whether he or the court agrees or disagrees with our verdict. I know, I know ... WE were the judges, but even so ...

The defendant, now acquitted, is released from the dock. Crying, he goes to the back of the court and he and his mother just sit and hold each other. He briefly looks at us, and I can see he's trying to say something, but it's all too much for him. Behind me, I can hear a couple of the jurors clearing their throats. It's incredibly emotional -- at least for them and us.

The judge thanks us and we file back into the jury room. It's over. Our jury officer explains that the emotions we are feeling now will wear off after a couple of days, but gives us the contact numbers for counsellors if we need them.

We go down the "secret jury lift" and are dismissed into the street by a side door. We mill around for a minute or two. The two smokers light up. There's a feeling of letdown; we're bewildered. We say goodbyes as if we were old friends, not people who were strangers four days prior.

When my wife picks me up from the train, I want to tell her everything, let her know how I feel, what's been driving me for the past four days. But I find I can't. It comes out all disjointed and jumbled, and the things that worried me so much for so long seem suddenly trivial. Bless her heart, she understands, as she always does, and gives me a shoulder to lean on.

No wonder I love her; she's one in a million.

I hope we did the right thing; I trust we did the right thing. At the end of the day, we could only judge on what we were presented with. I can live with my decision.

On growing older ... gracelessly (with apologies to the Ulysses Club)

In just a few weeks I'll be 61. Lord ... 61! I'll ask the same question millions have asked — where the hell did the time go?

It's true, you know, that time telescopes as we grow older. I think that proves Einstein was right ... or perhaps just that he was old and grey ... how would I know, I'm into words, not science. I mean, I clearly remember being a kid in kindy and going to primary school in East Victoria Park in the 1950s (stop sniggering down the back). But that seems a respectable time ago.

What does seem obscene, however, is that I remember working in the Goldfields as an adult some, oh, 10 or so years ago ... but when I work it out, it's over 30 years ago. Thirty years! I jumped on Google maps last night and "drove" down Boulder Road to the District Education Office (the old EGSHS) where I used to run the Resource Centre. There was where I parked my car; the steps I climbed every day; the windows in the workroom; the doors to the office; the Camp School ... frozen in an instant of time. Not my time, certainly, but frozen nevertheless. Just like my life seems to have frozen from then.

I've got married since then; bought two houses; had a step-daughter and another daughter AND now two grandkids. I've quit teaching; become a senior public servant; quit and run my own business; run a music company; gone back to educational publishing. Dearly Beloved and I have travelled the world ... some places several times. Discovered motorcycling; I've gone white and then bald; gained weight and three or four "chins" I never had; slowed down. Had a triple bypass; get daily arthritis aches and pains ... and, damnit, that time has passed in a flash and I still felt 30 — until the other day.

I went down to the local mall for a haircut. These days, they only charge me $5 for a haircut and beard trim ... and $25 search fee. Anyway, the young lass cutting my hair was chatting about the weather. She asked me how I liked the heat. (We've been having a continuing heatwave here in Perth.) Not for me, I explained, I actually prefer colder weather ... bit of rain, bit of snow ... I'm in heaven.

Her response stopped me in my tracks. Without missing a beat on the scissors, she said, "You crazy bitch".

"WTF?" I said to myself. "Did she really just say that to a customer?"

"You really like cold?" she asked, before I could think further.

"Yes", I said, and opened my mouth to explain, only to get, "You crazy bitch" again.

I looked at her face in the mirror ... and suddenly realised she was totally unaware of how I might perceive what she had said. To her, it was just another saying, one that the people she worked and lived with used. There was no malice, no sense of impropriety (because none was intended) and no realisation of the effect it might have on we "oldies".

And I suddenly felt a bit older as she brushed the hair off my collar and took my money. Not because I was offended — I wasn't — but because I realised with a jolt how far removed I'd become from anything that is "young" and "new".

So I came home and had a glass of white wine and sat on the computer ... not really looking at anything ... just fiddling while I thought about the incident.

I thought perhaps I should look up a porn site, or a YouTube thrash video, and to hell with being "old".

But in the end I logged into the Ulysses Club and joined a conversation about ... "spirited" ... motorcycle riding.

And I didn't feel so old for a couple of hours.

Some random thoughts on Malaysia

Dearly Beloved and I have just returned from 10 days in Malaysia. This was partly work-related and partly a holiday. We worked in KL and then in Terengganu state in the north-east. Our holiday was taken in Kuching.

Infinity pool, dawn, Sutra Beach resort, Terengganu

Thought 1: Why aren't all airports as well designed and as user-friendly as KLIA? Yes, it's huge ... but its signposting is so easy to follow — and so logical — that you never feel daunted by it. We stayed overnight at the Pan-Pacific Hotel in the airport and were both pleasantly surprised. For an airport that must take a considerable hiding, it was in an excellent state of repair and our room was ultra-clean and comfortable. As for the staff ... it's one of my pet hobbyhorses that Australian service staff aren't. At the Pan-Pac, I actually felt like a guest, not an imposition on the staff.

Thought 2: Driving — I've come to some conclusions about driving in Malaysia:
(a)  Road markings are guides only and not meant to be taken seriously ... take one lane ... or the other ... or straddle both ... it doesn't matter.
(b)  Indicators have a limited number of flashes in them and hence must be conserved by using them only in dire emergencies. Other than that, they are superfluous.
(c)  Stop signs are advisory only. The decision rests with the driver as to whether or not they are obeyed.
(d)  In the event traffic is stalled in your lane, it's perfectly OK to use the lane on the other side of the road. Or if you're on a scooter, the breakdown lane ... on either side of the road.
(e)  Turning off all the lights on your scooter at night, particularly in semi-lit rural areas, is a safety measure.

Thought 3: Food — Malaysian people love their food and love for you to love it too. I'm a fan … as my "waste"line will attest … but even I struggled with five hot meals a day! (Breakfast, morning tea, lunch, "high tea" and dinner) I have one reservation, however — keropok lekor, which is a kind of fish sausage made with fish, sago and salt, ground together and formed into "sausages" which are boiled or deep-fried. I tried them, but I'm terribly sorry, I just don't like them. Nasi lemak, nasi dagang (spicier), rendang (beef or chicken), roti canai, whole fish tom yam — now you're talking. I've been told there is a genuine Malaysian restaurant in Perth — must look it up.

Thought 4: Kuching — loved it. It's very clean, very green and very open in its design. The people are friendly (as indeed they are in Terengganu) and just seem genuinely happy to see you. In parts of the city, Europeans are still enough of a rarity for people to give each other a nudge and twitch a head in our direction. Some of the Western Australian town planners might like to take a visit and see the riverwalk they have there (and the use it gets) and compare it with the desert that is Riverside Drive in Perth.

The riverwalk, Kuching

The river and city skyline, Kuching

Thought 5: Shopping — Generally, 10.00 am to 10.00 pm — and yes, people did shop during those hours. One day we'll drag ourselves into the 21st century I guess. It was the lead-up to Chinese New Year while we were there and the sales were in full swing. Try genuine Pierre Cardin shirts for MYR50 — about $16AUD at the then exchange rate. Or women's shoes — in a range which had Dearly Beloved salivating — also from about $15 a pair.

We'll be back.