A Drunken Madman

Several reports are available. Australian Doctor reports here.

The delicious thing? She's being succeeded by innumerate dingbat and staunch, but failed, antivaxer Greg Beattie. That might put Meryl's constant claims to be "not anti-vaccine" into perspective.

Meryl claims to have stepped down to work on "two special projects". One is rumoured to be codenamed "project shred all the fucking documents", the other, presumably, is dodging Fair Trading's name change directive.

Speculation is, of course, rife. And fun. Stay tuned.

It's come to one's attention that most of the posts here recently have been about riding bikes. This is a departure from the 'normal' material, which should consist of drunken rants against the unreality-based community, pictures of beer and stupid puns.

This being the case, I've decided to put the cycling stuff over in its own blog, The Crankset, which will consist mainly of ill-considered slander and bile directed toward the two-wheeled community, memes of Lance Armstrong and pictures of carbon fibre thingummies. And probably some frank and uncensored talk of bushman's hankies, belgian toothpaste, rule 5 and the like.


If you give the slightest two shits about bikes, you might want to go have a look. If you don't, don't. But stay tuned here, because there'll be some stuff on the skeptical theme coming down the pipe shortly.

A few weekends ago, I received and invite from my good mate James Taylor (no relation) to go visit him in Bright, VIC, where he's been living for a while as a paragliding, bike-riding, rock-climbing, beer drinking dropout bum. And so it transpired that on Friday 7th December I found myself in a cab on the way to the airport, in thick Sydney traffic, with my bike in a box and a small bag of stuff for carry-on luggage, bound for Albury and thence to Bright.

James's housemates are deeply involved with the Bright Brewery, so obviously the first stop was beer. Then some more beer. Then some more beer, a visit to the supermarket, some steak, some rice and a bottle of quite nice red wine (among other things). The original plan for the next day had been to catch a minibus at 8am to the top of nearby Mount Hotham, and ride down a 45km-ish trail with a fairly big group of local mountain bikers.

I, of course, had other ideas. My plan was to ride up Mount Hotham and meet the mountain bikers at the top, then accompany them down. At 2am through a haze of alcohol this seemed like a pretty mad and barely feasible idea to my companions, who expressed guarded admiration for the idea, but open cynicism about its possiblity. Frankly, we were all a bit drunk.

Well, at 4am my phone nudged me into wakefulness, barely hydrated, probably still tanked and reluctant to drag myself out of bed. By 4:30am I was sufficiently awake to get my contact lenses in, and get ready to go. At 5:17am, after a caffeinated energy gel for breakfast, I started my timer and rolled out, bound for Bright town centre, the Great Alpine Road, Harrietville and the Hors Catégorie Mount Hotham climb.

Now, for those unfamiliar, there are five levels of categorised climbs in road cycling. Category four is the 'easiest', leading to category 1 and above that, the toughest of the tough, Hors catégorie. This is no picnic. But it's rather special, and I like riding uphill and frankly I wasn't going to spend 24 hours in Bright without riding up something.

And so it was that, after a short break to rectify a misbehaving contact lens (dehydration, natch) I completed the 20km warmup ride to Harrietville and embarked on the climb proper.

The Mount Hotham climb can be seen, really as three sections rolled into one, each of roughly 10km or so distance. The first is a fantastic tree-lined, sweeping climb including a famous 9-10% section called The Meg. It was on The Meg that I caught sight of another rider, also on a mountain bike. It took perhaps a kilometre to haul the rider in, but once I did, and we introduced each other (though I've rather shamefully forgotten her name), discovered we were both meeting the same group at the top, and rode together for the middle section of the mountain, a ~9km "false flat", which gave a nice respite in the level of effort required. We chatted bikes, racing, the Tour of Bright which had just got through - and in which my companion raced - the local area, the concept of the tree change and the trail we'd be riding later.

Soon though, the "Steep Climb Engage Low Gear" sign loomed ahead of us, signalling the final 11km of proper climbing, and I kicked into climbing mode. Slightly rudely, I dropped my erstwhile companion in the first km. It wasn't deliberate, I just have a tendency to attack climbs, and not pay full attention to what's going on around me. Still, it was nice to open the throttle a bit after what was a fairly relaxed trundle through the middle section.

Above the treeline, I came to CRB Hill, the second properly serious climbing section, a bit over a km at 10% or so. It was now really clear that I was up on a proper mountain, as the trees were gone and the road snakes along the ridge line, with huge vistas to the left and right. A quick downhill after Little Baldy hill was a nice wind-in-the-hair thrash before the last big section, the Diamantina.

Only 1.4km of 9% climbing, and the difficulties were over. To be honest, I'd forgotten all about the Diamantina, and only realised it was there when I was on it, and to be more honest, I started to suffer a bit, but I kept turning the pedals and shortly, mercifully, felt the gradient dip back to something sensible, then downhill to the Ski Bridge at Mount Hotham Resort.

The clock ticked over at 2:04 from when I hit the "lap" button, and Strava afterwards showed 2:01:25 for the 29.6km climb. Respectable for a guy on a mountain bike, though A grade road racers could *almost* give me a head start at Harrietville and race me to the top from Bright. The Climbing Cyclist blog says anything under 2 hours for the Hotham climb itself is respectable for a road rider, so I'm not displeased, considering I did it on a ~12kg full-suspension MTB with a hangover.

Part Two: Down

 I was earlier than expected to Hotham, and wandered around looking in vain for somewhere that might sell me coffee. In the end I settled for an energy bar and some water, and awaited the arrival of James and his coach party. I didn't have to wait for long. My phone buzzed (yes, I had reception). James and group were waiting at the Reservoir, a km or two back along the road at the highest point.

Meaning I had to ride uphill again. Bollocks.

 Oh well, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. I pedalled my way back to the reservoir and found a group of about twenty riders waiting for me, including James. Greetings were done, a group photo was had and after much disarray, we set off, down a rocky firetrail and into the wilds.

The group was very much a mixed-ability crowd, and the first part of the ride included lots of stops for food, chats, local history and general procrastination while other riders caught up. The faster riders were positively revelling in the conditions, but James and I were itching to get back - to make my flight I'd have to be back in Bright at around 2pm to make the airport at around 4pm. This was very much a flying visit and a relaxed day's trundling in the mountains wasn't on the agenda. As beautiful as the surroundings were, and as great as the trail was to ride, we had a deadline.

Past the old Red Robin gold mine, we rode hard. A little too hard, as in my case a rear puncture dropped me from the front of the group to near the back, but soon we all regrouped and took stock. While our average speed based on moving time was good, the breaks were putting us well below 10km/h. Some quick mental arithmetic, and the consideration that there was some steep climbing ahead with over 30km to go, meant we wouldn't make it in time if we stayed with the group. In fact, we'd be two hours or more late.

Negotiations were begun. The group contained about three or four riders who knew the route - and we certainly didn't. One of these key riders would scoot ahead with me and James as we split the group, get us past the trickier routefinding, and then we'd put the hammer down for Bright. Game on.

We started to hoover up the trail, James and I sharing leads and our guide keeping reasonably up to pace. We stopped to fill water bottles from an alpine stream, had one dodgy moment of routefinding uncertainty, and eventually found our turnoff, a steep plunge to the valley bottom, followed by a big climb up onto the opposite ridge. We parted ways with our intrepid guide and commenced on the final leg. The average speed had climbed up back over 15km/h thanks to some fast sweeping trail and some attacking riding on the pinch climbs. Things were looking good.

As it turns out, some of the slowest riding of the day followed. Steep, winding and rocky, a barely-maintained trail from the river, over fallen logs and snakes, in rising heat, with dwindling water. My legs were starting to really feel the miles and James, while much more fresh, wasn't appreciating the track conditions. Still, the setting was amazing, steep-sided alpine valleys, native bush, wildlife, the river below, clear sky above and only the occasional *thunk* of a gearchange to disturb the peace.

We eventually reached the highest point of the climbing, at a three-way junction. Our instructions had probably been quite clear when first imparted, but now neither of us were sure. We were high up on the valley side, with a downhill, a steep uphill or an even steeper uphill ahead. The downhill looked like the only track that underwent any regular use, so we headed down, with some slight trepidation, until another junction where we found 3G reception. Some rapid and dirty navigational work determined we were nearly home, with both arms of the junction dropping us out at roughly the same place at Freeburgh, near Bright. It was approaching 1pm.

From here, fast, sweeping downhills were the order of the day and the average speed climbed again. There were creek crossings and waterbars and some really joyous riding, even taking into account a crash in a river crossing when, unsighted, I hit a dodgy rock midstream and crashed, laughing, headfirst into the freezing water. All too soon, tarmac appeared, houses started to peek through the trees, and we rejoined civilisation and all that comes with it. Some Team TT work sharing leads into a headwind got us back to Bright in time to pack up the bike, take stock of the day, and ship out for the airport. I was over 100km for the day, we'd taken 4:26:17 from the top of Mount Hotham (of which 3:05 was spent actually moving) and as it turned out I'd scored five Strava trophies for climbs on the way back.

All that remained was to hoof it to the airport, check in the bike, shake hands with James for a fantastic day in the Alps and cram down a quick cider before boarding.

And the day was over. Soon I was back in a taxi in Sydney traffic, bookending a fantastic 24 hours away, and a high point of my riding year. I'd recommend it to anyone, but I'd also say: give yourself a bit more time than I did.

 

It's taken me a while to get round to blogging about my riding of late. I've been rather busy, as will be elaborated shortly. October opened with much preparation for the 100km Kanangra Classic, of which I've blogged before.

This was to be my first endurance race this century, and my first actual crack at properly racing the MTB Marathon distance of 100km - my previous endurance racing being the multi-day Polaris Challenge MTB orienteering series, a format which is not so much about covering a set distance quickly as balancing navigation, tenacity, fitness and time management.

So the early part of October was spent in prep, with some long-ish weekend rides and lotsof fast commutes with extra distance through the week.

Off To Kanangra

Race weekend arrived and I headed off early on the Saturday, in plenty of time to check in to my cabin in Oberon, scope out the state of the trails a little, and maybe ride the Kanangra Burn prologue event. Everything went according to plan and I arrived in Oberon in time for some coffee, and to check-in to my cabin, give the bike a quick tune and head to Kanangra Boyd ready to check-in.

In fact, I arrived in time to have a quick blast around part of the course and see how quick I could expect to be going. My previous recce of the trail had been relatively slow, but that had been mid-winter. This time, the track was dry, hard-packed and fast, and I managed to knock off around 28km of trail while waiting for the event hub to open. I was relatively pleased with this, since I'd also recently signed up for the Cannondale Oktoberfest challenge on Strava, and the more riding I got done, the closer I'd be to getting the challenge knocked over.

So I checked in and decided yes, I would ride the prologue thanks, and a couple of hours later I was lined up with maybe 40 or 50 other riders for the casual pre-race rumble around the south end of the course.

Technically, it's a social ride with no racing obligation, but a few people were lining up with serious faces on, not least of which was me. I already knew from the morning run that the trails were fast, so as we rolled away from the start and began the initial climb up Kanangra Walls Road, I figured I'd stretch my legs and see how quickly I could knock off the climb to the first aid station, for the sake of my Strava segment record.

As it turns out, a while before the station hove into view, I'd pretty much lost sight of the rest of the field. "In for a penny, in for a pound", I thought, and proceeded to smash the rest of the lap, mostly for my own amusement. I spent about two thirds of the lap in heart-rate zone 4 and got back to the event hub well ahead of the field about 52 minutes after starting out, at an average speed of nearly 26km/h. It's not a serious race, but it was nice to put down a fast time and see that the smoother sections of the track could go at a nicely respectable speed. As the rest of the field trickled in, some had clearly picked up their pace towards the end, and some had trundled - but all had, it seems, had fun out there on a perfect riding day in Kanangra.

I was, of course, realistic about the performance. I hadn't expected many of the fast guys to be present for the prologue, and of those that did line up, I didn't expect many to be smashing the ride - so while I was home first, it was no indicator of my potential performance for Sunday. But it did give me a nice benchmark for how fast the southern part of the circuit could go, and it let me revise my goals. When sigining up, I'd figured maybe six hours. As I got fitter, I revised that downwards to five and a half. After the Saturday, I set myself a stretch goal of breaking five hours and finishing in maybe the top 20 of my age group.

And so I retired, after a cider and a stack of rice and tuna, with the 2012 Paris Roubaix on for background noise, and prepared for the early start on Sunday.

Race Day

I was out of the cabin before sun-up and heading off the the event hub again, yawning but ready for anything. Leg warmers and waterproof booties on, energy bar slammed down for breakfast, bottle and camelbak filled and fully prepped for a few hours in the saddle.

The field was much bigger than I expected, and I was blearily waiting for an espresso when the call came to the start line. This, unfortunately, meant I was lining up quite near the back of the field when the race officially started. Never mind, though. I like steep climbs and the first section of fireroad was familar by now. Steadily, I advanced through the field, taking care to stay in heart-rate zone 3 or lower, so as not to seriously deplete my reserves for the long haul.

By the time I was at the turning to Budthingaroo, I felt like I'd passed a hundred riders or more, and truth be told I probably had. My pace was pretty good, my legs were feeling strong, but there were more people to pass.

Budthingaroo is probably the major climbing of the lap. While Kanangra Walls Road is heavily uphill, it's at least smooth, but Budthingaroo, and Mumbedah which follows, are rough and winding, so make for much harder climbing. Still, keeping the pace up wasn't too bad.

My nutrition plan started to kick in here. My revised plan was to follow my Garmin's calorie estimates to gauge when to eat. 600 calories in, it was time to take in 300 calories or so in the form of a gel. Every 300 or so following, another gel would go down, track surface permitting. I planned to stick to this the whole race, and take in a gel roughly every 300 calories on the Garmin. This, it turns out, was a damn good plan. At no point did I end up feeling severely depleted, though I did discover that trying to be environmentally sound with used gel wrappers means you quickly end up gluing your pockets closed.

As I reached Mount Emperor Trail, I struck up a conversation with another rider. The most common question all day was "50 or 100?" as the two race options started together. My companion was on the 100km, like me. the second most common question was "What age group?". My new mate was in the 40-49s, and when I replied "30-39", he replied "Good, we can work together". And so we did, for a while riding pace for each other, keeping the cadence up and issuing encouragement.

At the break stop on Boyd River trail, though, I stopped for a drink, took some time to rid myself of my leg warmers, had a quick stretch and let my companion carry on to a stash of bottles he and his friends had left on Kanangra Walls Road. I wanted to get back to my own race plan as we climbed back to the road. And climb back to the road I did. I dispatched several more riders on the climb, including my former companion, while heading up the woody trail. The pace was looking not too bad, but I had a suspicion that my Garmin was slightly confused in the opening forested section, so kept on it, still taking care to stay out of the threshold zone and keep fed and watered.

The Boyd River Trail section ends at Kanangra Walls Road feeding station, and you follow the road for about 50m or so, before coming back on the Kowmung trail, which is fast, smooth and slightly downhill. I didn't expect to pass many people here since it's easy to get up a good strong top speed and maintain it, but I did expect the later stages, where there are lots of loose curves and waterbars, to perhaps give me some opportunity to capitalise on the nervousness of other riders. As it happens, I was close enough to the sharp end of the race that nerves were few and far between, and I actually had to ride hard to keep on the pace with the occasional rider I saw through the bends.

I'd nearly come a cropper here on a recce ride, hitting a waterbar mid-corner and ending up off-track, but the previous day's prologue shenanigans had allowed me to find a line which went oddly wide, squashed the jump, and used the edge of the track as a berm to bank the corner. I heard a slightly shocked exclamation from behind through there, but didn't look round in case I myself ended up off-track.

Soon, I was back at the feeding station where I'd stopped previously, and heading right instead of left, to the Morong Creek crossing. I'd hit this very fast in the prologue, and wasn't quite sure how I'd managed to get through in one piece, so my first lap of the 100km was slightly more sedate, and I got through OK. I'd walked this crossing on my recce, which was a daft idea. Smashing it on the bike was far more exhilarating, less cold and quicker. All that remained of the first lap was a steep climb, a couple of small crossings and back to Kanangra Walls Road.

As I reached the start line, I was feeling pretty positive. The timer, as I trundled through the grass and tussocks of the start/finish area, showed 2:20.

Not bad.

Lap two began, and it was far more lonely. 50km riders were now a stark rarity, as they were either finished or much further round the lap, and the uphill was a little lonely. I passed a small knot of 100km riders heading back to the feed station, where I stopped and refilled my dwindling camelbak, allowing the group to re-pass me again. Getting started again, I was slightly worried about my pace, as the riders who'd passed me didn't seem to be in sight, but after a km or so I was able to haul them back in.

This lap was troublesome. Having fewer people around meant I had no natural pace target and had to keep re-evaluating my pace consciously. It's easy to zone out and lose track of your cadence, and to end up trundling where you should be smashing, and vice versa. It takes concentration, and the first half of this second lap was a hard test of focus, broken only by a couple of riders with unfortunate punctures, who responded to "You OK mate?" with "yeah no worries" or a curt wave. I caught a few riders in Bike Minded jerseys near the junction with the Boyd River Trail, who seemed a little lost for pace, and was largely alone through Boyd River up to Kanangra Walls Road again. I kept slogging, and kept to my feed plan, although the gels were starting to make my stomach feel like a paper hanger's pastepot.

As I passed through the feed and check station, a marshall asked for my race number to check me through, and I scoped my time. Slightly slower, but feeling good. Coming back to the Morong Creek crossing, I crossed right next to another rider, after warning him about the dodginess of the entry, and we rode together a little while. He marvelled that I'd done 50-odd km the day before and self-effacingly said that I was probably about to leave him for dead, as he thought he'd gone a bit too hard in the first lap. I gave him a bit of encouragement and paced him for a km or so approaching the climbs, but soon enough we hit a fast run down to the creek before the steep bits, and I did indeed leave him behind. From here to the end, I had little human contact - a 4WD unexpectedly on the trail startled me a little, and soon I was back on Kanangra Walls Road, less than 5km from home and looking like I'd be coming in nicely under five hours.

Indeed, as I ran up towards the tussocks, I could se the clock counting out towards 4:50, so I got out of the saddle and sprinted to get there under the time, and the race, for me, was over.

There were some minor timing issues, but from the screen at race control, it appeared I came sixth in age group, on my first endurance race back, in a time good enough to have beaten all of last year's veterans, or 8th overall against 2011 times. At the time of writing, overall times for 2012 aren't available, but the winner was definitely faster than last year's, meaning my time wasrespectable, not stellar, but definitely exceeded all my own targets. First lap had gone at roughly 2:20. Second at 2:30, which was consistent and indicates to me that I had some reserve in the tank and could perhaps have gone harder in both laps without breaking myself - one for next year, I think.

And that was Kanangra done.

The next three weeks

And that was the first two days of the Cannondale Oktoberfest Challenge - a 50km day and a 100km race, to start things off in style. The aim was to ride 60 hours in three weeks, just under three hours a day, so I was slightly ahead of the game. I spent the first week on a bit of a blitz, goign for fast commutes, exploring Strava segments and hunting down KOM possibilities. To be honest, I ended the first week in a bit of a destroyed state, having sprinted everywhere, even playing tit-for-tat on a fast segment with a particularly quick road rider of my acquaintance. The next week was a bit of a slog, punctuated by an incident on Lilyfield Road where a bogan with a laser pointer left a lasting imprint on my retina. By the end of week two I was tired and a little behind the curve, so I headed out to Yellomundee to do some singletrack riding in preparation for the Briars Highland Fling. Part way through my second lap, My brake pads started to make a worrying scraping sound, as though they'd worn down to the springs. Distracted, I came into a narrow section too quickly, ran wide and caught my handlebars in a tree. I was off, and slammed down hard onto a tree root, cutting short the day and cracking a rib quite painfully. I limped back to the car and took stock of the situation.

Well, I was two-thirds into the challenge. I wasn't going to stop now.I spent the rest of the week riding in a mild haze of pain, still putting down the occasional fast time on Strava and even at one point literally riding myslf sick, until I sealed the challenge with a day to spare, sixty hours of riding in three weeks, a level of effort that literally sends one midly insane, one worn-out rear tyre, well over 1000km done and dusted two days before the 110km Highland Fling. A rest day, then my second marathon of the season, or so I thought.

As it turns out, the Fling wasn't to be. At about 5:30am on Sunday, as I was driving towards the race start at Bundanoon, I blew a tyre on the at Yerrinbool. On cracking out the spare, I was dispirited to find it entirely unusable, called the NRMA and was eventually set back on my way at 7:10am, ten minutes too late for race check-in and only 20 minutes ahead of the starting gun. I'd known the tyre was dodgy, but since I was spending so much time riding for the challenge, hadn't made time to get it checked. My own damn fault and I guess it serves me right.

I limped home, took some more pain killers and had a beer. No Fling for me in 2012.

And that was October and November's MTB riding. I'm currently on hiatus, due to broken ribs and strained back muscles from trying to alleviate the pain of moving around, but there'll be more. Oh yes, there'll be more. Just wait and see.

 

UPDATE: the official Kanangra results are available and it turns out I actually came 4th in the 30-39s, 14th overall, and my time was good enough for 5th in the Elite class. My first lap of 2:21:32 was 35th fastest overall, which is 8th fastest in the 100km 30-39s - suggesting my second lap was quicker than average and I had better consistency than other riders - for whatever reason.

A while ago, I posted this little note about chiropractic, and one of its heroic defenders.

Lily, apparently, doesn't like that I posted it. She sent me a Facebook message.

Well, Lily, since you blocked my Facebook account I can't reply to you privately, so I'll have to put the answer here instead.

No.

What you posted is a matter of public record. It's on a publically-accessible Facebook page. It's a fact that you said it, and I don't much care that you now have comment regret.

You know what the solution is for the problem of people reporting the stupid things you say on the internet? Don't say stupid things on the internet. Cry cyberbully if you like, you'd be in illustrious company. It remains a fact that you said it, and you said it on a public page.

You're welcome

 

p.s. Lily also posted a comment here, on a totally unrelated blog post. Yeah, smart cookie, that one.

My attention was drawn today to a website called "Helmets On Heads". This website purports, under the domain helmetsonheads.org, to be a promotional campaign to raise safety and tries to look independent but industry supported. It's actually wholly owned by the industry. This should be a warnign flag to treat claims with caution - there's a monetary incentive to overstate the case, so a little extra scrutiny is justified.

Their FACTS page makes a rather odd set of claims, which you'll probably spot if you're schooled in spotting hokey numbers. Now, I do like a good hokey number, so I thought I'd feature it here. If you can't spot it, I'll explain below. I'm not the first person to spot it, but I'm an enthusiast of arithmetical weaselry.

Here's a screenshot of the facts page as it was when I looked on the evening on 9th October 2012

 OK. So, at a glance, you'd think that "whoah, I should totally rush out and buy a bike helmet. But wait! There's something wrong with the numbers.

Let's tease out the two claims that I'm concerned with.

1. Roughly one in ten cyclists killed were NOT wearing helmets
2. Only 25% of cyclists wear helmets

Have you spotted it yet?

Yep, that's right. Using these figures, the rate of death for helmet wearers is MUCH higher than you'd expect. In fact, while nine out of ten cyclists killed WERE wearing helmets, 75% of people don't wear them. So the rate of death for helmet users is absurdly high.

In fact, if helmets were only an indifferent factor, you'd expect the casualties to break down 75% non-wearers, 25% wearers. What's quoted by the site is 90% wearers, 10% non-wearers - far more deaths for helmet wearers than the proportion of use would suggest.

If we actually crunch this set of numbers with ninja hokey numberism, helmet wearers are nine times more likely to be killed, yet only constitute 25% of the population. three times more people don't wear helmets, making it - very roughly - 27 times more likely that you'll die if you don a helmet. Off the top of my head. Yep, I know my hokey numbers.

Look, I don't actually think the numbers are true (though references ARE offered). They're probably nothing more than a collossal fuckup by the copywriters behind the site, but here is an object lesson in how to communicate risk terribly while still retaining a superficial veneer of credibility.

It's hard enough examining the numbers around helmet use as it is, without innumerate dingbats making an ass-backwards case right in the middle of it all.

Point and laugh everyone, point and laugh.

I've been a bit quiet on the blog of late. Ordinarily, I'd be at least updating what I've been up to on the mountain bike each weekend, but, well... I kinda couldn't.

You see, back on 26th August, I decided I'd take a little ride down to Loftus, on the edge of the Royal National Park, and ride a bit of singletrack and fire trail on my full-suspension bike, a 2011 BMC Speedfox SF03.

Well, I got to Loftus and, about halfway down temptation creek firetrail, snapped the frame in half.

DAMN IT

It wasn't as if I was riding hard. I was doing about 18km/h when it happened, as this Strava trace shows. It just... broke.

So I pushed it back to Loftus Station, caught the train home, and sulked.

And sulked

And sulked.

So, I took it in the next day for warranty inspection. The guys at Favourite Cycles in Manly were sympathetic to my plight, but warned that it may take a couple of weeks.

So I sulked

I went home and assessed the bike situation.

My spare hardtail had a torn rear tyre and a missing saddle and was maladjusted for my riding style. My AlpineStars Cro-Mega has been off the road for some months after first succumbing to a worn-out drivetrain, then being cannibalised for spares.

That left the road bike which normally lives on the Turbo Trainer in my living room. I'd never ridden it in the wild before.

There was nothing else for it. I'd have to... *shudder*... RIDE THE ROAD BIKE.

So I sucked it up, pumped up the tyres and headed out.

After some initial utter terror, I discovered that the road bike isn't actually a bad thing. It's fast. It's not comfortable, but it's FAST. After some initial adjustment issues, I started on a campaign of smashing personal bests on my local routes. I even started to get into the top places overall on some Strava segments.

Meanwhile, the staff of BMC were all enjoying the annual Eurobike trade show and having far too much fun to inspect my broken mountain bike.

So I carried on with the road bike and actually found I kinda like it.

SHOCK HORROR

So I continued learning to make it go fast and occasionally prodded the guys at Favourite for updates. News eventually came that yep, it was approved for warranty replacement.

But the partially- expected bad news was, of course, that BMC no longer make the SF03, which was discontinued at the end of 2011 in favour of a remodelled SF02 range. And they had no 2012 SF02 frames in a 26 inch wheel.

But, said they, I could have a 2012 Speedfox SF29 SLX

"Errr... OK", said I. "I'll check it out and get back to you in a bit".

Bigger wheels. Wagon wheels, in fact. I'd once said "I'd love a 29er, but I'd have to start buying paper bags in bulk, so I could wear them over my head in order that people won't recognise me".

But really, I kinda secretly wanted one. I'd be trying to figure out how to justify getting a 29er to go alongside the old Speedfox anyway. I loved the SF03, and I'd just got it feeling about as well-adjusted as I thought I could get it, but maybe the SF29 would take the good bits of the 03 and just add bigger wheels.

So I called them back and said "Yes" and also "By the way, what happens with the components of the 26er? Because there are some upgraded bits on there".

To my joy, they said "Well, you can probably keep those. We'll check with BMC".

So it came to pass that on Saturday 15th September, I drive to Manly with an empty bike rack, and came away with a brand new SF29 SLX, and pretty much a whole bike's worth of parts ready to completely renovate my mid-90s AlpineStars Cro-mega.

Bit of a win all round, I think.

So what of the new bike?

Well, I took it out pretty much straight away, for a 7km-or-so trundle around Red Hill Reserve on the Northern Beaches.

At first I was "whoah, big and weird". Then I was "Ooooh, fast and stable", and then I was all like "FUCK YEAH THIS IS AAAAAWESOME".

It took about 1.5km to decide that this is the best bike I'd almost never owned. The idea that 29 inch wheel are sluggish went straight out of the window. They're just bigger. The power transmission is different, sure. But it's not snappy, and I formed a suspicion that the wheelspin that occasionally dogged steep loose climbs on the 26er would be absent on this bike. And I was right. I'd never been to Red Hill Reserve before, but I found Marble Hill (12.2%, rough) and rocked it straight up there,  not a jot of wheelspin to be seen. It's not snappy, it's smooth. It's also stable downhill, and begs to get over obstacles.

So I returned from my short run at Red Hill enthused at ready for more battle, and the next day, went to the Royal National Park to ride LCD.

I was with my good mate Paul, who'd never ridden offroad before, so the first few kms were done at a stately pace, enjoying the scenery. The last kilometre or so is the Strava Segment "Lady Carrington - Climb to the gate", and I agreed with Paul that I'd sprint that segment.

Unfortunately, I've only ridden LCD in the dark up until now, so the point where I thought I should take off was about 1km earlier than the actual climb. I ended up hammering the life out of the last 2km of track, and probably made myself too tired for the climb itself, but I ended up feeling pretty strong. The bike didn't once feel like it was fighting me, and took everything in its stride. It felt quick, but I didn't have a result yet.

Paul followed shortly afterwards and decreed that I should sprint the return run too. My intention had been to let Paul dictate the pace for the return, but he was insistent, and I was keen to see what the bike would do. On my previous run in the dark I'd clocked just under 25km/h average, good enough for 5th spot on the leaderboard, though that had slipped to about 8th over time. We had an energy gel each, rested and got ready to go. I'd go full pace, Paul would go full pace, then we'd both go to the pub. My iPhone was showing a bit over 35 min for the outward run. Target for the return: keep it under an hour, maybe move up a place or two on the leaderboard.

Time to thrash.

Off I went, while behind me various noises of consternation echoed through the woods. I was over 40km/h and pedalling hard when I figured I might have been a bit hasty. A bit of a blood sugar spike after the energy gel was giving way to a slight dip. Luckily it passed quickly and I settled into a nice rhythm, though on a couple of occasions I almost spilled off the track passing riders who were incapable of picking a side in the face of speedier traffic. The walkers were sharing the path very well, giving me a chance to pick a line well away from them, and behaving predictably and safely, but the riders seemed less confident in the situation. Never mind. No blood, no report.

As I approached the final few kms, it was clear my pace was high, and it may be possible to go under 55 minutes - never mind the hour - but as I came towards the gate and the tarmac I had to slow down, first for a large family group then for a 4wd which failed to realise how fast I was travelling and pulled into my path from the river bridge right near the end. Still, the clock stopped at 55:25, well inside target.

I turned round and trundled back to meet Paul, who reported a minor crash in the first few hundred metres. Apparently, the noises of consternation were caused by a moment of panic, a locked brake and a slip into the ditch, and I'd just shot off into the distance. Oops.

So we headed off, not to the pub, but to the new plan of "I'll buy some decent cider and we can drink it at my place".

Cider acquired, the data was uploaded to Strava.

• Lady Carrington - climb to the gate: 6th overall, 2m45s
• Carrington Challenge - North Bound: 4th overall, 20m10s

That's an average speed on the return of 29.2km/h. A saving of 20s would have put me second on the leaderboard and a saving of 1m20s would be KoM. So I'll be heading back soon.

We followed this up with a trip down the Cooks River Path and some LOLs on the Flying Fox at Steel Park. Perfect day.

But the bike? The bike is absurdly good. I compared the experience to being chauffeur-driven. The suspension, while nominally 20mm less than my previous speedfox, feels plush, supple and reactive while at the same time managing not to steal all the pedal power. The steering is stable and natural, and with very wide bars it also encourages an aggressive, but not uncomfortable riding position. The drivetrain feels perfectly tuned for the wheel size, with ten on the back and three on the front - though I haven't yet touched the small chainring - and overall the bike feels like it's doing everything it can to get you from A to B quickly and with the minimum fuss.

It's fantastic.

The only small niggle is the Avid Elixir 3 brakes, which aren't very adjustable and seem to occasionally sing for their supper

So yeah, I'm a convert. 29" wheels are the way to go. Really.

This weekend was an unusual one. Esther has been away in hospital for a few weeks, and on Saturday she was given an overnight pass to come home and do a trial-run before being released back into the wild. So while I initially planned to do a long ride on Saturday, I ended up skipping it in favour of some domestic chores followed by the hospital run. And Sunday was of course out.

But Esther was due back at the physical rehab centre at 7pm on Sunday. So....

NIGHT RIDE!

My initial plan was to go check out Loftus Oval, but as usual, when I drive into the Shire I get distracted by the imminent arrival of the Nazgul, and I missed the turning. Well, instead of turning round, or rejoining the trail via Bertram Stevens Drive I figured I'd head down the hill and do a fast run out along Lady Carrington Drive in the Royal National Park instead.

As it turns out, this was a great idea. Lady Carrington Drive is undulating and smooth doubletrack, with no severe climbs - ideally suited to a fast night ride. Here's the BikeBrain trace of my run. And here's a Strava Challenge on the return run, on which my run came 5th overall.

Of course, being a night ride, I can't tell you all that much about the track. Here, for example, is a picture:

And here is my rating of the track out of ten

• The scenery: leaves flashing past in the light beam. 1/10
• The track: Undulating, quick. No major climbs. No hard corners. Ideal for a fast ride or a run for beginners. 5/10
• Wildlife: There must be some, because I heard it. Oh wait, yes. There are deer. I was put in mind of this video, though obviously it was less scenic
  Also, there was a possum. 1/10
• Accessibility: Quite easy. Drive South along the Princes Highway until you miss the turning into Loftus Oval. Turn left at the big sign for the Royal National Park, and drive down until you get to the causeway. There's a right turn into a car park shortly after. Park here. Don't park in the car park, the Security guys will close it at around 9:00pm 7/10

So there we go. That was my MTB for the weekend. Now I'm off to eat pork and drink cider, unencumbered by the guilt of not having ridden anywhere.

Antivaxer Jane Beeby, about whom I've blogged previously, has decided to run for council in her home region of Clarence Valley. Jane is (or was, it's unclear) a committee member of the AVN and a rather vicious lieutenant to Meryl Dorey herself. 

In the past, she has suggested a critic - a long-time health activist and writer for Australasian Science - gargle bleach to remove "the smell of shit of your breath" and wished that my next shot would be "a lethal one".

For her to be elected would not, it appears, be a positive development for public health.

Jane has a Facebook page. Perhaps you'd like to go and ask her about her stance on vaccination and public health. A few members of Stop The AVN already have, and we expect the response to be more diplomatic than Ms Beeby's previous efforts - a silent deletion of the question and a brushing of the issue under the carpet - though one of Ms Beeby's now famous retorts would be gold.

 

 Update: 9pm. It appears Beeby has deleted her Facebook page. Doesn't want the people of Clarence Valley to know what one of their council candidates is really like, clearly. Also, the comments appear to have disappeared from the story on the Daily Examiner. I shall, of course, follow this up in the morning, since it's a clear case of information pertinent to an election being suppressed. It's also pretty funny, when you think about it. How spooked is Beeby?

 Update 10:35pm: Reasonable Hank's post on this farce is fantastic.

We've been through this before.

"GERROFFTHEFUCKENROAD!!"

As a cyclist, I hear this so often that I can almost predict its arrival. Usually, it's shouted out of the open window of a tradie's ute as it barrels past me at a dangerously short distance, but it can come from vehicles as diverse as taxis, vans and the humble Hyundai Excel of a barely-qualified P-plater.

And it's really quite annoying.

Because when I'm on my bike, I'm as entitled to use the road system as anyone else. In fact, I can go anywhere on NSW Roads other than places where it's specifically signposted not to go. Generally, this means Motorways, but even the M4 allows cyclists. I have a right to the road and I use it.

However, both the Common and Lesser-Spotted Bogan seem to disagree with this. They appear to believe - and I'm hazarding a guess here, because they're not the most erudite of people - that cyclists don't actually have a right to use the road. They seem to think that I should be using the footpath or perhaps not riding at all. Well, I can't usually use the footpath. It's illegal except in three specific circumstances

1. If the rider is under 12 (I'm not)
2 If the rider is accompanying a rider under 12 (I'm not)
or
3. If the footpath is specifically marked as shared use. 

But what really intrigues me is how this idea has crept into the heads of a social group notoriously resistant to change? Was it always there? Probably not, if this photo is to be believed.

 

Although obviously the photo does not capture audio. It's possible the car on the right just executed a perfect 10-point GERROFFTHEFUCKENROAD and the cyclists merely didn't hear it.

The attitude is particularly prevalent here in Australia. I almost never experienced it when riding in the UK, back before I moved to Australia and largely gave up cycling. When I started again this year, I was slightly shocked to see how often riders are abused by drivers who either don't know the road rules or don't care what the facts of the matter are. And who are studied in seeing cyclists not as humans trying to get from A to B but as vermin trying to drag Australia back into the pre-motor age.

Anyway, back to this "cyclists should get off the road" thing. I did have an off-the-wall idea as to how this idea has crept in over time.

As we all know, there are few things the common and lesser-spotted Bogan likes more than a good, solid false dichotomy. This finds its most obvious expression in the with-us-or-against us tribal behaviour of the Bogan's favoured adversarial sports. The Bogan thrives on a team-against-team or man-against-man format, but struggles when there are more than two possible outcomes. They can't generally do sports where there are more than two teams involved (unless that sport includes V8 engines. Bogans will overlook almost anything to be within earshot of a V8). 

Slightly more subtly, it finds an outlet in the Bogan's preferred choice of media. The pages of the Daily Telegraph and the mid-evening current affairs slots on Seven, Nine and Ten are thickly sown with false dichotomies and my-way-or-the-highway thinking. You're either against asylum seekers, or you're some inner-city elite librul dickhead gay salad-eating homo lover. You either love rock fishing or you're a vietnamese one-legged hemp munching greenie who likes chardonnay. You either think hunting in national parks is a great idea, or you're Hitler's bastard offspring who wants to take away everyone's guns, cars and pit bulls and give them (counterintuitively) to the jews who run the world from their secret bunker in Erskineville.

And so to cycleways.

Friend Bogan sees a cycleway, and his "thought process" - for that is what we must call it in the absence of a better phrase - runs thus:

• Oh look. A little special road for bikes
• I've got a big special road. Aren't I clever?
• I'm not allowed to drive my ute in the little special road.
• The Daily Telegraph were very angry about that
• Therefore bikes aren't allowed on my big special road
• Ever
• QED

With a special afterthought, wondering what QED means, which tails off when the Bogan is distracted by an advertising hoarding for four-n-twenty pies.

And so, "GERROFFTHEFUCKENROAD!!" becomes the mantra of choice when passing one of them tree-hugging, non-hunting, ute-less, left-wing, probably-gay-marrying atheist vegetarian cyclists.

So there's only one thing Clover Moore can do.

Stop building bike lanes.

Put us back on the roads, where we have a right to be.

And execute all the bogans instead.

I didn't actually report last weekend's epic ride. 75km out to Yellomundee Regional Park, 15km or so around the park, 75km back. There was a fairly nasty incident involving some random western suburbs assclown who wanted to run me off the road and wasn't afraid to either say it or attempt it. He failed, of course, being an incompetent driver. But still, let's speak less of that and instead speak of today's ride.

Last night (Friday), I drove out to Jenolan Caves, where I'd booked a room at Caves House. My intention was to do a reconnoitre of Kanangra Boyd National Park in preparation for October's Kanangra Classic 100km race.

I'd tried this once before, in the company of James and Dave. That story is well told, how we managed less than 20km in over three hours, by way of a crash, a puncture, and a performance of much of Jesus Christ Superstar to the trees at large. This time, there was to be no mistake. On Friday, I'd acquired a new camelbak, packed a spare tube and pump, thrown in a handful of energy gels, some gaffer tape, my toolkit, chainlube, helmet gloves, changes of clothes and everything else I could conceivably need. To this I added a bottle of Old Rosie Scrumpy and I was off.

After a night's warm toasty sleep, I was ready and off to the park before 9am, even the park's wallabies were still yawning. It's August in Kanangra, and "warning, ice" signs were out. It certainly was cold, but not - quite - below freezing, at least if you don't factor in windchill. I parked up near the wonderfully named Budthingaroo Firetrail, about 1km from the startline of the Kanangra Classic, threw on my gear, and I was off.

It was cold enough to keep on a windshell for this opening section, which was familar from May's disastrous ride. This time, though, there was no mistake and no struggle. The opening rough climbs were easily dispatched and the descent to the first river crossing (on the Mumbedah Firetrail, not Mount Emperor as I wrote previously) accomplished at speed without either falling off the path or crashing in the creek itself. The first demon of May was exorcised, my max speed counter showed 52.3km/h, and I was out of the saddle and dancing in the pedals toward the next creek crossing. The leeches were clearly not in residence this time, as I splashed through and continued on my merry way.

Soon, the right turn onto Mount Emperor appeared, and some fast descending was the order of the moment. One more creek crossing to come before reaching the fateful location of May's puncture fiasco, and it was one on which I'd badly messed up the approach last time. No mistakes now, straight through with a splash and onwards to the Ben Lomond Firetrail, the scene of the puncture on the last ride. As I passed the disaster site, I checked the clock. 40 minutes elapsed, almost to the second.

Last time round it had taken maybe an hour and a half to get to this point. And this time I was flying in comparison, though still not running at full steam. My plan was to run the first lap at a "fast exploration" pace, maybe 75% effort, and then do the second lap with the throttle fully open. After 50km of trail, the full-throttle pace would probably not be much faster, but knowing the route would make the lap quicker. However, a problem was brewing which started to nag at me.

There are a lot of creek crossings on the route. And it was cold. It was maybe five or six degrees, and while I'm not a stranger to cold conditions, my wet shoes and socks - holding water already shockingly cold from the splash - were making my feet feel... well, perhaps feel is not the right word. An antonym to "feel" would be more appropriate. What my feet were was numb. And the sections of trail following are fast. They're Oaks-fast. Already-cold air rushing past at 35km/h and more, over feet utterly soaked in already-cold water? Not nice.

Soon I met the Kowmung Firetrail. Fast. Sweeping. Very smooth. 45 km/h and more in places. Here, I experienced what I'm coming to think of as an "Eagle Moment". A wedge-tailed eagle, sitting on or near the firetrail, was spooked into the air by my approach, and led me down the path for 100m or more. It's a stunning experience, and the second time it's happened to me. It was a stunning moment, and it may have contributed to my outbraking myself on a corner shortly afterwards, though I just managed to slow myself in time to save actual injury.

Shortly, the race route hooks leftwards, back across what I think of as the "infield", towards the start-finish straight of Kanangra Walls Road, along Boyd River Firetrail. I figured at this point it might be prudent to make a little audio or video "diary" piece occasionally, so I took a first here.

On the Boyd River Trail, some climbing began again, and the first signs of energy depletion started to show. My feeding plan called for five energy gels, the first of which was due at the end of this firetrail, but I brought it forward. Though I'd carb-loaded I obviously wasn't quite as well-fueled as I'd hoped - and skimping on breakfast probably didn't help - a note for October, to be sure. Still, thorugh the previous section, my average speed was bumping up against, and occasionally tipping over, 18km/h

So, off I rode up the wet, muddy Boyd River Trail. Yet more splashes made the numbness in my feet even more evident, especially under the shade of the trees. I stopped to wring out my socks and rub some warmth into my feet, which didn't much help, made a second video note concerning the freezingness of feet and the horrifying taste of GU coffee flavour gels, and soldiered on.

Hitting Kanangra Walls Road, one now turns left, rides for about a hundred metres, then turns left onto the Kowmung Trail, to head again toward the back straight. Again, it's fast and smooth, and soon you're back where you were earlier, speeding down a smooth, graded trail back to the junction with the Boyd River Trail.

This time you turn right, down a trail marked as the Uni Rover Walking Trail. Technically, it's the Morung Firetrail, and leads back to Kanangra Walls Road, which is the "finishing straight". Of course, no more than 100m down this trail lies the biggest river crossing of the circuit, across Morong Creek. There are two ways across - a 4wd-compatible ford, which is long but shallow, or a shorter walking section to the right of it, which I took.

Well, the water was cold. Colder than I've ever felt Bedford Creek on Anderson's Firetrail. Colder than any sensible person should endure. And once out the other side, the numbness was alternating with burning pain. So I sat on a handy rock and wrung out my socks as best I could, and tried to massage life back into what were previously my feet but now appeared to be simple meatsacks attached to the bottom of my legs. I did a video diary, calling it a "point of interest", on which it's clear I'm in pain, and, after a short while, rocked on, to find a firetrail almost exactly representative of the entire course in microcosm.

Up until this point, my average speed was 16.9km/h

By the end of this section, my average speed was still sitting at 16.9km/h, unchanged over the last half an hour or so, I was at almost exactly 40km done, and out of the bush section proper. Ride time was two hours twenty minutes here, with 10km to go.

I did a quick video diary, speculating that maybe, if Kanangra Walls was smooth and level, the last section could go at 30km/h, making the lap two hours 40 minutes (though I confusedly miscalculated on the video). As it turns out, the 10km back to Budthingaroo is harder by a fair stretch than my 25km/h commute. Yet, still, it's faster than the rest of the trail, and when BikeBrain ran out of battery at 46.2km, I was averaging 17.1km/h and looking at 2:41 on the ride time meter.

The final section was a shitfight, my legs complaining and the trail refusing to play nice, but I kept in the top chainring and pushed hard. There's a very fast section here at which I broke 55km/h last time round, and I'm quite certain that the average for the section was upwards of 20km/h. I was hanging out for the car. I knew I needed to stop and warm my feet, and maybe just have some lunch. When I got off the bike, I found I couldn't stand upright, because I couldn't feel my feet at all. So, I held on to the car to keep myself upright, fired up the engine, abandoned the second lap and tried my best to bring my feet back to life with ugg boots, warm socks and the footwell heater.

I estimated "under 2h50m", which is an everage speed of 17.65km/h. Even if I'd done exactly the same average as at the end of Morung, 17.1km/h, we're still looking at 2h 55s, at what I think is about 75% effort overall.

My current target for the October race is a flexible "under six hours". I think I'm pretty much there. Assuming 75% effort in the first lap, and 95% effort in the second, I'd revise my target to 2:45 per lap, and 5:30 for the race. It's not a winning time, given that the 2011 winners averaged about 22.5km/h, but it's certainly very good considering where I started. In January when I started riding again I was nearly 110kg and struggled on most climbs. I averaged not much over 10km/h at that time. I think I might be going OK. But let's wait until October.

 

In 1977, Paul MacReady and Peter Lissaman, from AeroVironment, won the Kremer Prize for Human Powered flight in a striking aircraft they named Gossamer Condor. They named their craft in tribute to the largest flying land birds in the western hemisphere, The Condors.

Later, in 1979, the pair followed up this initial success with a crossing of the English Channel, with an aircraft they named in honour of an accomplished and famed gliding bird, and possessor of the world's longest wingspan. The name? Gossamer Albatross.

When it came time to go one step further and experiment with a solar-powered version of these two pioneering aircraft, there was only one possible way to go. MacCready needed an inspiring name, a name linked in the human mind to graceful, controlled flight. To sleek wings borne aloft on the winds of fortune. To soaring, majestic control of the zephyrs and tradewinds of Shakespeare's "majestical roof fretted with golden fire". MacCready named his inspired, solar-powered flyer

The Gossamer Penguin.

 

Whatever MacCready was drinking to celebrate Albatross's success, I'll have one.

Images: Wikipedia

I was informed this morning that it's now six months since I got off my arse and started losing some weight. I was 107.3kg at my first official weigh-in, in January this year. What's happening now?

Well, I weighed in this morning and I came out at 87.9kg. So that's tantalisingly close - only 600g - to 20kg lost in six months, officially.

I blame the Tour de France for not making it under on this weigh-in, since the late nights have cut into my riding time and occasional TDF treats of camembert wheels and fast food don't help much with the diet.

I've actually been saying "nearly 20kg" for a couple of weeks now, and despite a couple of setbacks with a nasty viral infection and a couple of bike crashes, my fitness is well on the way up.

I did Narrowneck track back in January, as my first proper off-road trail since I got started, and it took me several hours. MapMyRide shows 1:49 riding time, though I walked basically all the climbs on it - including the relatively shallow gradient from the lookout back to the Fire Control Tower - meaning the real time was probably more like 2:30* or, probably, more. 

Yesterday I rode it again, and got an 'official' time of 1:29. I started a km and a bit further in due to fading light, and finished the ride at tippy-toe low speed due to an uncharged headlight, but this time I rode every climb on the way out, and every climb on the way back, save for the real steep monster which I walked because I basically couldn't see to ride it. I think in good light I could have shaved 15-20 minutes off that time, and could possibly get it under the hour mark, from the Golden Stairs car park, in good conditions. The firetrail I did earlier in the day (Mount Hay) went at a nice round average of 20km/h, which is my very-best- case stretch target for October's Kanangra Classic 100 race (In reality, it's more likely to be between 5 and 6 hours riding time)

So you could say I'm a lot fitter than I was in January

I'm also quite a lot skinnier. None of my jeans fit any more. In fact, I can now get into a pair of size 36 jeans I bought optimistically about six years ago and never wore. And I can do that without undoing the buttons. I've had to punch two new holes in my belt and I'm due to punch another any time now. Nearly all of my t-shirts are too big, too, and I'm starting to welcome the shrink-in-the-wash effect rather than cursing it.

Oddest thing though, I think, is that my shoe size has changed. In February, I broke my old, faithful pair of Beck MTB shoes, size 43 and only wearable without socks. So I went and bought a new pair of size 44 Shimano XC50s, which fitted nicely with thin socks. A month or so later, I had to adjust the strap closures to give more bite, as they were starting to feel loose. In June, I bought a new pair of trail shoes. Size 42 and comfortable. My XC50s are now at the limit of their adjustment and need replacing. Even allowing for stretch, they're just too big. My feet have shrunk. Where I was somewhere between a 43 and 44, I'm now, it seems, back into the 42-43 range, which is back where I was before I got a desk job. I didn't expect that in January.

So, the target for the next six months? First job is to consolidate my weight in the 80-something range, do a whole load more riding and eat moderately well but not crash diet. Heading into October and my first MTB Marathon event I hope to be  mid-to-high 70s, or very low 80s, depending on how my riding fitness shapes up. Ultimately, my target weight will be determined by how well I'm performing on the bike - last time I took my sport seriously, as a rock climber in my early 20s, I fluctuated from low 60s to low 70s and found my best weight to be in the higher end of the range, but MTB is a different discipline to rock climbing, and endurance mountain biking is something slightly different again, and I don't quite know what my ideal would be.

One thing's for sure, though. I'm going to need new jeans. And shoes.

 

* The version of MapMyRide I used in January had a tendency to auto-pause the workout if travelling below about 4km/h, so walked sections didn't register as part of the data. These days, after several updates, it looks like they do.

Please complete all questions to the best of your ability. You have thirty minutes.

1. It is raining heavily in Sydney. At about 2pm, you need to drive from the CBD to Strathfield. Which of the following actions should you take?
   1. Switch on your headlights
   2. Drive at a reduced pace appropriate for the conditions and leave a longer stopping distance to the car in front
   3. Drive as close as possible to the car in front because in the low visibility, you can only see things that are close up.
   4. Drive faster so your car doesn't get as wet
   5. Stay on the phone the whole way, so that if you crash, your friends will know about it immediately
2. Your indicators are for:
   1. Telling other road users what you intend to do
   2. Telling other users what you just did a minute ago
   3. Showing support for the Vivid Festival
   4. Whut?
3. You are journeying from the CBD to Ryde, via the Anzac Bridge and Victoria Road. Which of the following should you do?
   1. Choose your lane well in advance, based on the direction in which you need to turn next, indicating clearly when changing lanes
   2. Stay in the centre lanes, giving the option to change your mind if you decide Victoria Road is too busy and you'd rather take the Westlink
   3. Drive all the way across the bridge in the far left lane at 75km/h, then cross four lanes of traffic in order to turn right at Victoria Road. Repeat at each major junction until destination reached.
   4. Find a bus going in the right direction, Tailgate it all the way.
4. At traffic lights, the stop line is:
   1. The solid white line at the lights, behind which you queue to await a green light
   2. The solid white line at the lights, thirty feet behind which you queue to await a green light that will never come, due to the fact you didn't trigger the road sensor
   3. The solid white line at the lights, upon which you carefully place your rear wheels before pre-empting green lights
   4. Halfway across the junction
   5. More of a guideline that a stopline
5. When passing bicycles you should:
   1. Leave at least a metre of clearance, more if safe to do so
   2. Consider the road conditions and wait for a more appropriate passing place if unsafe
   3. Drop down a gear, accelerate hard and pass as close to the bike as possible, in order to give the rider confidence in your supreme driving skills. After passing, move onto the other side of the road, before cutting back in hard to the pavement before stopping at the next lights, thereby protecting the rider from the chore of having to ride past you again when you stop
   4. Yell "Pay yer fucken' rego ya cunt!" at the rider. From your unregistered Holden Commodore.
6. You are travelling along the M4 westbound. Traffic is a little heavy but not jammed, and the variable speed limit is set at 70km/h. Do you:
   1. Drive no faster than the limit, using the right lane appropriately, when there's an opportunity to overtake
   2. Consider changing routes, taking the Great Western Highway for a while to avoid the traffic
   3. Drive at 95-110km/h, weaving from lane to lane as required, without indicating
   4. Sit in the right-hand lane at 60km/h
7. Cycle lanes are for:
   1. Bikes
   2. Walking
   3. Parking
   4. Shopping trolleys
8. When should you use a mobile phone in your car?
   1. Never
   2. When you're a passenger
   3. When you're safely stopped
   4. When you want to talk to someone. Or tweet, Or send an SMS. Or check the Telegraph's mobile website for interesting news. Or when you're confident you can totes get three stars in Angry Birds level 15.
9. Mirrors are:
   1. An important safety device, allowing you to view the road behind you without turning your head
   2. A thing to hang jesus beads on
   3. For makeup
   4. For preening and flexing
10. You are about to embark on an unfamilar journey. Which of the following are appropriate actions?
    1. Plan your route ahead of time using Google Maps, noting main roads and landmarks
    2. Use a hands-free vehicle GPS navigator
    3. Take along a friend familiar with the area
    4. Wing it, stopping often and unpredictably in order to check an out-of-date Sydway directory, calling friends for directions while driving and indicating left before turning right (and vice versa)
11. Paramatta Road is:
    1. Probably best avoided in peak time
    2. A useful, but flawed route to and from the west in off-peak times
    3. The only road in the whole of the Inner West
    4. A dragstrip
12. The Cross City Tunnel is:
    1. A useful and quick way to get from Inner Western Sydney to the Eastern Suburbs without having to drive through the CBD
    2. UnAustralian. Real Aussies drive into CBD traffic jams and stay there as long as possible, stationary with the engine running, in order to support Australia's fuel industry
    3. WITCHCRAFT. EVIL.
    4. What's a Cross City Tunnel?
13. The traffic light just turned amber. Do you:
    1. Decelerate safely, stopping behind the white line
    2. Consider driving through safely if too close when the light changes
    3. Accelerate as hard as possible to get to the other side, even if you cross the line well after the red phase starts
    4. Keep going at exactly the same pace, then stop, suddenly, mid-junction, causing the car behind (executing maneuver 2) to skid dangerously while trying to avoid your sorry ass. Look puzzled when yelled at.

 

Your score:

13-20 - You're not from Australia, are you?

20-28 - You're from Melbourne, right? Oh, Canberra you say? That will explain the fascination with roundabouts

28+ - Yep, you're a Sydney Driver. Congratulations. Here's a free ticket to the Sydney driver's ball. Just drive right in. Ignore the sign that says "Danger, car crusher, do not enter". Signs are for other people, right?

This morning, I wrote ~4500 lines of code in about two minutes.

Skeptical?

I thought you would be, so here's the curious tale of how I deviated from best practice land and wrote 4500 lines of C# code using Excel formulas.

It began with an email from a member of the public to the organisation for which I work. To protect the person's identity, we will call her... Mrs Mittens, and we shall paraphrase what she had to say.

Mrs Mittens wrote:

"I live in a particular street in Rathernicesuburb"

So far so good

"When I came to your website, however, and was asked to select my street and suburb from a drop-down list, I noticed that my street is categorised as Neighbouringsuburb."

Uh oh.

"This is simply not good enough." continued Mrs Mittens, "I live in Rathernicesuburb and will not put up with being labelled as a resident of Neighbouringsuburb, which while nice is not as nice as Rathernicesuburb".

Ah.

"THIS MUST BE FIXED" yelled the management team.

"Yikes", responded the Geospatial data team. "Yes, it's true that while the website arbitrarily places every street in the area into a given suburb, there are numerous streets which are actually in more than one suburb, including, we can confirm, that of Mrs Mittens, who does in fact live in Rathernicesuburb, as do her neighbours, and everyone along her side of the street."

"YES BUT HOW DOES THAT FIX IT?? MRS MITTENS IS BESIDE HERSELF!!" yelled the management team, displaying the usual levels of calm analytical thought.

And so the problem came to me.

I'm not the web developer. The web developer left some months ago. I'm a SharePoint Administrator, officially. However, I have the knowin' of the magical incantations and the See-Sharps and the Eye-Eye-Esses and the databasings. So web stuff now comes to me by default.

"Here's a problem. Fix it. Oh, and here's a spreadsheet of all the streets in the area, and all the suburbs they could appear within. Good luck, soldier. Oh, and do it now. We mean it. NOW."

So off I went into the code, hoping to find how this particular drop-down list works. The list had about 1500 streets, each categorised as a given suburb. My first thought was that this would be drawn from a database somewhere using C#, which would render into an ASPX page, neatly separating logic, markup and data, in what is thought of as a programming ideal. It's how I would have done it.

Boy, was I ever wrong?

When I found the dropdown, here's how my predecessor had built it (changed slightly to protect the innocent)

public void AddSuburb(string StreetAndSuburb)   {
     dropDown.AppendOption(StreetAndSuburb);
}

AddSuburb("Alpha Street - Nicesuburb");
AddSuburb("Beta Avenue - Nicesuburb");
AddSuburb("Delta Crescent - Verynicesuburbindeed");
AddSuburb("Gamma Lane - Crappysuburb");
AddSuburb("Epsilon Gardens - Runawayyou'llbekilledville");
AddSuburb("Pi Row - Suburbwherewepoisonallthetrees")
AddSuburb("LOADS MORE STREETS HERE");

...and about 1500 further lines of hardcoded C#, including typographic errors and suburb transpositions. Obviously things like typos were never looked for thoroughly, and would only come to light if a person from a given street decided to contact my employer, and could be bothered to actually report the issue.

This is, in my opinion, what is often termed a coding horror

So, what was I to do? I had a 4500-line Excel Spreadsheet with the real suburbs in it, and 1500 lines of C# code to replace, and a management team breathing down my neck to get this done ASAP.

Best practice would suggest I should redevelop the whole thing, so that it would draw from a central database, then bind that data to a WebControl. Sadly, I don't have sufficient permissions in this website's DB to create new tables. As I mentioned earlier, I'm not the web developer. Also, I'd need to test it properly. And make sure the production DB was up to date. And probably write an interface or sync script to manage the tables. And I have other work to do, work which is actually included in my job description.

So I had a brainwave.

I wrote an Excel formula.

Here it is

Yep. I took the A and B columns, concatenated them together with the AddSuburb() call, and pasted that formula all the way down the C column.

I then copied the new AddSuburb() calls which appeared in colum C, and pasted all 4500 lines into the C# source in place of the 1500 previous lines. Then I hit "build", confirmed it worked in test and sent it off to management for the once-over.

And it worked.

And it took me about three minutes

Of course, I'm guilty of the most horrendous bad practice. And I'm guilty of perpetuating the poor practice of a predecessor. But I'm also perversely pleased that I came up with a trick that saved me a shedload of time and managed to make the situation no worse at all.

So there we are. I'm an evil not-best-practice hacker, a cowboy of the highest order. It's confirmed.

But CERN just announced 5-sigma evidence for the existence of the Higgs Boson, in comic sans, so frankly, no-one should care.

There's a bit of a stoush in Sydney at the moment. Barry O'Farrell, a man in no position to issue proclamations along such lines, has branded the City of Sydney's support of Buy Nothing New Day as "nuts". Retailers in the CBD are making noises about rates strikes. The commentariat are split, predictably, on what all this means. It's all, apparently, quite controversial.  Lefties don't know where to put their faces. The right-wing are all too decided on where their faces ought to be, and that's right in the public eye, which as a result is full of spittle.

For my part, I'm decided.

You see, there are few things more guaranteed to strip the enamel from my teeth than retail.

Retail, for me, is all that is wrong about the world.

Retail, for its part, wants me to shut up and shop. It cares not a jot for my opinions. It cares only for my wallet, and the mechanics of emptying it. This it means to achieve, apparently, through the strategic use of so-called "retail spaces".

These spaces seem to consist, in the main, of thousands of near-identical, cheaply manufactured products, augmented with hundreds of oversize hoardings filled with dead-eyed teenagers sullenly slouching about in this week's latest sewn-by-a-third-world-orphan tat, while assailing my ears with bland, factory-farmed pop tunes at a volume just loud enough to be irritating while just being quiet enough that you can't actually discern the track from the one that preceded it or the one that will follow.

Through this post-apocalyptic dystopia trudge thousands of similarly dead-eyed consumers, all numbed by constant sensory overload, distracted by the latest shiny piece of tat in the next store window and seemingly eager to hand over vast sums of money in the vain hope that acquisition will somehow equal affirmation, and their life will therefore be enhanced by a couple of yards of distressed denim stitched by a struggling mother of six in Bangalore. They can't walk in a straight line, or at a normal pace, and they don't know where their wallets are, and they seem to genuinely like the whole excruciating pas-de-deux called "the retail experience".

Frankly, given the option to extirpate all dead-eyed consumers, I'd take it, and add the optional extra "sow their land with salt so they can never come back".

I have held this opinion for many years. I once agreed to go "shopping" with an ex-girlfriend. I was buying a new bass guitar, and was heading into the city to pick it up. She said she'd come along as long as I came "shopping" with her afterwards.

Well, I got my bass. I'd already chosen the product. I spent ten minutes haggling down the price, and five minutes forking over the money. But then I had to spend an excruciating several hours as we trudged from shop to shop, ears beaten and brusied by the worst that bland mass-manufactured pop had to offer, as she endlessly rummaged through rack after rack of seemingly identical tops, occasionally taking one out, trying it on, and demanding an opinion.

It's a fucking top. What more opinion need there be? CAN'T YOU SEE I'M DYING HERE??

I spent over an hour in Top Shop alone. A man can only take so much.

It never happened again. We broke up a short while afterwards.

This, though, is what many people seem to want from their retail experiences. Near-endless browsing culminating in a purchase experience which is hoped to be satisfying, but which will in fact leave you more insecure than when you began, and all the while the stores get more and more similar to each other, and you can't be sure if the sullen skinny teenager blown up ten times over lifesize in the window of shop A is the same sullen skinny teenager wearing almost exactly the same clothes in the window of Shop B. The mannequins don't even have faces any more. You know why? BECAUSE THAT'S HOW RETAIL SEES YOU. You're a faceless zombie, whose only purpose is to feed the beast from the magic plastic you keep in your pocket. It was not mere whimsy that led George A. Romero to set Dawn Of The Dead in a shopping mall.

Through this stygian horror we call "retail precincts" I occasionally stride, seeking shelter from the rain, or desperately hunting some kind of sustenance, because, you see, if you work in the CBD, you cannot avoid retail precincts. If you want to eat, chances are you'll be heading to a food court, and chances are that'll be in a shopping centre. Worse, it'll be in the very centre of the precinct, because if there's one thing the owners of these places want, it's to drive you deeper into their lairs, so you can't escape without being further assailed by advertising. If, like me, you work around Town Hall Station in Sydney, chances are you probably don't even get from the train to the office without passing several million dollars worth of absolutely identical product in the QVB, the Galeries[sic] or any of the other surrounding retail wonderlands. And everything not connected with shopping must, by decree, be accompanied by maximally-focus-grouped marketing, otherwise the real-estate cost is wasted.

Next time you're in one of these places, check the layout. The food court is never near the entrance. You're always forced to run the gauntlet of the retail industry, just to get a lousy plastic container two-thirds full of rice, two ninths full of teriyaki chicken and one ninth botulism and salmonella. This, it is hoped, will prime your already softened consumer mind to buy the stuff you saw on the way in. The entire walkway layout will be the same. Easy to stray in, hard to get out. Large shopping centres are deliberately built to pull you in to the centre, then allow you to permeate slowly outwards, exposing your softened mind to branding and visual marketing that will eventually see your resolve collapse, and see you participating, shamelessly, in the orgy of consumerism for yourself. There are entire branches of behavioural science devoted to bamboozling the consumer mind and making it spend spend spend. They're working on YOU too.

It'll happen eventually. Branding and marketing will get you. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but the brand will become lodged, and soon, you'll be picking out examples from thirty racks of identical tops, trying them on one by one, demanding the opinion of an unwilling co-participant and then handing over your card to have your bank account whittled away in the hopes of validating your pointless existence.

And you'll walk out with a Nike hat on. And you won't hate yourself.

Fuck that.

This is, of course, not to say that I don't occasionally have good retail experiences, and it's certainly not to say that I never participate. I, like everyone, need stuff. It's just that I've now developed a technique of finding a place that works for me, trying on a shirt, then buying five identical shirts right then so that I don't have to come back for as long as possible, and when they wear out, come back to the same place for the same thing. Same with jeans. Same, really, with everything. Find a cut and a size, buy shitloads of it. The same with most things, actually. Find a shop with good product, knowledgable and discreet staff and a location that engenders as little loathing as possible, keep going back.

Of course, retailers get wise to this, and they refresh their stock - and staff - at intervals, thinking, perhaps, that this is a good thing. Even Woolworths and Coles are in on this, as they seem to agressively trim back their product lines so that anything I actually like goes off the shelves to be replaced by more generic tastless shite designed precisely and scientifically for the mass mouthbreather market. Oh look, a flavour of yogurt that's not identical to every other flavour of yogurt MUST BUY. Two weeks later: Flavour of yogurt discontinued for ever. You get strawberry, "wild berry", or nothing, motherfucker.

FUCK.

This culling of lines into more and more generic categories is, it seems, a good thing for retailers. Economies of scale. Minimal retooling for manufacturers. Protect the margins. But it most certainly is not good for people. It means when my favoured item inevitably goes missing, I have to try endless examples of seemingly identical tat until I finally find one that fits, fending off shop assistants who want to know "if I need help" and trying desperately to get the hell out of the building as fast as I can. It means that when I find something I like, chances are it won't be there in six months when I feel like buying it again. And what is there will be largely disposable, designed with a lifespan of less than six months. The stitches will unravel, the buttons will fall off, the fabric will wear through, and I'll be left with nothing. While in the suburbs there are second-hand clothes shops selling stuff made in the 1970s that's been worn to Timbuktu and back and STILL has all its buttons still attached. What. The. Ragged-assed. Fuck?

And having mentioned the topic, why do sales assistants constantly want to know if I need help? Motherfucker, if I need help, you'll know about it, because I'll walk up to you and I'll ask you a fucking question. For now, fuck off back there behind your counter, play some fucking solitaire and when I'm ready, I'll ask you something and I'll expect a salient and informed fucking answer. Don't call the manager over because it's a new product and you don't know. Don't make up an answer. Don't, above all else, try to bullshit me as to the specifications because I've already done my decision-making on the internet and I know more about this product than you do. I want to know the price, and I want the price to be correct, and I want you to shut the fuck up, take my money and let me out of the building. The only reason I'm here is because I need it today, or because I can't find it online. For everything else, there's the internet. Oh, and if I'm spending over a grand, I want you to get me a fucking coffee. Now.

So, to summarise?

If the internet, coupled with initiatives like Buy Nothing New Day could finally kill retail as we know it, I would not shed a tear. In fact, I would consider throwing a small party, at which I will serve delicious beverages bought from a knowledgable specialist retailer - not a chain. I will be wearing good-quality clothes that fit, which I bought at a shop that makes the job of finding a size easy, and which sources its goods in economies mostly based on not-slavery. I will likewise have enough spare cash to pay for canapes, because said specialist retailer hasn't gouged me to death for the privilege of buying their wank or spent a billion dollars on marketing pictures of pale, emeciated teenagers.

In short, I'll have stuff that works, at a fair price, without having to do the zombie-dance to get it.

Yeah, like that'll ever happen.

Well, it's done and dusted. My first bike race in about 14 years and I didn't disgrace myself by coming last, or, as in the last event I rode, getting censured by the marshalls and losing my position for the day*

The Careflight Oaks Classic for 2012, down 25km of the extremely popular Oaks Firetrail, featured somewhere in the region of 400 mountain bikers and started out, in the cold of a mountains morning, from Woodford Station. I travelled up in the company of Gaby Mayo and James Taylor, both fit riders who've raced before, and Jo, who was playing the role of support driver for the day. We met Dave The Happy Singer at the start line. Dave hadn't raced before, and was on my spare bike. Still, he brought me coffee, which made me a grateful rider indeed. I swapped him coffee for hardtail and we got ready to go. Somewhere else in the pack was Brian, the fifth rider in our loose grouping.

For my part, I was suffering a mixture of mystery respiratory virus and secondary oral candida infection, meaning my chances of putting in a fast time were limited, so my initial intention was to ride with Dave and see how things shaped up. I'd been off work for three days in the leadup, and my doctor had told me - in a firm brook-no-excuses voice - not to race, but I had no intention of not riding at all unless I felt like death. And I didn't. After the coffee, at least.

The Elite group was soon underway, followed by the 20-somethings, then our group shuffled forward to await the buzzer. And we were off.

As expected James soon stretched his legs and we lost touch. Gaby, Dave and I cruised through the first few corners. There is a certain skill to pack riding through bends, but no major carnage ensued and we were soon on the firetrail itself. There was, however, evidence of some failure to ride well as a group - at least one dazed rider was spotted at the side of the trail having taken a spill in the initial dirt. I also saw a few water bottles make their escape from cages, something this trail tends to do. I lost a bottle here myself back in the summer, with a hangover and a leaking backup supply. It's not a great thing to happen, though today there were refreshment stations every 2.5kms staffed by friendly and dedicated careflight and RFS volunteers.

For my part, I wasn't feeling as bad as might be expected after the start, and decided it wouldn't be terrible to pick up my slack pace a little. Gaby and I tagged on to some riders we recognised from earlier Oaks runs, but lost touch with Dave in the crowd. At this point, I realised I'd forgotten to start my GPS, so I started it up and found my pace to be not entirely unrespectable, but way outside the target for a personal best. Unsurprisingly.

The upper part of The Oaks is undulating, lots of downs and plenty of ups immediately after. I found I was getting good pace on the downhills and the few flat sections, but losing a bit of time in the climbs. My target switched from sharing pacework to merely following Gaby's blue jersey, but after a while I started into a decline. My rear suspension was creaking loudly and my lungs were hurting. My mouth was sore, and it hurt to drink. It's fair to say at this point I began questioning the wisdom of riding at all. 

In the midst of all this, I got hung up behind a rider who decided to get off and push just as I was coming up to his back wheel. I lost rhythm as a result, and started to suffer. I dropped back quite a few places in the next few kms, especially as the lead riders from the following 40-49 category were coming through the field fast. It got a little chaotic as I was caught in the midst of some less experienced riders as the 40-somethings hit. My only option was to stay out of the good lines, keep my head down and spin the pedals.

Still, I toughed it out, and after a horrible, painful couple of kms I was back in a good headspace and overtaking riders again. The creaking suspension had been taken care of by an old racer's trick called "pour some feckin' water on it", and my focus started to come back. I was able to pass a decent number of riders on the big downhill, and keep ahead on the climb that followed. I started picking off people who'd passed me earlier and it's fair to say I was starting to feel positive again.

There were lots of riders with punctures or minor mechanicals, but my kit was working well and soon I was at the helipad, the start of the very fast riding. I knew I could pick up some time here. My average speed at this point was well under 20km/h, and my top speed was a disappointing mid-40s. On a good Oaks day, that's low 20s and high 50s, so I knew I wasn't exactly on for a PB, but I put the hammer down anyway. I passed a couple more riders on this section, but the nature of the trail means the pack was really spread out. By the gate at the singletrack I was within sight of a pair of female riders I'd seen earlier, and entering the unfamiliar (to me at least) Euroka trail.

The riding here is smooth and fast, so I focused on maintaining the most consistent speed I could, and soon passed the small group, and was on a clear road counting down distance markers. I was short on leg power, but moving at a decent clip nonetheless. 

Gaby had warned me of a couple of tricky corners near the end, and I had a minor glitch on one of them, the front wheel washing out slightly as I hit a mid-corner bump, but then I was into the Euroka clearing, tippy-toeing through the last muddy section and out of the saddle for the short uphill finish.

Gaby and James cheered me in. James had come in just under the 52 minute mark, 8th in category and 55th overall. Gaby had arrived just over three minutes before me, in 1:02:15. My time turned out to be 1:05:32, putting me in 35th place in category, on race number 35, 184th of 372 starters overall. Considering I'd nearly fallen apart in the upper section, I wasn't too disappointed, and I'd got my average speed back up to over 23km/h. Dave The Happy Singer came through in 1:23:01, a very respectable time for a first race, 66th in category and ~18km/h average. The fifth member of our group, Brian Stokes,  came in at 2:01:06, 34th in the 50-59 category - a not bad time at all considering Brian's legs are probably more pin than bone.

The average time in the 30-39 group was 1:12:23, so for a bag of virus I didn't do too badly. The overall average was 1:14:33. I did, however, finish slower than the slowest Elite rider, something which will need to be rectified next year, when I expect to be fitter, faster, on an even lighter bike and not recovering from multiple infections.

 

* Long story. Two day MTB orienteering event, missed check-in time on day 1 and were docked all our points. A pub may have been involved

The Lord's My Shepherd; I shall not Want
Psalm 23

Few phrases from christianity are so abhorrent for me while at the same time being beloved of the faithful, as Psalm 23, known to generations of long-suffering british school kids and boy scouts as "The Lord's my Shepherd", a dreary hymn to the tune "Crimond", attributed to Jessie Seymour Irvine.

This torturous dirge is the archetype of an exercise in tedium, especially if led by an aging church organist who insists on the full metred arrangement, at shuffling pace, pauses and all. Dressed in stiff and uncomfortable Sunday best, dragged to a cold building filled with strange old people smelling of peppermint and death, then made to stand and sing this dragging lament, it's no surprise that my parents' half-hearted attempts to bring me up christian failed almost before they'd begun.

That aside, though, the real problem with the phrase is the allusion underlying it. If god/jesusis the shepherd, then we, the people are sheep. Docile, dumb, easily startled, regularly fleeced. Largely unable to cope alone. Unable, even, to cope collectively, without the firm hand of the shepherd and perhaps the teeth of the sheepdog. This image permeates christianity. Congregations are referred to as flocks. There is talk of lost lambs. The word "pastor" itself was originally a 13th century word for a herdsman and was adopted in short order by religious authorities who perhaps knew a good joke when they saw it.

In this, Christianity most obviously shows itself to be a counter-democratic, politbureau-style hierarchy. Proles at the bottom, whose labours enrich those above, whose word is law and cannot be rescinded. You don't get voted in by your peers, you get lifted up by those above you, based on their own reasons. This, in politics, would be decried as cronyism and corruption - and given the various churches' predilection for meddling in the political process, this is profoundly disturbing.

This is reinforced further by allusions elsewhere in Christian doctrine. In Matthew 4:19, the character of jesus says "Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men" - so perfectly and tragically inviting comparison with the phrase "hook, line and sinker" that you almost wonder if some cynical wit was behind the passage, laughing into his sleeve as he went.

Men are a resource to be plucked from the ocean of doubt and exploited for all they have to offer. Jesus does not say "Follow me, and I shall make you great teachers, able to instill wisdom in those you encounter". No, he goes for the metaphor and in doing so, reveals christianity's hand. It's pretty plain - the flock is there to be fleeced, the shoals to be fished. The money and resources flow upwards to those in the know - the disciples - from those merely kept docile.

The famous saying could be more aptly rendered, in christianity's case, as "Give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day. Think of him as a fish and his donations will buy you seafood for the rest of your life".

This hierarchical, proles-at-the-bottom aspect is clear throughout christianity, even in modern churches employing the veneer of populism. Go to a traditional cathedral service and you clearly see tiers leading up the hierarchy. It's perhaps most obvious with the catholics, with the flock, then lay workers and deacons, vicars, bishops, archbishops, cardinals, right up to the pope. All appointed, all Politbureau-style closed hierarchies, with the expected results of the money flowing up while the bullshit flows down, and all supported by the bottom layer. The sheep.

Go to a modern church like Hillsong and you still see it too, but more well disguised. The elect may pass among the proles, touching a shoulder here, offering a kind word there, but the money only ever flows up.

In this and in many other ways, christianity proudly, it seems, displays its anti-democratic colours. You are sheep. You cannot be trusted to make decisions for yourselves. Lay down and let us  make the decisions, and while we're at it, don't you feel terribly hot in all that valuable fleece? Let us unburden you.

In other ways still, the nature of christianity shines through. Jesus is the "king of kings". Eschatological cults eagerly await his return, at which point all earthly government shall be dissolved and big J shall take his rightful, unelected place at the head of the planet, an emperor with ambitions to make Napoleon blush. What follows is a purge, then, apparently, a lifetime of happy servitude under the new king - and, of course, his ministers.

Whatever you want to call it, that's not democracy.

Over time, this whole gigantic problem, christianity's counter-democratic, patriarchal nature has ossified and become so accepted, so unquestioned, that some of the world's most prominent democracies don't even realise it's a problem. In the pious United States, questions of national importance are thrown aside in legislative assemblies, so that repressed, frightened christians can ban the use of the word "vagina", so that women's reproductive rights can be taken away (shades, again, of the shepherd knowing better than the sheep) and so that anti-scientific nonsense can be seriously considered as textbook material.

Here in Australia, where a majority of the population believes that gay couples should be able to marry like anyone else, the shepherds of the christian right want the voices of the uppity sheep to be summarily ignored, and what's more they're meeting with success. Tony Abbott is disallowing his party from voting with their conscience - presumably because, in this case as in others, the shepherd knows better than the flock - and this means bills which, if voted on by the public, would fly past the post will instead be held up because the shepherd knows better.

Might I humbly suggest, ladies and gentlemen, that if you think democracy is a good thing, you should perhaps consider whether institutions like christianity - and indeed like Judaism and Islam - are actually compatible with the values you support. You should think whether the person you're voting for really supports those values too, or whether he's just paying them lip service while adhering to the underlying philosophy of "the shepherd knows best". If you pay money into a religious group, consider whether you really want to be funding an institution which so plainly espouses dictatorial rule, and if you don't, take your money away.

You are not a sheep. Make sure they know about it.

 

In a blogging exclusive, I am today able to reveal a hitherto unseen Scooby Doo screenplay, from the writers of the original, and superior, "Scooby Doo, Where Are You?" series. It was discovered in, of all places, a garage sale in Cootamundra, NSW, and has made its way to me through a network of contacts.

As with all Scooby Doo, Where Are You? episodes, the screenplay is a sophisticated allegory playing on larger societal themes, often bringing cultural morés into sharp relief in order that the audience may have their  frontiers expanded by the dénouement.

Anyway, here's the episode, in full, after the original theme music

 

---

Scene: A golden beach, fringed with palm trees. A portable record player spins nearby, and a volleyball net stands in the background, at which are two muscular young chaps in red speedos and Aussie lifesaving caps, playing, unsurprisingly, volleyball.  We see Velma and Daphne, dressed - for some reason - in modest swimsuits of exactly the same colour as their normal clothes.

Velma: It sure was nice of our old friends Adam and Steve to invite us to their wedding here in Sunny Australia, huh Daphne?

Daphne: Sure was Velma, and this beach on Queensland's swinging Gold Coast is a great place for the pre-wedding barbecue and teenage hop.

(Enter Shaggy and Fred, with Scooby)

Fred: Hey Gang! Shaggy and I have an announcement to make.

(They gather round, Adam and Steve, who were playing Volleyball, included)

Fred: Well, as you know, Shaggy and I have been "best pals" for a really long time now, and we think it might be time to go a little step further

Shaggy: Yep, and we've talked with Adam and Steve about this (the guys nod), and the wedding this weekend will be.... A DOUBLE WEDDING!

Fred: Well, OK, it's only a Civil Union, but it's still great, and we can call it a wedding if we want. Queensland is so groovy and forward looking! I love you Shaggy!

Shaggy: I love you, Fred!

(cries of "jinkies"! "hurrah!", "ronraruration!" and "fuckeroo!". The latter will, of course, be cut from the final edit, despite protests about it being "authentic aussie". Only Daphne seems unsure, but soon joins in with the celebration and general grooving. fade to next scene)

Scene: The wedding day, outside "Queensland Town Hall". The guys are preparing to formalise their civil union, before heading back to the beach for more grooving. Queensland President Kimbell Neuberg is congratulating the happy couples. He wears an outsize rosette which reads "Prime Minister". Shaggy and Fred, and Adam and Steve, are smartly dressed in formal suits and holding hands. For some reason, Fred still has the same cravat and his suit is white

Kimbell: I sure am glad to have you guys here for your civil union. As you know, Queensland is quite hip and groovy nowadays.

Shaggy: Gee thanks, Mr Mayor. Say, do you have any food? I'm, like, quite nervous and stuff

SUDDENLY: A roar comes from behind Queensland Town Hall and into view steps a large theropod dinosaur. The prominent sail on its back and narrow snout mark it out as Spinosaurus aegyptiacus, not that any of you phillistines care. It's a big carnivorous dinosaur, right? Just imagine it and shut up. Yes, it might have feathers. Whatever.

The crowd scatters

Kimbell (rather stiffly): OH NO! It's The Beast of the Arid Interior, come back through the eons to eat anyone who entertains the thought of equal marriage for all. One of you must have referred to your union as a "wedding"! You've doomed us all, you fools!

Cut to Fred, who is rubbing his chin thoughtfully and looking towards the departing Kimbell

Fred: Hmmmm

In the background, mayhem ensues, cars are overturned, people are dismembered and their body parts scattered around the town square. Some dogs and a puppy bearing a strange, perhaps familial resemblance to Scooby are plucked from their hiding places and guesomely chomped, with only the half-finished words "TADADADADADA! PUPPY P?!?" making it out.

Several people have run for the safety of a Gloria Jeans outlet across the square, which the dinosaur seems to be assiduously avoiding, while it's entirely trashed a freethought bookshop, an abortion clinic and a mosque. Cut to Velma, who is adjusting her glasses thoughtfully.

Velma: Hmmmm

A stray piece of rubble strikes her a glancing blow. She loses her glasses. Daphne rushes in and rescues Velma, carrying her away heroically.

We cut to Scooby and Shaggy, who have escaped from the mayhem into a Pie Face outlet.

Shaggy: I think we're safe in here Scoob. Say, those pies look kinda delicious.

They grab three pies each, assembling them into a stack, and poise to eat. The roof is torn off by the dinosaur. They pause, say "Zoinks" and "Ruh-Roh", and duck through a gap into the Pie Face outlet next door. The scene repeats, this time with stacks of six pies.

Again the dinosaur removes the roof before they can eat. They duck through a gap into the Pie Face outlet next door. This time they stack nine pies, but yet again the dinosaur tears off the roof. They duck through a gap into the Pie Face outlet next door. Twelve pies. Roof. They duck through a gap into the Pie Face outlet next door. Fifteen pies. Roof. They duck through a gap into the Pie Face outlet next door. Eighteen Pies, Roof.

They duck through a gap expecting a Pie Face, but instead they find themselves in a Mad Mex*.

Quickly, they swallow the eighteen-pie stacks, in Shaggy's case raising no questions at all about why Fred wants to marry him, and duck into a back room.

The dinosaur tears the roof off.

We see Shaggy and Scooby, dressed in Sombreros and Ponchos, each with guitars and an array of maracas hanging off them. They launch into a somewhat tuneful version of "Guantanamera", which somehow blends into, and ends up becoming, "La Cucaracha". The dinosaur, however, is distracted by a small catholic shrine to the Virgin of Guadelupe in the corner. They guys make their escape, The dinosaur makes a comedically puzzled noise, then leaves.

Blackout, commercial break.

 

---

Scene: The ruined Queensland Town Square. Kimbell is making a proclamation

Kimbell: ... and because of the re-apparance of The Beast From The Arid Interior, I'm going to have to repeal laws allowing civil unions. I'm sorry, gayers, but my hands are tied. No-one wants to stand up to dinosaurs, let's be frank about this. I'm taking no questions. Thank You!

Fred manages to get a hand to Kimbell's shoulder as he leaves the square.

Fred: Mr Neueberg sir, I have a quick question about the beast if I may.

Kimbell: What? Oh, it's you. One of them kids that were at the square yesterday. And you're american too. You're quite a long way from homo... I mean home. Definitely home.

Fred: Yessir, well, I investigate mysteries with my gang in our mystery machine. I was wondering if you could tell us about the beast.

Kimbell: Well, OK. I suppose there's no harm in it. An ancient prophecy, written for some reason on Queensland Town Hall notepaper, was vouchsafed to us by our forebears, and it reads that whoever shall raise the spectre of equal marriage for all shall incur the wrath of The Beast. It's all here. You can keep that copy, I have plenty more. (he hands over a sheet of Town Hall notepaper. Fred Takes it.

Kimbell exits. We see fred look down at the notepaper. The astute will note that some of the ink has rubbed off on Fred's fingers. He rubs his chin thoughtfully, leaving a hilarious smudge mark.

Fred: Hmmm.

The Gang join Fred

Fred: Velma, Kimbell just gave me this strange piece of paper. Take a look.

Velma reads, the gang gather round. We note that Daphne and Velma are closer than usual. Very close, in fact.

Velma: It says here that the Beast, an ancient reptile over 4000 years old that has not been seen since antediluvian times, shall sally forth, should the evil spectre of gay marriage be raised in our time. It says that the Beast will strike down with great vengeance, etcetera etcetera, on anyone who dares to "abuse the sanctity of traditional marriage". Jinkies. It also says that The Beast will respond to all and any publically posted notifications of marriage between two "filthy homos", and eat the participants. Double Jinkies. Oh, and at the bottom it says "The Beast is totally not animatronic".

Fred: And that gives me a plan that might just help us catch this "Beast"

End scene, cut to later that afternoon. The gang are at SeaWorld, where a giant crane is lifting ShamWow the Killer Whale into his new enclosure. We see Fred handing over what is known in the trade as "a bundle of readies" to the crane driver. We see the rest of the gang carrying in flowers, chairs and a lectern.

Scene: A wedding next to the KIller Whale enclosure. At the lectern stand Adam and Steve, resplendent in their lifesavers' red and yellow. Daphne and Velma are dressed as flower girls, still, bizarrely, in the same colours they usually wear. Fred lurks behind the crane. You remembered the crane from the previous scene, right?

At the lectern stands a nervous Shaggy, back in his formal wear. The wedding march (70s grooveadelic version) strikes up. It's played by Josie and the Pussycats, in the background.

Down the aisle walks Scooby Doo, resplendent in puffy white wedding dress and over-the-top makeup. He is camping it up Mardi-Gras style and is accompanied by the Crane Driver, who is holding a box of Scooby Snacks. Flower petals are showered. He stops. All is ready. Fred gives a thumbs up from the crane.

Steve (or possibly Adam): Dearly Beloved...

Chaos ensues! The dinosaur has arrived to wreak havoc. It smashes the pews and rends the flowers asunder. It proceeds to chase Scooby and Shaggy around and around the whale enclosure. Scooby and Shaggy, both well rehearsed in monster-distraction, are running rings around the Spinosaur, which, as a result, is getting dizzy. With each pass around the enclosure, another part of the vows are exchanged, enraging the creature, and the dino collides with a new piece of landscape. Every collision reveals a piece of spring, or wiring, or a cog. Soon, the vows are complete, and Scooby, taking a bow, throws the wedding bouquet over his shoulder... and... the Spinosaur treads on it, slips, lands in the wedding cake, and finally gets hooked on the crane, which Fred quickly fires into action!

The monster is captured!

Cut to conclusion. The dinosaur hangs upside down, trussed like a shark, and is plainly seen to be animatronic.

There is lots of chatter along the lines of "It's the beast all right". "No! The beast were bigger!". It's all getting a bit nautical.

Forward steps Velma. She runs her fingernails down a blackboard, which, for some unaccountable reason, is nearby.

Velma: YOU ALL KNOW US. (the crowd quiets down). You all know how we make our livin'. Now this may be our monster and it may not, and there's only one way to be sure. Let's see who's behind this! (Daphne swoons)

At a nod from Velma, Fred steps forward and strikes the beast on the snout. The jaw opens and out tumbles... KIMBELL NEUEBERG??

All: KIMBELL NEUEBERG?!?!

Kimbell: It wasn't me. They made me do it.

Shaggy: Like, wait, man. You're supposed to say "I would have done it too if it wasn't for you meddling kids". And we know it was you. So, like, make with the quote.

Kimbell: OK. Maybe it was me a bit, but it was them too!

He strikes the nose again. Out tumble The Happy Clappers.

All: THE HAPPY CLAPPERS??

Happy Clappers: We would have done it too if it wasn't for you meddling kids!

Shaggy: BOOM, THERE IT IS!

Happy Clappers: But wait. It was also...

They strike the nose. Out tumbles JIm Wallace and the Australian Christian Lobby

All: JIM WALLACE AND THE AUSTRALIAN CHRISTIAN LOBBY??

Jim mutters to himself about "bloody gays, never had them in my army", then stands.

Jim: You think you're so smart, well you'll never find out who's really behind all this. We brushed it so far under the carpet that...

Fred strikes the nose

Out tumble the senior management of Gloria Jeans, the senior clergy of HIllsong (often the same person) and several other corporates who really ought to have been reined in long ago AND a political party that actually has a vote in several legislatures.

All: THE SENIOR MANAGEMENT OF GLORIA JEANS, THE SENIOR CLERGY OF HILLSONG (OFTEN THE SAME PERSON) AND SEVERAL OTHER CORPORATES WHO REALLY OUGHT TO HAVE BEEN REINED IN LONG AGO AND A POLITICAL PARTY THAT ACTUALLY HAS A VOTE IN SEVERAL LEGISLATURES??

A Queensland cop steps forward, he's dressed in colourful board shorts, obviously. Like I needed to say it.

Cop: Well, that about wraps it up, crikey, Oi'll be taking these guys off to the station, strewth and fuckeroo**

Just then, the wedding cake, which was impaled on the dinosaur's spines, falls onto the pile of malefactors, covering them in icing.

Laughs all round

Shaggy: Well, I guess they all got their Just Desserts, right Scoob??

Scooby: ROOBY ROOBY ROOOOOOOO!

Ends

 

---

The real irony, of course, is that the cake was a coffee cake. Of course, I have no idea what it all means. I leave interpretation for future generations.

 

* That could have gone on so much longer. Seriously
** again, cut from the final edit