A Drunken Madman

ACT ONE: The Problem

The scene: The war room of the Australian Religio-Social Ethics (Heterosexuals Only, Lesbians Excluded) Society. A large, windowless vault, in which a large boardroom table stands, lit harshly from above. Nearby is a large buffet table, laden with the fruits of a lavish lifestyle. A large, somewhat homoerotic ice sculpture of St Sebastian Pierced By The Arrows is slowly melting into a pool in the centre of the table, slightly waterlogging the caviar bowls. A number of dark-suited functionaries stand discreetly in the shadows.

Around the boardroom table, dressed smartly in suits and robes of office, are seated The Religious Spokesmen. One is in the robes of a catholic cardinal. Another in military garb. Many others are in business suits. A meeting is clearly in progress. Papers are shuffled. Hands fidget with rosary beads, dog-eared bibles and cheap plastic jesus bobbleheads. The chairman speaks:

Chairman: So we're all agreed on Measure 22, "Richard Dawkins is a poopy-head" and now we move on to Measure 23. Gentlemen, this is a sticky one. Marriage for "the gays" (his fingers make airquotes and his lip curls into a sneer)

The Religious Spokesmen break into a hubbub. This is obviously an unpopular idea. Lyle leaps to his feet and speaks.

Lyle:  WILL NO-ONE THINK OF MY POOR DEAR OLD GREY-HAIRED MOTHER? What would she do on mother's day if she hadn't been my mum and had actually been my secondary-dad?? I mean, the thought of her being pounded by my primary-dad in a writhing, sweaty, hot bed of homo lust fair turns my stomach. The mere thought of them, in an orgy of animalistic rutting! (his eyes unfocus momentarily and his knees sag). Oh... Ooh.   Ooooooh... (he drops back into his chair. His hands disappear under the table, but his eyes remain fixed on the distance)

George: Lyle, calm yourself. We all struggle with the big questions. But we need to react to this public call for so-called "marriage equality", We need to oppose this or we'll all be forced to marry gayists. And I don't need to remind you, gentlemen, that we need to respond to it with the big guns.

Lyle: (whispered). big guns...

Jim: Look, as we all know, there's no way that men can form a functional, well-oiled

Lyle: (more urgently) oiled!

Jim: (ignoring Lyle) unit together. They just can't cooperate and that will obviously be to the detriment of children.

Brian: Weren't you in the Army, Jim?

Jim: Why yes, I was. What does that have to do with men working together for the good of the unit? I did my service. It's where I got my stiff

Lyle: (whispered, louder) stiff!

Jim: upper lip. Are you trying to undermine me, Pastor?

Brian: No, not at all. It was... just a thought. But I don't think we can use the "can't work together" angle. It doesn't ring true to me.

Jim: Well, OK, but we need a coordinated response. One that has muscles

Lyle: (gasping, much louder): muscles!

Peter: Look, we all know that this is a plot by the atheists. They're poisoning the minds of the Australian public with their talk of equality, secularism, love, commitment and the like. I propose we use their greatest argument against them. I'm convinced that if we make them see the folly of their ways using their own beloved science they'll soon come

Lyle: (shrieks) COME!

Peter: ROUND TO OUR WAY OF THINKING. Can somebody deal with Lyle please? (a functionary steps forward and escorts Lyle away. He is sighing, contentedly, as he is dragged out of sight)

Peter: Right, where was I? Oh yes. Gentlemen, we must use... biology.

All: Biology!?!? (various objections from around the table; devil's work! communism! HITLER! A glass smashes. Divers alarums*)

Peter: Calm yourselves Gentlemen! Let me explain. Biology clearly demonstrates that "children" are produced by "women", after they have... congress... with god's chosen leaders, men. You see? So this means that a man and a man can't get married, because that's biology. And a woman and a woman can't get married, because that's biology. You see?

Brian: It's seems so simple when you put it like that, Peter, but I'm not sure

George: Well, I just don't see why we have to talk about women at all. What's the point?

Jim: I don't quite get it, can you go over it one more time?

Peter: OK, it's like this... (lights dim, sound fades, curtain, end of act 1)

INTERVAL

ACT TWO: Hooray for Biology

The scene: It is clearly some time later. Saint Sebastian has entirely melted away, leaving only the arrows, scattered amidst a buffet now picked clean. The boardroom table overflows with reams of paper, full ashtrays, empty coffee cups and introductory biology texts. Sleeves are rolled up, collars are opened. Several Spokesmen now have bags under their eyes, and their hair is messed up, as though they've been trying to tear it out in frustration. There are cryptic diagrams scrawled everywhere

Jim: OK, so let me get this clear. The woman, aside from being a near silent kitchen appliance, is also a dutiful incubator for more Junior Soldiers of the Lord^TM?

George: Yes, that's right. We in the cathoholic faith have been using unconstrained childbirth as a gateway to higher congregation  numbers for years. We've known all about this for ages. We just never thought to use it to attack the homos before.

Brian: Ah, now I see! Because the man and the woman are both needed to produce the "feet-us", obviously gay marriage can't be true. QED, Ipso Facto and Bob's your Uncle

Peter: Yes, and come to that, we can even say it's OK for Bob to be a gayer - as long as he stays quiet about it - because he's your uncle, you see? And not your dad. Definitely not your dad. Not anyone's dad. Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve and all that. Your dad can't be gay because biology. Otherwise, we'd love to have gay marriaging and everything. It's biology.

There are noises of agreement from around the table. It seems that the concept has made itself clear.

Chairman: OK, so it's settled. We'll all issue statements condemning so-called "equal marriage" using biology, and we'll all be sure to say that "it's biology". Because Biology means you can't marry a gayer. It's BIOLOGY, PEOPLE

The table erupts in a chorus of "aye"s and "hallelujah"s. There are cries of "Hooray for Biology!". One spokesman yells "BIOLOGY ROCKS!"

Chairman: MOTION PASSED! RIGHT THEN GENTLEMEN! Measure 24, "humans are an unique creation of the eternal god and not evolved from filthy monkeys". Any thoughts?

Jim: Well, obviously BIOLOGY IS WRONG!!

The table erupts in supportive cries.

Curtain. Blackout.

THE END

* whatever they are. Presumably something to do with SCUBA

shambolic  (ʃæmˈbɒlɪk)
— adj
informal  completely disorganized; chaotic

That's the word I'd use to describe yesterday's attempt at a 50km circuit of Kangara-Boyd National Park by myself, James Taylor and Dave The Happy Singer. Getting in what we thought was an early start, we decided to take my car, a small car, out to the trail rather than convoying. So we loaded three bikes onto the rack and started out. Breakfast in Blackheath was grabbed, laughs were had at adverts for a "Homeopathic First Aid" course, and soon we were driving down Victoria Pass towards Jenolan Caves Road, all ready to do a first recce for our entry in the 2012 Kanangra Classic 100km race.

"Not far now", I thought.

I was wrong. The road to Kangara Boyd is narrow, winding and above all slow. And longer than I estimated. By the time we arrived at the National Park entrance, it was approaching midday.

Bikes unloaded, banter had, lack of 3G reception cursed and route scanned out, we set off up the Budthingeroo Firetrail. We knew we'd have to put on a decent pace, and we also knew that Dave, as the least experienced rider, represented our benchmark for how much riding we'd get in before darkness started to fall. I'd pre-planned against this, and knowing Dave was a bit prone to fatigue, swapped out the saddle on his bike and adjusted his riding position. As it turns out, Dave was not the limiting factor at all, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

A couple of kms in and my optimistic declaration that the trails were fast and hardly steep at all was taking a slight battering. You see, there's a zen state one reaches after a certain point, where hills are looked upon as a joyous opportunity to get out of the saddle and ride hard, not as a hardship to be endured. James, as the fittest of the group, reached the state quickly, and I followed shortly after. Dave, for his part, got rapidly disillusioned. And who can blame him? Our average speed wasn't high, and the 22.5km/h leading pace of the 2011 100km race seemed like a distant, unattainable goal. Meanwhile, I was still not over my chest infection of the last few weeks, and coughing my lungs out at semi-regular intervals. James's brakes were dragging, and Dave was struggling to manage flat pedals and wet shoes after the first river crossing. Things were begining to unravel.

I asked if anyone else had checked the route plan other than me. Crickets chirped from the distance. My own conscience said "well, yeah, but you didn't check how far it was to drive out here, either, did you, dickhead?". I told my conscience to shut the fuck up.

Soon, we were onto the Mount Emperor Firetrail and the first real descending of the day. James got a headstart on the downhill and I, foolhardy and competitive young idiot that my brain thinks I am, was off in pursuit. My speedometer showed forty-something as I started to gain some ground, and I stopped noticing the speed after that. I cut a switchback bend completely, crashing through the undergrowth, recovering, then getting back on the power for more. Another near-spill saw me just off the side of the track as the creek crossing came into sight, and I saw James splash through safely. Some more power down and I hit the creek, which was deeper than expected. My weight came too far forward on the bike as my suspension hit its limit. I bounced out the other side and I threw the bike forward to compensate. This unweighted the front wheel just as I needed to correct my line, and then the back wheel lost traction completely, throwing me sideways.

Now at this point in an inevitable crash, many people report time slowing down. I don't know if I actually felt time slow, or if it's merely a post-hoc rationalisation cobbled together by a brain overdosing on adrenaline, but I recall thinking, quite clearly, "oh fuck, this is going to hurt" as the bike pitched into its last direction change. As the bike heaved right over flat I remember thinking that I might dent a brake rotor, buckle a wheel or snap a brake lever - which would mean a long walk back to the car - if I hit the rocky centre line of the trail.

Just then I hit the rocky centre line of the trail.

I impacted hard with my left thigh. My upper arm and shoulder went into the wet, muddy rut to the left of the trail, and the bike ended up with a wheel either side of the ridge. I relaxed, allowed my head to sink to the ground and laughed like a drain as my brain lapped up the chemicals rushing around my system. At the top of the hill, James joined in the laughter as I brushed myself down and inspected myself for actual physical damage.

A decent-sized graze on my left thigh, about eight inches in length. Some bruising. A couple of knocks to my other leg. An aching shoulder. Small stones under my fingernails and a torn pocket on my shorts. Lots of mud. Nothing broken. Speedometer showed a max of 53.0km/h, so I'd been travelling pretty quickly in the lead-up. My first proper high-speed crash since I started mountain biking again and no major harm done. RESULT. Aside from the insistent gooey cough, I was completely healthy

As Dave came down the hill, more sensibly, we were stil laughing. My bike was intact, I was a bit bruised, but we were going OK. Onward we trudged, through another river crossing at which James picked up a leech. Dave goggled a little at this. I inspected my legs and found nothing.

James found another leech. Dave crossed on foot, then frantically searched for more leeches. To his relief, nothing.

Wicked. One crash, two leeches. Average speed: not fast. The brakes on James's Rumblefish 29er were binding even more, so we stopped to try and tweak them. Nothing much helped. We rode on a bit. We tried again. Dave caught up. We rode on. We swapped bikes for a while, James taking my Speedfox and me sampling James's 29er. We stopped, Dave caught up. James dropped my bike. We swapped bikes back. We rode on. There was an unspoken feeling in the air that we weren't going to make the full distance, and that October's Kanangra Classic was going to be tougher than we'd hoped.

Soon we reached another junction in the trail and stopped to take stock. Dave's face told a tale of hardship and woe. The new saddle wasn't helping. The trails were tougher than expected. We'd done maybe 12km of a hoped-for 50km. We'd had one crash, one minor mechanical and some leeches. My GPS was lying about our average speed and riding time. James's GPS was lying about our distance. Dave's arse wanted to go home. Threats to leave people in the wilderness to be eaten by quolls were made. Cider was spoken of. 

We opted to press on a couple of kms for the next junction and most likely turn round from there. Dave led off, followed by James, followed by me. As James pulled alongside Dave, there was a loud bang.

Dave jumped. James braked. I pulled alongside.

Flat tyre. LOUD flat tyre. Not a great sign.

James flipped the bike over and had a look. There was a two-inch, T-shaped tear in the sidewall The tube, likewise, was visibly gashed. Repair operations commenced.

I walked back up the track a while and found the culprit. In a thousands-to-one chance, James had hit a piece of sandstone that had neatly split in two, the loose part forming a sharp natural knifeblade, which had clearly sliced straight through tyre and tube.

Patching operations took the biggest patch in our arsenal, and some deft back-patching to stop the adhesive catching the other side of the tyre. Pumping began. Nothing. More holes?

Another snakebite puncture was found and patched. More pumping. Nothing. Dave wandered off and started singing songs to the wildlife. James began a kind of weird tyre-patching yoga. I coughed up more matter from my ever-deteriorating lungs.

Still, the tyre remained flat. My pump was cursed at and disbelief expressed.

"Stick a new tube in it", said I.

"Ummm.. I haven't got a spare tube", said James.

"Oh bugger", said I. "I have a 26in tube, but your bike, as has been discussed, has 29in wheels."

Still, we gave it a try, and can scientifically confirm that attempting to get a 26in tube into a 29in tyre does not work. This confirms the findings of modern spatial physics and is expected to win at least one Nobel Prize for the team.

Undeterred, we kept looking at the old tube. Another puncture was found, and repaired. Then another. In all, four patches were deployed to the tube and one to the tyre itself, to strengthen the tear, and the tyre began to show signs of inflation. Cheers, tickertape, trophies.

Then the pump slipped and the valve stem bent at a precipitous angle.

Cheers turn to gasps. Eyes gape wide. Will our heroes triumph? Will the tyre hold? Is James in for the long walk back to the car?  Will Jason finally succumb to pneumonia? Will Dave ever stop singing songs from the hit musical Jesus Christ Superstar?

Deftly, the valve was teased back into shape and the bike prepared to be rideable.

All thoughts of completing the 50kms were pushed aside. There was maybe 15-20psi in the tyre, and with four patches and a rapidly expanding tear in the sidewall, we were doomed. We headed back to the Mount Emperor Firetrail and cut across the loop back towards the Kanangra Walls road, which we could take back north to the car. We burst from the undergrowth onto the main graded trail, and Dave got a second wind, shooting past the ailing Rumblefish and inspiring a quick run back.  I took the last opportunity to put down a fast pace, pushing the max speed indicator to just under 60kp/h. This section is clearly where the average speed will go up on race day. This straight is as fast as the backwoods section is slow, and if the maps are to be believed, it's like this for about a third of the track. All may not be lost for October, but since we didn't complete the loop, that remains to be seen.

Back at the car, we found we'd done under 20km, at an average speed of well under 10kp/h, though since our GPS devices were malfunctioning, we can't be sure of that. Noted serial liar iMapMyRide initially thought we did about 17km, which it later adjusted to 12.7km for reasons unknown - it has a habit of the figures on the screen changing once they're saved to the web. It thought we did that in two hours eighteen minutes, whereas James's device noted over three hours - though MapMyRide pauses when it detects no movement. MapMyRide also missed out the final section closing the loop to the car. So the GPS devices had a bad day out too.

Then, as if to top it all, the pub in Blackheath ran out of pies.

That's it, Universe. Any more of this nonsense, and me and you are at war. Consider this your final warning.

In summation: If you revel in tragedy, this was a fantastic day. From disaster springs comedy, and this was one of the funniest - but most frustrating - days I've had on a mountainbike, ever. I don't think I've ever heard so many cock jokes in rapid succession. And as a bonus, the high-speed crash I'd accepted as an inevitability has come and gone without major injury, and we did at least figure out the logistics of getting to the trail. Which is something, I suppose. And we didn't end up feeding each other to the quolls.

I also got to drive through a cave. I bet you didn't do that on Sunday, did you?

This little tweet popped up in one of my tweetdeck columns related to the ongoing Stop The AVN campaign.

There are several problems with this. For one thing, Meryl Dorey herself ignores the harm caused by infectious disease and denies that those children hurt could have been saved by science-based medicine, instead callously claiming that diseases such as whooping cough are trivial, treatable with witchcraft and probably not even real, what with all that talk of germs and all. Germ theory is bunk, apparently.

Aside from all that, though, the immediate, glaring problem I had was "what the fuck is a social sociopath?"

So I asked. And I got a response

Wow. I'm clearly awesomely important, to have received a twitter reply from the queen ant herself. But the thing is, my question was serious. I'd never heard the term before.

Anyway, I did a bit of searching, and I found lots of content about the "anti-social sociopath", but I did also find this pop-psychology book in which a PhD author outlines a description of a detached and manipulative relationship-driver in what is essentially an abusive relationship. I quote:

"a 'sociopathic relationship' that involved lies, cheating, manipulation, verbal and even physical abuse"

Who do we know that manipulates others for personal gain, lying, cheating, manipulating and occasionally verbally abusing others? Who smothers her favoured acolytes with fawning praise on the one hand while fleecing them for any dime they can give with the other? Who spreads known and provable lies about vaccination and science-based medicine while simultaneously maintaining the bland face of the concerned mother? Who folds her hands under her chin, spouts nonsense about autism, then asks for money which you know won't go to the stated cause, contrary to Australian law? Who's the cat that won't cop out, when there's danger all about?

No, wait, not Shaft.

Oh yeah, Meryl Dorey.

Can you dig it?

As far as I know, she's never stooped to physical abuse, unless you count witholding evidence-based treatment in favour of vitamin C when her dog was bitten by a snake - resulting, unsurprisingly, in the inevitable death of the dog. I certainly have evidence of all the other factors, as do many SAVNers who monitor her cynical operations day-in, day-out.

Putting that aside, I find much to be recommended in the description of a social sociopath in our favourite* frootloop antivaccination activist.

But apparently it's me. Because Dorey is nothing if not opportunist, even in the field of schoolyard digs.

Epic Win.

* not favourite

Yes, a rare political post from me, but on a topic which really bears examination. As we all know, Iran's nuclear programme has been a cause of international concern for a number of years now. There are fears among Western powers that Iran's nuclear programme may bring to fruition several serious concerns

• Attainment of nuclear weaponry, thus tipping the balance of military power in the region
• Possiblity of nuclear acccidents due an unstable government's inability to properly maintain facilities
• Possiblity of sabotage due to the volatile political situation in the area
• Accidental (or deliberate) loss of nuclear material, which may subsequently find its way into the hands of terrorists

The IAEA has laid out these concerns in great detail, but I feel that there is an aspect that has been missed in the drive towards a a controlled policy for Iranian nuclear development.

To outline this serious concern in detail, one must digress momentarily into the field of entomology.

Iran has around 160 species of the family Formicidae, consisting of six subfamilies and thirty-four genera. The arid and semi-arid environments in the region have formed a habitat to which these species are extremely well-suited, and they are successful and widespread. The colony lifestyle and efficient resource-gathering nature of these hardy creatures are a testament to the success of evolution under stressful conditions, and the family has shown its dominance of the niche. It's not unfair to say that, in Iran, you can't heave a brick without it coming down somewhere near a colony of Cataglyphis, Messor, Camponotus or Monomorium.

In short, Iran is crawling with ants.

"What has this to do with Iran's nuclear ambitions, though?" I hear you say.

Well, let me tell you.

During the 1940s and 50s, Nuclear testing wrought destruction over large tracts of arid and semi-arid land in the Western United States. We are all aware of the Trinity test which started it all, but above-ground and underground testing continued for many years afterwards, and a little-publicised, in fact supressed, fact about these tests is that aside from creating new materials such as trinitite, they created mutations in local animal populations. Mutations of a strange and terrible nature.

Mutations such as those described in the 1954 documentary "Them!"

So, I appeal to President Ahmadinejad, please... Stop this senseless march toward destruction. For the sake of Iran, and the world. Do not unleash formic destruction upon us all. I for one do not welcome these new insect overlords, and neither should you.

Poor dear. Maybe it's time her family arranged some sheltered accomodation for the old duck. I mean, her brain's just not what it once was. She might need looking after.

Here's a little conversation that popped up in my timeline today:

"Odd", thought I, "I don't recall talking to that account recently. That's a particularly thick example of Dorey's tame trolls, and I don't generally respond to them unless I'm drunk or particularly annoyed."

Admittedly, I'm drunk and annoyed a lot, but it just doesn't stack up.

So I had a little dig around to figure out what this could mean.

It turns out that indeed, no, I haven't responded to that account for, well.... ever. My timeline is public. You can check for yourself. Besides, Dorey has had me blocked for maybe two years now. She can't see my tweets unless she specifically goes looking for them.

So what does Dorey mean?

I had a look at the picture that @MurseJackson included. Here it is:

Lolwut? I've never, ever commented on the topic of mammography. While I certainly have a certain appreciation for the aesthetics of the mammary area, I don't feel I'm in any way qualified to talk about screening for breast cancer. So what the hell is Dorey herping about?

The article she cites is from Mercola.com - and there's a rule about Mercola.com. Don't trust anything it says without asking an adult first. Still, I scanned it, and it appers to be a big, steaming case of correlation being inferred as causation, coupled with the usual dripping levels of anti-medical propaganda. Essentially, Col Ingleton was right to call it a misrepresentation and right to call Dorey a stupid person. Two points to Col Ingleton.

But still, what the hell is Meryl on about?

Come to that, what happened to Dorey's constant imprecations on the topic of 'respect'? There are two highly disrespectful replies in just the screenshot above. Meryl has clearly fallen off her high horse into a big pile of high-horse droppings.

Poor dear is losing it. Not that she ever had it, but you know what I mean. She's responded to a post to which I had no input, citing an account to which I don't direct tweets, in response to someone I don't follow, and she's bleating about double-standards while at the same time holding double standards herself. And it's not even the dumbest thing she tweeted yesterday.

Spectacular.

Of course, unlike our poor demented subject, I know exactly which tweet Meryl thinks she was responding to, and sadly it's yet another case of failure to comprehend what's put in front of her. It's not to the account she thinks it's to and it's not on the topic she thinks it's on, and it's not in the context in which she's tried to place it. 

It's pretty sad, but I guess geriatric mental decline is becoming ever more common, as human lifespan increases and the likelyhood of dying from infectious disease shrinks. Thanks to medical science, you know. I guess dementia is just one of the prices we have to pay for not dying young.

Still, I might have gained a follower or two from it. Cheers Meryl! And have a nice time in the assisted living centre!

That's torn it. I just paid my entry fee for the 2012 Kanangra Classic Mountain Bike Enduro.

It takes place in October 2012, the weekend before my 38th* birthday, in Kanangra-Boyd National Park, in the Blue Mountains Plateau, somewhat south-west of my usual biking trails in the mid-mountainsplateau.

To be honest, I'm not too intimidated. I've done the 100km thing quite a few times this year, including a two-day ride with a 130km second day, and the reputation of Kanangra trails is that they're relatively friendly and don't have the horrifying climbs you find, for instance, going up Ingar and down Anderson's. Still, I've never ridden the area before and I'm not 100% sure what to expect, and I'm currently well off the pace of last year's leaders.

Of course, having said that, I seem to be comfortably above the pace of last year's tail-enders, having clocked O-I-A-O in about five and a half hours riding time (about six and a half taking breaks into account)**. A mid-pack result, therefore, would be just fine with me, but every few minutes I can shave off the time is a greater achievement. I'm not out to win, by any means, but I have a competitive nature.

I'll be riding with James Taylor, who is very fit indeed, and no doubt race tactics will be discussed often between now and the start time. James will, I believe, be rocking a Gary Fisher 29er on the route, while I'll be running my BMC Speedfox, a 26er which is specifically designed for the Enduro distance, unless I subsequently discover that I can make my hardtail go faster - a feat which has eluded me up until now. Hopefully I'll also have the wherewithall to lighten and optimise the bike a little, since it's largely stock right now and could use some tweaks to make it perfect.

The last time I raced was back in the mid-to-late 90s, in fact I believe my last event was a fateful Polaris Challenge in Kielder Forest at which my riding partner and I, overconfident in our abilities and addled by a cheeky Guinness at a rather nice pub on the way back, were stripped of our quite respectable points tally for a late arrival at camp on day one.

That won't be happening this year. For one thing, there are no pubs anywhere near the course.

So, I'll be riding a lot more often and for a lot more kilometres over the next few months. I might even bite the bullet and break out the road bike occasionally, and will probably be in the gym when the weather is too bad. Suggestions of good, fast, 100km+ trails are welcomed, and riding partners are also welcome to join, if you're willing to clock up the miles...

If you've ridden in the Kanangra area before, all hints, tips and advanced info will be appreciated - though I will of course be riding the route a lot in the intervening months - and it only remains to say that yes, I will accept sponsor logos if you're mad enough to want your brand associated with a rather slow late-30s pommie idiot whose main contribution to the day is likely to come in the form of swearing at trees***.

* I had to check that was correct
** I have mild doubts about the reliability of MapMyRide's numbers on this one, but in the absence of any disconfirming data, I'm going with it.
*** There is a new subspecies of Lyrebird in the Blue MountainsPlateau, characterised by its uncanny mimicry of the phrase "FUCKING TREE! FUCK YOU, TREE. WHY ARE YOU IN THE WAY, TREE?? FUCK."

My correspondent of yesterday's blog doesn't seem to get it.

So, while I've dealt with the ontological argument before, this will be a series of three posts in which I deal with the absurd fantasy precepts of the ontological, teleological and moral arguments for the existence of uncle skyfairy.

First, what is the ontological argument?

Taken from the Iron Chariots Wiki, the ontological argument runs:

1. God is the greatest imaginable being.
2. All else being equal, a being or entity that exists is greater than one that doesn't.
3. Therefore, God exists.

Sometimes the "greatest" formulation is replaced with "perfect" or a variation thereof. God is perfect, a thing that exists is more perfect than one that doesn't, yada yada yada. As with christianity, there are more flavours than a first glance might suggest.

It was first formulated by St Anselm, in ~1078CE, so it's been around a long time. Longevity does not imply validity, however. Anselm probably patted himself on the back, downed his pen and headed off to ye taverne for a flagon of mead after dashing this one out. Instead of taking the afternoon off, he really should have thought about things a bit more deeply.

The ontological argument seems very persuasive. Until you stop and think about it for a minute or two.

1. Arse-backwardsness

Ontological arguments are touted as proofs of existence. They are no such thing. They are in fact, statements of necessity, but not of the necessity of existence.

They prove, in fact, that existence is a necessary prerequisite of perfection, not the reverse that most theists infer, that perfection somehow implies existence.

The whole interpretation is arse-backward. Our ability to define the attributes of a perfect or maximally great being/entity/object does not conjure such objects into existence. I mean, I can imagine all manner of perfect things in all manner of categories. I really can. Do they exist? Nope. That's one of the things that allows humans to have heroic literature without actually living in, y'know... Middle Earth.

2. Subjectivity

"Great" and "Perfect" are, in truth, incredibly subjective terms, unless you're talking about mathematical or other abstract notions of perfection. Out in the real world, "great" and "perfect" mean different things from different viewpoints. One only has to turn on the Discovery Channel to see that, simultaneously, sharks are the greatest predator, lions are the greatest predator and humans are the greatest predator. Who, in fact, is the greatest predator? Don't ask the internet, it doesn't know. Greatness depends so strongly on a frame of reference that the ontological argument, which includes no frame of reference whatsoever, cannot be taken seriously.

3. Unicorns and wizards

1. Unicorns are the greatest imaginable form of horse
2. All else being equal, a being or entity that exists is greater than one that doesn't.
3. Therefore, Unicorns exist
4. Shut up

Also:

1. Gandalf the White is the greatest of all wizards
2. All else being equal, a wizard that exists can totally pwn a wizard that doesn't exist with, like, magic and stuff
3. Therefore Gandalf exists
4. But Shadowfax is not an unicorn. Also, shut up.

4. Which god?

The ontological argument, if accepted with the exact logical implications that our christian correspondents wish to bestow upon it, can be equally applied to non-christian gods. Et voila:

1. Allah is the greatest imaginable being.
2. All else being equal, a being or entity that exists is greater than one that doesn't.
3. Therefore, Allah exists.
4. And mohammed is his Melinda Messenger, or something 

Or

1. Odin is the greatest of all gods
2. All else being equal, a god which exists is greater than one that does not
3. Therefore Odin exists
4. But isn't overly happy about Thor and Loki.

So how, exactly, do we determine which of these interpretations is correct? Let's imagine that it does imply some kind of god. Which one? Couldn't we, in fact, dispense with this altogether, posit a different kind of god alogether and posit the Misanthrope's Ontological Argument as follows?

1. God is the greatest of all beings
2. Greatness implies staying the hell out of my way and not meddling
3. Therefore god is non-existent

5. Utopia

The ontological argument implies that merely thinking of something perfect somehow imbues it with existence. If this were true, we'd be living in utopia. Every child with a lego set and teenager with a sketchpad has built, in their mind, on paper and with clicky plastic bricks, their dream house. They've agonised over what it needs and imagined how perfect it would be.

So, if the ontological proof is actually true (as opposed to being merely logically valid*), then how come I don't live in a massive warehouse packed with skateboard ramps, climbing walls, bike parking, video game consoles and, to update it to more grown-up tastes, dancing girls? I mean, that would be perfect for me. It would be greater than where I live now, which admittedly suits my needs quite well (though it's a bit light on the dancing girls aspect).

QED

But seriously, this goes hand in hand with the next item. If this greatest possible being exists, as per the christian account, why isn't the world a better place?

6. Perfection? Don't be absurd

That whole "greatest imaginable being" thing? Let's think about that for a second, shall we? The ontological argument, point three notwithstanding, is usually used by christians. Now, the doings of the christian god are well known in western circles, especially to atheists, so let's play a little game. Can you imagine a being which is greater than the christian god?

I don't know about you, but I find that pretty easy.

For one thing, the christian god was a far from perfect designer and custodian of the earth. Frankly, a better god would have managed to do the whole creation thing without having to expel the rib woman. He would have, maybe, put a fence round the magic fruit. A god who can put up a fence is greater than a god who cannot, after all. But let's assume that for some reason, he couldn't put a fence round the magic fruit. Well, why not? Surely a more perfect/more powerful/greater god would not be constrained in this way?

Still, before we get bogged down, let's assume that whole magical garden thing was necessary and part of the plan. Later on we read that the whole kaboodle got a bit out of control and god had to do a bunch o' smitin', including, if the account is to be believed, wiping out everything and starting again with a bunch of animals, plants and people he temporarily stashed on a boat.

Frankly, I'm not having a perfect day if I get as far as lunchtime, then have to delete my entire codebase and start from scratch. As a programmer, I'd be the opposite of perfect. In fact, I wouldn't be all that great at all. I'd fire me. Or at least have a stern word with myself about requirements and planning.

Frankly, there's plenty we could indict yahweh for. And he couldn't even beat iron chariots, which, frankly, any moderately-equipped 18th or 19th century military unit should accomplish with ease. Therefore the Duke of Wellington is greater than god. Also shut up.

As a side note on the plausibility of perfection, I remain unconvinced, despite the frenzied argumentation of a couple of people on facebook, that a perfect circle can exist in reality. Due to the limitations of our physical universe and our inability to measure down below the planck length, any circle we can actually draw in reality is, by necessity, just a polygon with a massive number of sides. Even if it's the size of the observable universe. It just means the number of sides is massive.

Yes, I've really had that argument. Sometimes I despair.

Which brings us to...

7. Disconnect from empirically-measurable reality

Even if we concede that this absurd little argument is somehow logically valid*, that in no way implies that it works in the real, observable universe. We, as storytelling apes, are good at making up tall tales, and frankly this is a framework on which a story may hang and nothing more. There is nothing observable or measurable within or around the argument. It is a thing of pure reason, or as I prefer to think of it, perfect unreason.

As a methodological naturalist myself, I prefer more empirical, scientific data. There is no in-principle reason that many god claims cannot be examined empirically, so I find it telling that theists fall back on closed-room reasoning rather than real-world repeatable evidence

This being the case, the ontological argument is utterly unfalsifiable, and is only useful as a philosophical toy.

It is certainly not a guide to reality.

Summary

The ontological argument is a perfect example of the safety-scissors nature of theological argument. If you try really hard you can probably hurt yourself, but overall the paper you're trying to cut is more likely to injure you. It's a moderately interesting diversion, but only a delusional mind could think its in any way a guide to reality.

Also, Gandalf.

Tomorrow (or tonight): teleological arguments. Then, later, moral. If I can be bothered. This stuff really is tedious.

* which in itself is a big ask

I've been doing this "arguing with godbots online" thing for some time now, probably as long as I've had a reliable internet connection, yet some things never change.

First, some background. This week, word got around that Moore College, a cult consolidation center here in Sydney, had an open twitter wall. And as we all know, open twitter wall means TROLLIN' TROLLIN' TROLLIN'.

Soon, atheist quotations and provocative tweets were flowing onto the #MooreCollege hashtag, in the sure and certain hope that they'd make it onto the tweet wall and cause either some annoyance (blackhat trolling) or cause someone to genuinely question their beliefs (whitehat trolling).

As it turns out, the tweetwall was pre-screened so very few, if any, tweets got through. But I did recieve this reply in response to one of my tweets.

 Oh dear.

That's a seriously telegraphed punch. I can see what's coming a mile off, and if you've ever argued with theists online, you probably can too. But let's examine the possiblities, shall we?

First of all, it's plainly evident from the twitter name that young Jaswa_ichtys is a theist, of the man-on-a-stick variety. Still, checking his profile reveals his twitter bio:

Jesus is tops and so is studying mathematics =]

So it's evident that what he's looking for here is a chance to stretch the powerful philosophical muscles he's built up pumping paper in bible study, allied to the mad skills in proofs and logic that he's gained in maths class. Essentially, he wants me to reply "yes, I assert that there's no god" for a couple of possible reasons (there may, of course, be others).

Possibility 1.

Once I've replied in the affirmative, Jaswa_icthys will proceed to regale me with "evidence" which will clearly make the assertion incorrect, probably topped off with "explain that, ATHEIST!"

Possibility 2:

More likely, Jaswa_icthys has heard the statement "it is impossible to definitively prove a negative" batted around at some point, and is waiting to spring that one, probably coupled with some "so you see, you have just as much faith as we do" McGrathian nonsense. He's been led into this by the juxtaposition of the firm, solid and reliable Logic of mathematics and the pretend, round-cornered, safety-scissors 'logic' of theology.

sigh

I, of course, do not play this game. While it is true that I often use the phrase "there is no god", I am of course aware of the weaknesses of such language with respect to epistemological claims. I am also aware of the principles of negative proof. While I may say "there is no god", I certainly cannot definitively, logically, prove it, any more than Jaswa_icthys can definitively prove, in line with the precepts of his cult, that there's no Thor*.

Or can I?

Well, that's the thing, isn't it? There are lots of things we know don't exist. Take, for instance, the luminiferous ether.

The ether was once the leading and most probable hypothesis for how light could be transmitted through a vacuum. To all intents and purposes, the ether was considered true by many authorities right up until the early 20th century, when Einstein's relativity put a final nail in its coffin by not only showing that it was not required, but by dispensing with ether's last major property, its immobility. The corpse continued to make audible noises through the lid, however, as Lorentz and others tried to square relativity with etheric hypotheses, but at the advent of modern physics, the ether was dead, and one may say, conversationally if not axiomatically, that the ether does not exist.

Whither, then, the god hypothesis? Can we dispense with that in a similar manner to ether?

Of course we can, but we need to be extremely careful over how we define "god". The thing that allowed physics to kill off the ether hypothesis was the fact that ether was well defined in terms of its observable properties. Once careful observation and calculation demonstrated that these properties were non-existent, uneccessary or untrue, ether went the way of all flesh.

Of course, theists constantly refuse to define their god in any more than vague, fluffy terms. Whereas the ether was an edifice at which science could level a punch, "god" claims are just so much fine mist.

Not unlike the ether itself, really.

This is what makes theology a pretend subject. It has nothing to study and refuses to demonstrate that what it studies actually exists before pronouncing on it. It is, in modern terms, etherology.

So I prefer to respond to Jaswa_icthys's question in this manner:

While I may state, conversationally, that "god does not exist", the real evidence for its non-existence comes in the failure of theism to demonstrate its claims with good, reasonable data. Bleat all you like, but in consistently failing to demonstrate your god's existence, you're the one showing that it doesn't exist.

That's right. Bigfoot hunters may continue to assert that Bigfoot is real, but until they bring some concrete evidence to the table, we are not unjustified in saying "bigfoot does not exist". Likewise ghosts, the Loch Ness monster, alien abductions, effects of homeopathy and John fucking Edward.

And don't try barnyard-grade rhetorical tricks on me. I don't play along**

* Thor is, of course, real. Praise Thor.
** unless I'm in the mood to do it for the lulz. This rule covers everything.

Which is, apparently, American Airlines' new corporate motto.

The background: Meryl Dorey of the AVN has recorded an interview, in which she repeatedly herps on topics of which she is ignorant and unqualified. American Air picks up the segment for its inflight entertainment program and magazine.

Public outcry, and right now, there's a twitter storm a-happening. PZ Myers (102,000 followers) and Phil Plait (174,000 followers) have picked up the story. Stop The AVN have been vocally hammering the twitter stream and email channels. Many prominent medical voices on social media are throwing their weight behind the message. This is not acceptable. American's response?

The mind boggles. I wonder if they'd be as happy to air material by, say, the KKK? Or David Irving? This is what we're talking about - dangerous and abhorrent misinformation carried by an apparently reputable organisation, which as a result has a strong implication of endorsement. It matters not a jot whether it was produced by a thrid party. Someone at American has had to sign off on the content, and as such American Airlines has given endorsement to anti-vaccination lies.

This must not be allowed to stand. Tell your friends, tell American Airlines, tell the press.

Most of all, live by their new company motto. Listening is optional. Just as optional as flying American Airlines. If you have a ticket in hand, consider cancelling it and finding another airline. If you're travelling soon, pick a different, reputable airline which does not screen anti-vaccination propaganda.

UPDATE 24 Apr 2012: A result!

American Airlines have tweeted that they will in fact not be distributing Dorey's material. Cue the AVN's flying monkeys in 3...2...1...

... which is to say i have in my possession a device called, oddly, an "iPhone" - but I am no longer using it as a telephone. It is now merely a hand-held internet device, portable music player, GPS,audio recorder, bookshelf, storage device, game centre, clock, calculator, camera and pocket computer. Well, I say merely - that's a pretty impressive list, but it no longer accepts calls.

There was a time, oh, a hundred years ago, where the idea of being able to talk directly to someone a great distance from you seemed a positive wonder, and one which people lined up to involve themselves in. This is no longer the novelty it once was, but it's still fairly amazing. I can instantly communicate vocally with anyone I know, in seconds, just by dialing a few numbers into an omnipresent device which most of us carry.

But just because I can do it, does it also follow that I should?

The telephone's strength also happens to be its biggest weakness, and that is its synchronous nature. To have a successful phone call, two parties must simultaneously be engaged in the conversation. The practical upshot of this is that unless the call is somehow pre-arranged, one party is almost inevitably interrupting the other to innitiate the call - and in an age in which all of us complain at some time or another of being "too busy", this is a major pain point. I'm busy. I might be at work, or I might be cooking, or I might be listening to a particularly fascinating podcast, or I might be wrestling with an annoying programming problem, or I may have my hands full with tea and toast. I could be doing anything. As far as you know, I could be building a 1:1 scale matchstick model of the Taj Mahal, and I could be at a particularly delicate point in the procedure. I might be the modern Samuel Taylor Coleridge, off my tits on laudanum and literature, and you might be the prick from Porlock.

I am almost NEVER in a mood to be interrupted, especially when I don't know who's doing the interrupting. A couple of days ago, I was interrupted by no fewer than twenty phone calls, more than half of which came from sources not displaying CallerID. I answered precisely ONE. That, to me, is an unacceptable profit/loss sheet.

I cannot, of course, merely turn the device off. I use it to receive emails, twitter alerts, SMS messages and also use it as a portable music player. I navigate with it, and I use it to tell me where to find a good lunch. I record my bike rides with it. Turning it off means I lose those positives and more. Flight mode means no net based alerts and no SMS. The only thing I can sensibly do is divert all calls. Apparently, the iBone doesn't allow you to divert only calls without CallerID. I want to be constantly contactable, but I don't want to be constantly contacted. I want a gatekeeper, or some means to tell people when I'm available or otherwise.

With more modern variants on the synchronous voice call theme (such as Skype), I can set a presence indicator which allows a potential caller to see at a glance whether I'm amenable to receving a call. Without this kind of indicator, apps like Instant Messaging would have withered on the vine, because people are very intolerant of interruptions, but the antiquated telephone-call paradigm lacks such basic courtesy. Luckily, modern VOIP systems are slowly introducing presence indicators to the desktop and home phone, but as yet I can't do that with my cellphone.

As an added bonus to the mere existence of presence, Skype has optional video, and I can chat-message text across to you rather than the frankly absurd pantomime of trying to read out a URL or a GUID over a crackly phone line while the person at the other end hunts-and-pecks at their keyboard. I can also send files and pictures, and many of these VOIP technologies allow you to share a computer desktop, so I can see what people miles away are trying to describe to me. Do you know how often I've had to try and imagine what is on the computer screen of a person at the other end of a phone call as they attempt, haltingly to describe what they're seeing to a person who, through the application of an unsuitable communication method, is utterly blind?

"There's a thing. Above the whatsit button. No, not the start button, the other button. You know. It's one of those little pictures. It looks like it might have Santa Claus on it, or it could be a spider sitting on a marshmallow, well it's that thing and it doesn't work when I poke it with the clicky thing. No, to the right of that one. No, not my right, your right. What do you mean it's the same right?"

WHY AREN'T WE JUST DOING A DESKTOP SHARE RIGHT NOW? WHY ARE WE ON THE FUCKING PHONE?? WHY AM I STILL ALIVE TO SUFFER THROUGH THIS NIGHTMARE???

Yes, I've worked in technical support.

Worse, though, is the societal expectation that you WILL have a phone. All manner of interactions seem to require a phone number to be provided in order for them to reach a successful conclusion. I recently bought a $20 cable at Harvey Norman and was asked for my phone number.

Why?

"Because that's the policy. It's the warranty, you see,"

It's a fucking USB cable. I don't need a long term warranty. If it's faulty, I'll be back with the receipt in hand within minutes, believe me.

"It's the policy"

Fuck you, Harvey Norman. I bought the cable anyway, because the battery on my hand-held internet device and portable music player was running low, and it was the only shop in the town I happened to be in. This does not signal my approval of this absurd practice. I'm also looking at you, Cell Bikes. You don't need my phone number for a fucking inner tube purchase.

Likewise, any number of forms and vital documents seem to require a phone number for their successful completion. Many online forms have validation that will prompt you repeatedly to enter a number, and will whinge if it's not in a format that some unknown programmer deems acceptable. Here's the deal: I don't want you calling me. I've given you an email address, use that.

"Oh, but we need your phone number. It's policy."

Fuck you.

I've recently, partly for giggles and partly as a protest, started providing false names to baristas when ordering coffee (try "Spartacus" and see if the rest of the line play along when your coffee is called). I'll be doing the same with my phone number. I wish I'd started years ago, which brings me to another thing...

...my bank occasionally calls me. I've blogged about this before. I tell them not to, then I immedaitely go off to my internet banking and check why they're calling, which is usually obvious (late payment, strange transaction or overdrawn on card). Soon afterwards, they call me again. I ignore them. It's a game we have. They call me, I reject the call. Which highlights yet another problem.

Phone calls are, if initiated without CallerID, inherently unauthenticated. When my bank calls me, they do so from an unlisted number. They could be anyone, yet they expect me to blithely hand over confidential information. Fuck you, my bank. Email me. You can email me a statement, just email me everything. I can examine the message headers if I need proof it's you. You could even use one of many well-supported PKI applications to sign the email. WOW, how about that? Encryption and sender/recipient verification in one easy package, and I can continue working on that matchstick model of the Taj Mahal into the bargain.

And then there's telemarketers and scammers.

Don't get me started on those fuckers. If there was a segment of the community upon which I could inflict arbitrary and unending pain, it's telemarketers. I almost wish that a hell actually existed, so that I could rest easy in the knowledge that it would be full of telemarketers and random clowns claiming to be from Microsoft and asking for my password. Here's my password, dickhead: G-E-T-F-U-C-K-E-D.

The problem seems like it might have a technical fix. I could change my handset to a phone which allows me to whitelist numbers I want to call me, and divert others (Android), or I could ask my telecoms provider to divert all unlisted numbers, though it's not clear whether they can do this. Or I could just learn to live with it. but I think that the problem is not technical, and it's not personal, but social.

The phone is so integrated into how our modern urban societies operate, that we've failed to notice what a collossal pain in the ass it actually is, and how glaringly unsuitable it is for many purposes.

I think it's time we admitted to ourselves, the telephone society, that we're clinging needlessly to an outdated method of communication best assigned to the dustbin of history, to be replaced by richer, more useful methods, which may or may not include a voice component, but which almost certainly won't be solely based on it. The society of the telephone is dead, long live the society of communication!

So, to sum up, having a personal mobile phone has become unsustainable for me, so I've diverted ALL calls to voice mail, silencing the tiny demon in my pocket for good. I now get an unobtrusive notification when a voicemail arrives, and I can listen to (or ignore it) at will.

I may, of course, turn the dread device back on at times when I might want to be contacted, and when I finally end up in my longed-for phase of career self-determination, I will obtain a second, business-only phone which I can leave at the office. But for now, email me, SMS me, Facebook me or send me a tweet instead. I can always call back if you're eager to hear my silky tones.

Or not.

The Global Atheist Convention brought 4000 avowed non-Tooth-Fairy believers together in an orgiastic bachanal of tooth-fairyless hate, and at the same time, the Reason for Faith rally brought together a number of so-called "christian churches" - actually a sinister cult whose main precepts deny the existence of our saving lady the Tooth Fairy (may blessings be upon her wand) - in a sick and depraved ritual of  Tooth-Fairy denial.

The holy sacraments

We need to respond to this, for the sake of our children. Does not the very appearance of sacred tooth money make the Tooth Fairy's existence plain for all to see? Do our children not deserve to live in a world where used dental waste can form a strong and vital part of the childhood economy? Does it mean nothing that adherents partake of holy communion with the Tooth Fairy in bedrooms all across the land, offering up their sincerely and freely-given dental matter in exchange for a shiny 50c coin? Does not "tooth" rhyme almost perfectly with "truth" in some accents??

Friends, The Reason for Faith rally would have us believe that an archaic middle-eastern sky god is the only source of supernatural largesse - though obviously such an inferior god can't provide fiscal benefits directly as our loving god does. Worse, the Global Atheist Convention denies even that. Those sick, sick bastards.

Help us fight against this depravity. If you too see reason to believe in the tooth fairy, make the sign of the holy pliers, hold aloft your holy worship pillow, tweet on the hashtag #reasonfortooth and join us in TAKING BACK AUSTRALIA FOR THE TOOTH FAIRY!!

ACT ONE

The scene: A tiny upstairs newsroom in one of Melbourne's less salubrious quarters. In it are crammed four desks, the largest and most imposing of which is lorded over by The Editor. The Editor's off-white striped shirt is stained at the pits with the sweat of editorial stress. His hair is thinning, but he retains the muscular frame of a weekend rugby player, though these days it's overlaid with a generous veneer of fat. His tie hangs from his chairback, and hasn't seen his neck in some time. Several stained whisky tumblers litter the desk, and the nearby wastepaper basket shows the neck of yesterday's empty bottle. It's Cougar Bourbon. His skin is sallow and takes on a yellow cast in the harsh flourescent light. The window behind him overlooks a crumbling brick wall, on which is painted the archetypal graffito, a cock and balls.

Overhead a ceiling fan turns lazily, stirring the stygian fug of cheap cigarette smoke which, despite strict workplace anti-smoking laws, hangs in the air like a cloying veil. An unruly pile of mismatched computers teeters dangerously in one corner, and is periodically fussed over by The Webmaster, a corpulent but active fellow, sweating profusely though a "No I Will Not Fix Your Computer" t-shirt, which is liberally sprinkled with biscuit crumbs. Occasionally, something sparks and the Webmaster, panicked, rushes to push, pull and prod, thus keeping the whole edifice online. Occasionally, he kicks something. His desk is a nest of interwoven ThinkGeek merchandise and Subway wrappers, offset with a generous supply of energy drinks in a small, USB-powered fridge. His Gandalf action figure is wilting in the heat generated by the server pile.

The Keyboard Monkey is nearby, tapping away at an outdated desktop PC plugged into a dangerously overloaded powerboard. He fusses over long, detailed candidate articles from unpaid contributors, cutting them down to size, gutting them of salient content and adding barely relevant keywords as determined by a list blu-tacked to his monitor. The list is provided by this week's D-List sponsor, Northcote Fasteners and Pins (Sundry) Pty Ltd, whose generous support enables the grandeur in which they all bask for at least the next few days. His desk is a litter of Pie Face paper bags and empty coffee cups. A picture of his family languishes undusted and unregarded at the back of the desk. Each face is clumsily redacted with a Sharpie^TM. The "Windows ME Missing Manual", provided by The Webmaster, lies open to the left of the keyboard.

The Social Media Expert Guru sits at the remaining desk, flanked by several mobile phones, two iPads, a Nokia n-gage and an aging netbook on which we see a sticker reading, in defiance of all probability, "I can increase yuor* follower count, ask me how!". He is wearing a Justin Beiber t-shirt with no visible sign of irony. His desk is neat, but scattered - he thinks artfully - with oddly-shaped business cards and promotional keyrings. A re-usable coffee mug is nearby, though it's never seen coffee. It's merely carried to work and back each day as a visible reminder that Social Media Expert Guru Guy is a right-on environmental type. He has a skateboard which he doesn't ride, which he keeps next to the unridden fixed-gear bicycle leaning on the edge of his Ikea desk. His beard brings to mind The Mexican Pet.

The Editor looks up from his beige CRT monitor. No-one is paying attention, so he slams a copy of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" (unread) onto his desk.

Editor: GODDAMIT WEB GUY! LEAVE THAT PILE OF CRAP ALONE AND GET OVER HERE!! THE REAL-TIMEY WEB ANAL-WHATSITS AREN'T WORKING. OUR NUMBERS ARE IN THE GODDAMN TANK!!

Webmaster: Sir, I think they're working OK. We're just not getting enough page views

Social Media Expert Guru: Guys, I can fix that. As you know, I am at the very cutting edge of synergising, strategising and leveraging current trends to increase yuor* follower count and make you number 1 (one!!) on the internet. Ask me how!

Editor: WHAT THE SAM HELL IS THAT ALL ABOUT?? SPEAK ENGLISH, YOU SMARMY HIPSTER ASSHOLE!!

Keyboard Monkey: I think we should hear him out, sir. These numbers are, as you say, "in the tank". It looks bad.

Editor: GODDAMN RIGHT THEY ARE!! AND DON'T YOU FORGET IT!! (he throws a stapler, which breaks open and scatters cheap staples all over the room. A computer in the Webmaster's pile emits a wisp of smoke)

Social Media Expert Guru: What you need to do is effectively co-adopt, co-adapt and paradigm-shift your brand to higher page view rates through the strategic adoption of trends-based lexical analysis techniques, and leverage negatively-oriented thoughtpiece generation, determined algorithmically. Winning. Bayesianly. (his arms flail in a blasphemous parody of the great Magnus Pike. Graves. Spinning)

Editor: SPEAK GODDAMN ENGLISH, ASSHOLE!! (He throws a battered copy of Strunk and White** across the room)

Keyboard Monkey: Sir, he means we should look at current trending topics on Twitter and write something needlessly contrarian about them, thus generating the required pageviews through cheaply-obtained pseudo-controversy

SMEG: I think I said it better. I framed it in terms of a winning strategy. Mine is easily worth $50 per hour more. Fuck you.

Keyboard Monkey: Nonetheless, it's what you said.

Webmaster (quietly): It's what you always say. It's what we always do.

Editor: WELL, I THINK HE'S A GODDAMN GENIUS. GET ON WITH IT YOU GUYS. AS I MAY HAVE MENTIONED, OUR NUMBERS ARE IN THE TANK AND THE SPONSORS JUST SENT ME AN E-THINGY TO MY COMPUTER BOX COMPLAINING ABOUT IT. IF WE DON'T FIX IT, WE'RE FUCKED, SO HURRY THE FUCK UP, YOU CUNTS!! THE ANAL-DOOHICKEY IS LOOKING DOWNY-POINTY AGAIN.

Keyboard Monkey: We're on it sir!

We notice, now, that the Keyboard Monkey's fingernails are bitten down to a painful degree, and occasionally the cuticles weep and bleed. We also see some loose hairs on his collar, and a certain thinness of pate. His wastepaper basket displays the necks of two bottles of cheap vodka. This is clearly an oft-repeated scene, and it's one that takes its toll on all participants. Except, it seems, the SMEG. The SMEG, smiling, types something into his netbook.

SMEG: I'm using my patented algorithm to determine the most valuable current trending term (he types "twitter.com" into a web browser).... and here it is, processing!

Webmaster: (whispered aside) I really wish he wouldn't make those modem noises while he reads the trends page...

SMEG: Processing.... processing.... nearly done. OK! The current best candidate trend is.... "#atheistcon"!

Editor: GODDAMIT, WHAT THE ALMIGHTY FUCK IS AN AYTHIESTCON?

Webmaster: Oh, that's the Global Atheist Convention going on over at the MCEC. I was going to head over there myself and see what's going on, because you see, I'm a nonbeliever myself...

He trails off. The room has gone silent. Three pairs of eyes, two pairs bloodshot, stare him into abashed silence

Webmaster: I mean, errr... nothing boss, sorry boss.

Editor: THAT'S BETTER, NOW GO POUR SOME WATER ON THOSE DAMNED CONPUTERS, THEY'RE GIVING OFF HEAT SOMETHING CRUEL!! MY TESTICLES ARE FAIR SHRIVELLING IN THE WARMTH!! RIGHT, KEYBOARD MONKEY!! WHO DO WE HAVE ON THE CONTRIBUTOR LIST WHO KNOWS FUCK ALL ABOUT THIS ATH-E-ISM THING??

Keyboard Monkey: Well, there's Chris Roe. He's reliably unschooled in the whole area, unwilling to do even basic on-the-ground research and according to his twitter feed he's available for the next ten minutes or so to squeeze something out toot-sweet. Guv'nor.

Editor: THEN GET THE FUCK ON IT, MONKEY!! WHAT THE FUCK DO WE PAY YOU FOR ANYWAY??

ACT TWO

Fifteen minutes later...

Webmaster: OK, I've posted the article, but I'm not sure...

Editor: I DON'T PAY YOU TO BE SURE, I PAY YOU TO MAKE SURE THOSE SERV-O-MATICS DON'T RUN OUT OF HAY OR WHATEVER IT IS YOU FEED THEM FUCKERS. WHATEVER IT IS IT COSTS TOO MUCH, ANYWAY. FEED THEM LESS.

Webmaster: (quietly) *sorry sir*

Editor: THAT'S BETTER. HEY SOCIAL GUY! TWERP THE THING!!

Webmaster: (sotto voce) "tweet"

SMEG: Twerping it now sir, synergistically of course. And sending an invoice for that too, sir.

Editor: BRILLIANT! NOW TRUNK ME ON TO THE ANAL-WOSSNAMES AND WE'LL SEE HOW WE FUCKING GO!!

They gather round as Keyboard Monkey types the password (which is 'password') into The Editor's computer. They watch as the graph rockets upward past the line marked 'breaking even' and towards the line marked 'we get paid this week'. It fails to reach the 'also, the contributors get paid' line, but no-one seems to care. There is general rejoicing.

Editor: THIS IS FUCKING BRILLIANT, WHY DON'T WE DO THIS EVERY DAY?? YOU CUNTS, TAKE A TWO MINUTE BREAK, I'M GOING TO HAVE A GLASS OF COUGAR, TOAST ANOTHER SUCCESSFUL DAY IN THE NEWS MINES AND THEN FIND MYSELF A THINLY-DISGUISED PROSTITUTE ON THAT GUMTREE PERSONELLS THING I'M BEEN HEARING ABOUT. THIS CALLS FOR A CELEBRATION!!

The other three share dark, glowering looks. Like defendants in a kafka-esque nighmare, they know this is already what they do every day. It's what they did yesterday, and it's what they'll do tomorrow, but no-one is able to break the spell. They're trapped. The journalistic Godot will never arrive. The wheels will continue to grind. Rosencratz and Guildenstern will die at the end. Futility, ennui, despair.

The lights dim on The Editor, Keyboard Monkey and SMEG. A lone spotlight remains on the Webmaster. He speaks:

Webmaster: They used to aspire to such high ideals. We all did, I suppose. Once, they would speak in hushed tones of well-researched, salient, detailed and ground-breaking journalism, written by literate penmen well-acquainted with the subject matter, which would enrich the polity and inform a vigorous national debate. Now they just bicker and rant in a tightening spiral of trend-article-backlash-trend. No-one reads their stuff willingly, so instead they reflexively provoke the readership, like cheap prostitutes lifting their skirts for the Johns. It's only the analytics and the alcohol that keeps them going. Well I'm getting out. I want to be free.

There's only one thing for it.

I'm opening.... 

A PINTEREST BOARD ABOUT ONE DIRECTION!

(CURTAIN FALLS, APPLAUSE, AWARDS, LOGIES, DRUGS, HIGH-CLASS ESCORTS, INEVITABLE DEATH FROM AUTO-EROTIC ASPHYXIA AGED 45. FAWNING EULOGY IN ONLINE PRESS, EVENTUAL LEGEND STATUS)

* [sic]
** Pre-battered Strunk & Whites are available for $16.99 on Amazon. Editor's wife bought his as a divorce gift.

So anyway, while I've been riding my bike around the place and losing fifteen kilograms or so of unwanted adipose tissue, the world of skepticism and atheism has been chugging on regardless. We have much action over at Stop The AVN, as Dorey and her dim-witted troop of flying monkeys continue to make shit up with gay abandon despite being thoroughly and eloquently rebuttfucked. We have #atheistcon approaching like a freight train toward Wile E. Coyote, and we have, as of the last week or so, a rapidly developing case of the Streisands, occasioned by the delivering by Francine Scrayen upon Dan Buzzard of a case of the LOLs.

Clearly Ms Scrayen is as smart as she is ethical, and as ethical as she is skilled in the healing arts*.

As a little background, Francine Scrayen is a Western Australian homeopath (quack) who was deeply involved in the stomach-churning death of Penelope Dingle. It's a long story, but in a nutshell, Ms Dingle, with the encouragement of Scrayen and Ms Dingle's husband, Peter, declined genuine treatment for her developing rectal cancer in favour of a regime based around homeopathic (quack) treatments.

Ms Dingle died.

Many people have expressed the opinion that Ms Dingle's death was, in large part, attributable to Scrayen. Dan Buzzard is among these people, as am I.

Scrayen doesn't like it. Scrayen sent the lawyers in.

Oh Francine!

Don't you realise that if you threaten one blogger with your tiny lawyerly popgun, the internet will reply with the cannons of Streisand?

Here's the deal: You are, in my opinion and in the opinions of many others, an unethical, deluded, mercenary charlatan. You have blood on your hands. You sell people plain water and call it a cure, and you cash in the proceeds. Sending in the lawyers will avail you naught. This is my opinion, and the opinion of many others.

Suck it up.

 * that is: not at all.

The view from Hassan's Walls Lookout

Well, I did it, and it was a fantastic couple of days out.

Of course, things don't ever go to plan, and this ride was no exception. I realised on Saturday morning that I'd left my phone charger at the office, so was potentially leaving myself without an emergency contact method and without my GPS and speedometer. My office doesn't give me weekend access, so upon reaching Lithgow, I began a tedious hunt for a Micro-USB cable, or an iPod charger cable, to keep me wired. This delayed my departure by 45 minutes or so and frustrated the hell out of me, but eventually Harvey Norman came through with the goods, and I strapped on my helmet and gloves and bravely cranked towards my first trail of the day, Hassan's Walls Road. This is a winding 3-4km climb out of Lithgow to a spectacular view over Hartley before a similar length of loose, gravelly downhill firetrail to meet the Gap Road. Some parts of the descent were a bit hairy, but I got to the road unscathed.

Tarmac under the wheels, I hit the big gears and made my way into Hartley Vale at a record speed, and was soon rolling towards Fields Road and the Old Hartley Cemetery. This early 19th century bush cemetery - the earliest visible inscription is 1837 - served as burial ground for many of the early westward-pushing pioneers of the area, and was a fascinating, thoughtful stop-off. It's actually quite strange to be in a clearing in the middle of the Aussie bush, surrounded by ancient gravestones with names from history - including, I noted with surprise, the father of Henry Lawson, and a local clergyman who was drowned crossing a creek on his way home, and a surprising - shocking, even - number of infants in a cluster near the gate.

In pensive mood, I headed on to the Comet Inn, named, oddly, after a brand of kerosene once produced in the area, where I left the tarmac again and headed onto Lawson's Long Alley. I'd previously scoped out this trail and knew that after a few kilometres of undulations, I'd be facing a 2km steep climb onto the plateau, so I got on with it, and soon realised I was setting a fairly strong pace - even considering I had a low-speed crash on the way - hitting Mount York Road breathless but feeling strong. Quickly along Berghoffer's Pass and I was in Mount Victoria, and decided to grab some sushi at Mount Vic general store.

The friendly proprieter asked me how far I'd ridden as he served me a sushi bento, and once he ascertained my plan, called me "crazy man", laughed heartily and offered me a chair. I sat outside in the sun, grining as I nibbled surprisingly good sushi and drank freezing cold gatorade, and pondered the next section, mainly tarmac over Mount Boyce towards Blackheath. It seems possible to take some fire trails parallelling the road, but frankly it felt contrived to do so, so I kept the average speed up by using the Highway as far as Govett's Leap Road in Blackheath, where I broke off onto Wentworth Street and Valley View Road.

From here, I'd hoped I might be able to follow trails down to Lake Medlow, skirt the lake, find my way to Katoomba Airport and up Mini-Ha-Ha Road to Katoomba, but I was foiled by water catchment restrictions and again found myself on the Highway, and was soon in Katoomba, much less than four hours after leaving Lithgow. The distance, though I didn't run GPS due to low battery, was about 45-50kms, so I estimate that I averaged between 15 and 20 km/h, a respectable rate considering the climbs.

In Katoomba, I settled in for an evening of cider, pub food and cover bands, and retired blurred, incoherent and smiling.

I awoke the next morning at 7am, staring at a half-empty bottle of cider, to discover I'd drunk my breakfast budget, and somehow lost my towels. I covered my head with the blanket, rehydrated myself from my bike bottle and prepared to face the day. By nine I was in good enough shape to get moving.

Speedfox at Bedford Creek (Day 2)

Back roads to Wentworth Falls were the opener for the day, and the kilometeres were eaten up quickly, bringing me ever closer to Anderson's Firetrail, the first off-road section of three. Anderson's is another trail I'd scoped out previously, so I was well-prepared for the fast, sweeping firetrail through the Blue Labyrinth, all 30-odd kilometres of it, and was happy to see birds of prey, lizards, snakes and spiders aplenty along the way. One minor scare on a downhill was completed without damage and soon I was cooking my brakes on the descent to Bedford Creek. Reaching the bank, I dripped some water onto my brake rotors and raised my eyebrows as it flashed into steam. It's a big hill.

And after two freezing cold, thigh-deep river crossings, it's a big hill back out. A BIG hill.

I tried as heroically as I could to stay on the bike, but frankly there are sections that just crush one's spirit. They make strong men weep like recently dumped teenagers. Still, I think I did a respectable job, and soon I was back on the tarmac in Woodford and heading for the top of The Oaks Firetrail. As ever, it was busy, and as I took a rest and a snack I was greeted by several groups of riders, all of whom nodded and raised eyebrows when, in response to the usual "heading up or down?" they were informed of how far I'd ridden up till then.

I was feeling pretty solid, but I knew from past experience that the bumpy downhill of the Oaks was likely to punish my calves, work my shoulders and make my feet ache, so I set off relatively calmly. Soon, though, I was riding past other groups of riders, either resting or repairing. The number of punctures was pretty high on this Sunday, but nobody seemed to be in real trouble. Shortly, though, a problem would appear for me.

A big downhill was ahead, and I was overtaken on the approach by another rider. Being, of course, an idiot, I wasn't about to let someone else breeze past me, and picked up my pace. Partway down, I felt something impact my foot, less painfully than I might have expected for a rock, but I kept my eyes on the trail and on the following uphill, pushed hard. As the angle eased off I looked down and realised my water bottle had made a daring escape. Clearly that was what hit my foot.

This wasn't good, because my three litre main water supply, a camelbak bladder in my backpack, had developed a leak from the bite valve, and had been losing water fast, mostly soaking my right leg and starting a fairly painful chafe. So I'm in the middle of a trail, at the tail end of the Australian Summer, in the middle of the day, with a hangover, and I'm running out of water.

Not good.

So I picked up the pace a little and tried to manage the leak as best I could, but I was starting to get a bit tired. Soon, though, The Oaks Helipad hove into view, heralding the beginning of the fast downhill, meaning I could relax a little, breathe a bit easier, and just worry about how much my feet and calves were aching from the impacts my suspension couldn't quite soak up.

Arriving at the gate, I figured I'd be OK to run the singletrack, so pressed on, soon splashing through the causeway and taking the big hill out to Glenbrook. As a matter of pride I made sure I rode the whole uphill from the causeway, marshalled my water a little more as far as Knapsack Park and figured I had enough to get me to Tench Reserve on the Nepean River, where I was scheduled to meet a group from Western Sydney Freethinkers, and might be able to cadge some water and maybe a beer.

But before that, I had to find my way through Knapsack Reserve, where I'd never been before. This I accomplished by dint of largely random direction finding and occasional half-hearted pokes at the GPS, and found myself on an extremely rocky steep descent necessitating occasional dismounts. This achieved, I hurtled down Mitchell's Pass, joined the Great Western Highway and reached Tench Reserve on the very dregs of my water supply.

80km done, and a BrewDog Hardcore IPA handed over for my troubles. Weather closed in, and we retired to the pub to wait it out. Several hours later, fed, watered and lightly cidered, I was ready and willing to seal the deal. Taking the train back felt like cheating, so I spun the bike as far as HappySinger's place, partook of a little vegan pasta and then got my head down for the last 50km of road, reaching Zombie-Proof Studios by way of the Great Western Highway and the Cooks River Cycleway after 10pm, rounding out the day at a bit over 130km of riding, two very sore legs, an empty camelbak and some very unwelcome saddle sores.

What a weekend.

It's now 24 hours later and I'm still in a little pain. Still, well worth it!

And, between you and me, I think I could do this in a day, if I arrive earlier at Lithgow, eschew the hangover and take Ingar instead of Anderson's Firetrail. It's closer to 180km, but I've done that kind of distance in a day before, back in the way distant past. Give me a couple of months to get my fitness together, give me a non-leaky camelbak, and watch this space.

Jamison Valley from Katoomba. Wikimedia Commons

Well, I'm doing this. Yep. I'm crossing the Blue Mountains, from Lithgow to Penrith, utilising as little actual road as possible, on my shiny BMC Speedfox Mountain Bike. I'll be packing a small backpack tonight, then stupidly early in the morning I'll be riding to the train station, whence I shall board a train to Lithgow. From there I intend to go over Hassan's Walls, into Hartley Vale, up onto Mount York via Lawson's Long Alley, along the plateau to Blackheath, down to Lake Medlow, then back up via Katoomba Airfield to Mini-Ha-Ha Road and Katoomba itself.

I shall stay overnight in Katoomba, partaking in a beer or several (anyone in the area is most welcome to join me for beer, by the way), then on Sunday I will continue via backroads down to Wentworth Falls, where I'll pick up Anderson's Firetrail through the Blue Labyrinth to Woodford, then The Oaks Firetrail to Glenbrook, then Knapsack Park into Emu Heights and thence to the Red Cow in Penrith, where I expect to have one or two further beers before riding 50km back to Sydney. Or jumping back on the train if I've had one or two too many of those beers or if my legs are dead. Again, if you're in the area, pop along.

I'm expecting to tweet occasionally as I emerge from the bush into civilisation, so you can keep an eye on my progress via Twitter. Who knows, you might be the one to spot a message asking for a rescue helicopter.

So, Sydney's much-maligned monorail is to be bought by the government, and torn down.

Good.

Except for one thing

You see, there is one, single, lonely, solitary useful thing about Sydney's monorail. One gleaming upside to the pointlessness of its circuitous route around the Darling Harbour tourist black hole. That one good thing, ladies and gentlemen, is this:

Pyrmont Bridge (Wikipedia image)

Yes, that one good thing can be seen in this picture. If you're a true Sydneysider, you'll know it.

It's the strip of shade provided by the monorail line, which gives pedestrians a welcome respite from the bastard sun. This line of reduced radiation is an old friend to those of us who walk to or from the CBD via Pyrmont Bridge. I lived in Pyrmont for four years, and that strip of shade was my ally, my shield and my saviour, especially after a hard night out carousing.

You see, I've always started work late, so by the time I'm crossing the bridge the sun is already well into its murderous rampage across the fire-fretted sky. Without a replacement for the life-giving shade provided by the monorail line, walking across Pyrmont bridge is doomed, doomed to become the pastime of mad dogs, Englishmen and tourists who don't know any better.

So my rallying cry is this: Tear down the monorail, PLEASE, tear down the monorail. But put up some sunshades. For pity's sake, put up some sunshades.

By the way: BEST. PHOTOSHOP. EVAR.

This

This

This

This

and

This

Oh, and the ABC used obvious-nutcase-is-obvious Meryl Dorey to comment on a story about which she knows nothing at all.

This is why there are days where, given the chance, I would gladly push the big red button that disentegrates the planet.

As I was drafting the previous post, this popped into my mailbox. It resolves a few questions, more so than the previous RTA email, in fact

Subject: RE: Bike lanes, traffic lights, police operations and RTA guidelines

Hi Jason
 
The Lord Mayor has asked me to reply to you directly on this issue.  I'm also available to speak to you in person if you'd like to discuss in detail  
You've raised quite a few issues, and I know John at RMS has replied to you though you feel not all questions are fully answered.  So I'll try here, and you can let me know if you want more detail on any of these, or if I've missed anything.
 
1. Induction loops, carbon fibre and aluminium bikes, and drainage grate lids
The induction loop electical field detects overhead conductive (not just ferrous) material.  It will detect a bike with a carbon frame if it has aluminium rims.  The detector "learns" about nearby static metal such as the pit lid, and will ignore it.
 
2. Passing over versus staying put on the loop
Just before each phase change, it checks to see whether the loop detects the presence of a bicycle (at that actual time) and if so, will allocate a green light in the phase.  So you do need to stay on the loop until it does the check.   We have recently double checked all the loops on Union Street, and all work if there is a bicycle in the loop at the phase check time.
 
3. Location of the loop
As you point out, many riders pull over to the left kerb to rest their foot on the kerb, putting them outside the loop area.  To better match the infrastructure to the behaviour, we are doing three things:
(a) RMS have increased the sensitivity of the loops to the maximum setting, so that detection should now extend to slightly outside the loop itself;
(b) some of the loops have already been recut to put them as close to the kerb as possible and made wider to provide a wider area of detection, and more will be extended;
(c) RMS will investigate using a new overlapping loop system to extend coverage, though this hasn't yet been tested fully.
 
Let me know if you want more information, and thanks for spreading the word on the diamonds and how things work - it's helpful.
 
Regards
Fiona
Fiona Campbell
Manager Cycling Strategy
City Of Sydney

I spent an hour or so on Monday morning in the company of Amanda Hoh, a video journalist from Fairfax Digital, looking at the bike lane traffic lights which have so exercised me over the last couple of weeks. I was Amanda's guide and model for a video piece on the lights. We tested various ways of hitting the sensors and found that they really only work when you're dead center on the line where the diamond markings should be. We also discovered, in an adjunct experiment, that it's not sufficient to have a wheel on the outer edge of the sensor and a metal cycle cleat on the centre line - they're just not sensitive enough. Lastly, we noted that almost no-one using the corridor actually knows about the sensors.

That's me, standing to the left of the picture. If you've read my previous posts on these lights, you'll notice none of the cyclists in the shot are on the sensor. I was, of course, deliberately avoiding it in order to demonstrate that the lights don't change if you're not lined up just right. The other riders appeared to be unaware of their existence, as it appears the majority of riders are.

Stewart Lockrey, the police spokesman in the video, is absolutely right - the law does state that even though these sensors are laughably inadequate for the task, and poorly publicised, and barely known, that jumping the red light is illegal. Not technically illegal. Illegal. But as I've said before, if the light doesn't change, and you know it should have changed, what are you going to do? Turn around and go home? And if it happens every time you use the path, what's your belief going to be about the lights? Would you believe that they're actually broken, perhaps? Mr Lockrey suggests that cyclists should get off and walk, at which I of course scoff. There's a bike lane right in front of you, you're on a bike. You can see it's safe. The lane is clear. The traffic is stopped while the pedestrians walk. You're not human if you get off and push. But you're breaking the law, and possibly copping a fine.

The ball is essentially in the court of City of Sydney and the RTA/RMS to fix this problem (and I'll shortly be blogging some info on what they're planning to do about it), otherwise riders will continue to jump the lights, and will continue to anger drivers and pedestrians who see them doing so, and continue to cop fines for doing so, all of which is damaging the reputation of Sydney Cycleways in the eyes of riders, pedestrians and drivers. 

In the larger picture, Australian cycling regulations also need to be examined. As I've noted previously, there's an inconsistency, or at least an uncomfortable imbalance, in the way Australian regulations (in this I include cycleway construction and traffic control) treat riders as part pedestrian and part vehicle. I think bikes need to be given the discretion to:

• turn left on red when it's safe for both riders and other road users
• go straight ahead at a red where there's no left turn, again when safe to do so 
• cross alongside pedestrian controlled junctions during the pedestrian cycle, again when safe to do so.

Riders already do all these things on an unofficial basis, but they're illegal. If riders cross when it's unsafe, they need to be appropriately charged and fined, but I believe they should not be fined for the victimless crime of crossing a junction safely alongside pedestrians, as has been happening in Pyrmont*.

We as riders can already assert control over an entire lane (which drivers don't seem to believe is true), we can ride two abreast providing we're no more than 1.5 metres apart (again which drivers don't seem to believe). We can legally pass cars on the left, both moving and stationary. We can use bus lanes, though I sometimes find that more intimidating than riding the centre of Parammatta Road, thank you very much. These are necessary rules which allow us to use the road without constant stopping and dismounting to cross and overtake traffic. Why don't the cycleways have similar progress-oriented provisions to allow us to get on with the business of propelling ourselves from A to B? Why must we spend 80% or more of a given light sequence standing around waiting for a green light which may never come when we can clearly see a safe way to progress?

Because it's the law, I suppose. Which to me isn't a good enough answer. Laws can be changed.

Without rules that recognise the unique situation that riders are in, I believe uptake of cycling will fail to reach its potential, and Sydney planners' vision of the city as an environmentally friendly, sustainable transport utopia will continue to wither on the vine. Riders will continue to be caught like fish in a barrel by police crackdowns, which some have labelled simple stat-boosting to easily raise the figures on number of fines issued, and cars will continue to dominate the cityscape. And I do so hate traffic jams.

I am, of course, making a pain in the ass of myself around various agencies about this whole thing. I expect some of them to get quite bored of me soon, if they're not bored already.

I rode through Sydney CBD on Sunday afternoon. There was no traffic whatsoever, yet had I used the cycleways, I would have been legally required to wait until the pedestrian phase of the light cycles, possibly doubling my travel time. Instead, I took the road, avoiding the cycle lanes entirely.

As for Pyrmont, this morning I avoided the Union Street corridor by instead dropping down from the end of Anzac Bridge onto the shared cycleway around Pyrmont Point and Pirrama Park - an extra kilometre or so, but far less frustrating and actually a lot more scenic. I recommend it. Avoid Union Street like the plague, and possibly avoid a fine into the bargain.

 Lastly, I really will get back to the blog's normal business of yelling at antivaxers and fundamentalist lunatics as soon as I can. That and pictures of cats.

* This of course does NOT mean that there were no unsafe red-light infractions fined. It just means that there were certainly riders that were crossing safely along with the pedestrian stream (when the cycle lights should change) fined.