Post-op Recovery

I don't know if it was simply down to age, lifestyle or maybe some defective gene or other but earlier this year my beautiful BMW RT1150 had to be rushed in for a servoectomy. I loved everything about the bike: it's looks and style, it's handling, it's engine and up till then, it's brakes. But there it was, complete failure of the servo at the rear. Lights flashed and even with my right foot buried into the pedal not a lot of stopping occurred. So in it went, and then out it came, a couple of kilos lighter and with non-abs brakes. Painless in the long run – I no longer have to worry about the inevitable, as the old, linked, servo assisted abs was apparently flawed by poor reliability. Replacing the original system was out of the question, both financially and for peace of mind, so the whole lot came out. And with the right parts from Motorworks, which included a diagram for some essential rewiring, the bike was back on the road.

It's always been a keeper,  so I decided on a post-op recovery ride in order to get used to the feel of the new braking system. With this in mind I headed for Cafe 53 at Marsh Barton in Exeter, South Devon (I like their coffee and the fact there's a Triumph dealership attached) from where I would embark on a run west across Dartmoor and then head south and take the coast road home, a circuit that would, I hoped, give the BM's brakes a bit of a work out. The original system had given reassuring, powerful stopping. Nothing phased it: late braking into bends, last second decisions, it was safe. Now the bends, climbs and dips of the B3212 gave me the first opportunity to see what the bike's new brakes would be like.

I joined the road a short distance along the A30. From the start it twisted and swept, sometimes sharply, and despite generally climbing it occasionally dropped suddenly, all the while being shrouded in trees and hedgerow. Without a good view of the approaching road, straightening bends was difficult. My right foot hovered over the rear brake; my left foot over the gear change. I found myself relying on engine braking more than I had done in the past. Gradually we headed up to Moretonhampstead.

In the village I stopped briefly. It's a lovely place. On this summer Sunday there were many visitors. Walkers were heading for the moor, a large group of cyclists refuelled in the Co-op. I rode out, still on the B3212, passing the motor museum – a celebration of the non-abs. I felt comforted. Not long after, the road became lined by stone walls and the trees thinned out. I passed Clapper Bridge, an ancient stone footbridge, busy with picnickers, and rode on to Two Bridges. Once you're over the cattle grid and the walls disappear, that to me is the moor proper. The 40mph speed limit is no issue; why would you wish to go any faster. I sat back and enjoyed views that extended for miles in every direction, stopping a couple of times just to take it in. Even at a relatively low speed there was potential for some sharp braking. Cattle, sheep and ponies lurked, but none decided to evaluate our lack of abs.

I didn't stop in Princetown, although there's plenty to stop for. Like all these villages in summer, pubs, cafes and shops are all hoping to entice the holiday traffic. The famous Dartmoor prison looked sinister. Originally built to house Napoleonic prisoners of war, its dark walls loom large as you ride into town. From there it was onto Yelverton and lunch at Vieira's cafe, found beside the first roundabout you come to. It's handy, and there's a petrol station close by should you need it. I turned south onto the A386 but only briefly because a left turn soon saw me back on the moor and heading on a lane towards Cadover Bridge and Wotton. For a moment I thought I was in GS territory. The tarmac became lumpy, the lane narrow and a bit bumpy. I passed groups of houses and then went over another cattle grid. A vast panorama to distance valleys opened. Plymouth Sound and the Tamar came into view way below. I crossed the A38 and continued south to join the A379. This was the road that would eventually take me back to Exeter, passing through seaside towns from Slapton to Dawlish.

The A379 would be the real test for the BM's brakes. Fast in places, twisty and with big climbs and descends, I wondered if, without the servo, there would be enough power in the system to make it work effectively. After the long straight at Slapton the road climbed up to Strete. I stopped to take in the view along the coast, looking to the cliffs below from the high vantage point. In Dartmouth I passed the Naval College and made my way down the edge of the river to the lower ferry. It's a short hop across to Kingswear then a climb out next to the steam railway and on up towards the next drop into Brixham and Torbay.

I was getting used to the new set-up. The front brakes remained powerful and I settled into the apparent weak feel at the rear. Through busy Paignton and Torquay the rear brake controlled us at low speed, on the steep slope down to Teignmouth the front did the same. The A379 has a number of roads leading off it that take you closer to the sea in places and I took one of these in order to pass through Powderham, a ride beside the mainline railway close to the Exe estuary. By the time I got back to Exeter I'd put 120 busy miles on the trip.

The bike has since been through an MOT with one advisory – rear wheel bearing play. It's now 15 years old and has 42000 miles on the clock. And for some reason, I still love it.

The Affair

My mate John's wife is a stunning beauty. Everywhere she goes men just stare. And a lot of men, including me, I have to accept, secretly want her. There's nothing you can do about it. You just have to control yourself and resist the inner pangs of desire. Although, to be honest, I'm not sure if I could, given the chance.

I was in the garage tinkering with my Triumphs when my wife came in and spoke those fateful words.

“B has been on the phone”, she said. (B is John's wife). “She wants a favour of you. It's a 'big ask'”.

“What is it”? I said.

“John's done his back in and is no good for anything. He can barely move in bed let alone manoeuvre on the sofa. He'll be useless for a while, apparently. B wants you for something. She'll tell you herself what it is”, my wife said. “But it's OK with me”, she added, “if you really want to do it”.

Excited, I phoned B. The big ask, it transpired, was to travel from our Devon postcode to Liverpool to buy a Harley Davidson soft tail custom for the incapacitated John. B had arranged it all: a flight from Exeter; enough cash for the bike, a taxi at the other end, fuel for the ride back, and my breakfast and lunch.

“A Harley”, my wife said. “what will you wear”?

“My Triumph jacket”. I said, “I do have some standards”.

The aircraft was a small, twin prop thing that pinned me to my seat on take off, took me just above cloud level and then thrust me forward into my seat belt before stopping in Manchester. The flight attendant barely had time to flog a croissant. The taxi out to the Liverpool took about the same time it took fly up there, and cost about as much.

The Harley was, at first glance, in pretty good nick. “It's mint”, the seller said. I looked closely at the pitting and corrosion on some of its chrome. “It's eight years old”, he said. I rubbed my fingers over some surface rust on the spokes of the front wheel. “I use it all year”, he muttered softly. I'd never really looked closely at Harleys before but there was something in the bike that got to me. I thought back to the Easy Rider poster on my childhood bedroom wall, showing those raked Harley choppers with their front wheels sticking way out in front. With its chrome, high bars, stepped seat and forward controls, this bike reminded me of long forgotten dreams: the illusion of something that can never really exist, and of how much I wanted it to.

I had my back turned when the seller started the engine and for a moment I thought someone was taking up his drive. “Long shots”, he said, followed by something about tuning. I phoned John, trying not to think of what it would be like if I had B to massage my aching back, and he told me to hand over the money and head home.

I tried to enter into the Harley spirit and envisage we were on some far flung interstate. I followed route 62 to the 6 (M62 and M6), crossed the Golden Gate Bridge (Manchester Ship canal) and pointed the chrome south-west. Once I got the Harley into sixth gear - a little green speck illuminating on the tank console - it seemed happy to just stay there. On and off slip roads, around sweeping bends marked by big black and white arrow boards, the bike just swooped and glided. The big capacity twin felt nice and 'torquey', like those engines do, and I liked it the better for it. Just before Birmingham, I stopped for fuel. Truckers, car drivers and just about everybody on foot watched as we passed by and then pulled up at the pumps. I got a thumbs up from one driver, 'beautiful', mouthed another.

From Birmingham I joined the M5 and started to feel the strain of high speed cruising on a... cruiser. I felt like I'd been sky diving for 200 miles. My chest was being pushed back, so that I was forced to pull myself forward on the bars. My shoulders and wrists started to ache. I longed for a screen and fairing, for cruise control.

I stopped again south of Bristol. This bike was no mile-eater, not in comfort or range, anyway. But a funny thing was happening: I was beginning to like being with the Harley, pleased to be part of its image. When I started the engine again, I smiled at the roar that came from from behind. I left the motorway in Somerset a short while later and headed due south, taking the long way home, enjoying this shining, elongated lump. We headed down to Chard on the A358, crossing the busy A303 and then onto the more twisting section to Axminster. It's a busy holiday route and pretty well maintained, so I was able to enjoy the Harley even more. At low speed it seemed to drop into corners more than I had expected but when we were shifting it was fine – not sports bike handling, I'm sure, but OK for some one like me who enjoys taking in the sights.

Axminster's a nice market town with plenty of cafes, but I was too near home to stop. I joined the A35 for a short distance and then turned onto Trinity Hill, passing Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's River Cottage before entering lovely Lyme Regis. If ever there is a town made to visit on a motorcycle, it's Lyme. The sea, views along the coast, old world charm, plenty of places to eat - and parking. And it was here the Harley Soft Tail Custom decided it was home, rumbling along the coast road, easy riding without being stretched over a fuel tank or having to change gear, well not often anyway.

When I finally got to John and Bs, B met me on the drive. John hobbled out almost immediately and I could see by the look on his face he had loved the bike long before this moment, when he was to set eyes on it for the first time. I also knew he'd be loading it up with some Harley bling as soon as he was fit enough. All that extra chrome and stuff. But I understood it now, feeling a bit Harley'd up myself. B thanked me as she drove me the few miles to my place. “I owe you one”, she said.

Letter to Classic Bike Guide (Aug 2016)

Buying my Triumph Bonneville SE in 2009 

Me: Was it made in the UK or the Far East? 

Triumph dealer: Well it's hard to tell, really.

 

Me: I was told you can tell by the frame number

 

Triumph dealer: That'll be hidden away somewhere 

Me: It's on the headstock

Triumph dealer:  The bikes are all the same, at the end of the day

Me: That is as it may be, but was in made in Britain or not? 

Triumph dealer: Would, would it make any difference if, if it was, you know, not made here? 

Me: Too right. I had a British built Bonny in the 70s and I don't want any of that crap again. If it wasn't made in the Far East you can keep it.

Platoon

The customer ensured its vehicles were capable of transmitting a unique number. And when one did, it wasn't assigned a slang term we all recognize like car, coach and truck, to those recieving them these numbers were given official designations where vehicles become units: personal autonomous unit (PAU), autonomous people unit (APU) and autonomous goods unit (AGU). Sometimes the identification number would relate to an AGU platoon. “It was like, wow”, Dolly tells me. “You'd have no idea what was coming up, then there it was, a platoon ID and you'd be controlling it”. There was no time to consider the magnitude of the task: taking control of all those vehicles, all travelling within centimetres of each other in one long autonomous procession, hundreds of tonnes of aerodynamic efficency that could only be operated with one-hundred-percent safety by sophisticated robotic systems. But despite all that, when their shift finished, it was home for tea, home to their partners and families, carrying on life as normal, as if nothing had happened.

We are sitting on a small sofa in the neat apartment that is now Dolly's home. Her toddler is playing at her feet. Dolly wears a dark pink long sleeved shirt, formal navy blue slacks and highly polished black leather loafers. Her make-up is subtle; her appearance, elegant. The former Department for Transport analyst worked on the Driver (remote intervention programme) at a secret location in the midlands. In converted, windowless containers her team would take manual control of vehicles whose systems had become corrupt. The customers she refers to were the organizations needing intervention by the Driver programme. It could be, she tells me, the police or maybe a company not wanting to incur a stoppage penalty on the highway network. With increasingly severe sanctions for anyone slowing or interrupting the closely timed flow of the country's logistics matrix, all vehicles are required by law to have fitted independent processors capable of notifying and requesting remote intervention from the DfT if a problem occurs.

Dolly remembers often traveling home in her car, enveloped in its entertainment system like everyone else, not looking at the vehicles around her. But she could not stop thinking about what was going on out there. “No PAUs, cars”, she says, “have forward facing windows any more, they haven't for decades, so no one really sees what's happening”. She's right, of course, few of us even look out of the car's windows now. There's seldom anything to see, except for other cars, trucks and coaches seemingly centimeters away, all traveling at the same speed. Apparently, Dolly tells me, forward facing windows were removed in the days when the occupants of a car could bring the vehicle to a stop by pressing an emergency button. Too many people were panicking, not appreciating the ability of computers to manage traffic and pressing the button when other vehicles got close.

Her training with the DfT was extensive and exhausting. “Can you imagine what it's like to control a unit”, she says, her posture becoming more upright, her body visibly tensing as each hand grips a knee. “You actually have to steer and brake, and alter the speed, manually. You really do. I know it sounds crazy, but you do. We did hours in the simulator, hours. And even then it seemed like ages before you got anything, just one little thing, right, even with the satnav guiding you and all the cameras and proximity alarms letting you know what's going on around the unit”. Vehicles had to be driven to a safe place where they could be rectified, somewhere out of the way so as not to impede the logistics matrix. When she finally joined her team, working in the artificial light of the container, Dolly sat waiting until a customer ID appeared. She would then monitor a number of projections of the target vehicle and its surroundings, varying between two and three dimensional, and control it with a simple hand wheel and foot pedals.

As we continue to talk Dolly starts to laugh. “Do you know?” She says, ”that at one time AGU drivers, sitting in the unit, would have to change gears to maintain speed. It's true, apparently they had a lever to do it. First they would disengage power with a foot pedal, then use the lever to alter the wheel's rotational speed ratio with the power by way of gears and then reengage the power by releasing the foot pedal. All this while steering. And people in the surrounding units were doing the same. All they had was a screen to see through forward and mirrors to see behind. None of these units, absolutely none of them, and probably traveling at ninety, were under proper control except for a person on board called the driver”. I was astonished. We've all heard of these old vehicles but I had never been fully aware of the details, except that they were forever bumping into each other.

Dolly's laugh was, I noticed, a nervous one borne more out of incredulity than amusement. Her reference to how things were in that bygone age says a lot about the pressure she felt doing the job at the Driver programme. She tells me how, as the work progressed, she became more withdrawn. “I would spend hours in my Cube walking the hills or along a coastline somewhere. Any program it could offer that had nothing to do with roads, that was what I craved, anything that relieved my pent up stress and gave some sort of natural tranquility. I just about wore the treadmill out”.

But it was a platoon that was to end it all for Dolly. During what seemed like a quiet shift an ID number appeared in front of her followed by the projected hologram of a AGU platoon. The lead vehicle had broken communication with the vehicle immediately behind and was beginning to slow the entire platoon. If Dolly didn't act quickly the entire procession would bring itself to a halt. She took control intending to reassign the platoon lead to the first following unit and peel off the lead vehicle at the next available junction. She did this successfully but then disaster struck. Dolly takes up the story. “I took the lead unit off the main route and the platoon continued OK. In fact, soon after, it joined up with another one. I was pleased that I'd been able to see it on its way. But when I took the lead unit onto a minor route a terrible thing happened. A cyclist came from the right, or so I'm told because I just didn't see him. They say he went under the front of the unit. All sorts of alarms sounded and I stopped the unit, you have to in those circumstances even though, at the time, I had no idea what had happened. A police drone and android medic arrived. That was that, I was off the programme”.

Despite the cyclist being dangerously off the designated cycle way and the fact that all road markings or signs on routes that might have helped indicate rights of way disappeared long ago, Dolly was found to be enough at fault to be removed from her position. Is she disappointed? “No”, she says. “I'd rather be walking the hills”.

Furious (letter to i newspaper Dec 2015)

Tyson Fury may be a boxer and not a spokesman for The National Trust (Simon Kelner) but he is a world champion and, therefore, an influence in that particular way sports personalities often are with the young. With the Chief Inspector of Schools in England looking into what has been described as dangerous homophobic and misogynistic views being taught to some children, surely it's time Tyson Fury was silenced by the media. Sports achiever of the year, definately. Personality of any year, no way. 

Parental Control

I plunged my forefinger onto the page in an exaggerated gesture, as if to mark the spot where my reading had reached. The noise and the jolt to the book were enough to make her stop in mid sentence and stare straight at me. My old dad did same thing if my mum interrupted him when he was reading. I always imagined that in his Hornblower novels my dad was lost somewhere in the South Seas, invoking the admiration of his crew while battling storms and slovenly Spaniards. He'd have been the hero of his men, a father to them all, firmly guiding and saving them from themselves: those fighting dullards never knowing quite what to do for the best. And when he was bought back to reality by my mum's conversation, his disapproval showed.

And there I was, many years later, lost in my book when my wife interrupted. “I'd do anything for my kids”, she said, starting again after my little display of engrossed reader frustration.  I sat still for a moment, trying to make sense of what she was saying.

“You know”, I said, finally. “You're going to have to stop watching Strictly Come Dancing if it makes you like this”.

“Oh, don't talk rubbish”, she said. “It's got nothing to do with Strictly, it's those refugee mothers, risking all to give their children a chance of life, a future”.

“And endangering their lives in the process”, I said.

“They're doing what they think is best, even if it may kill them”, she said. “Having to put your child's life at risk in order to save it is the worst nightmare any parent can have. They must be suffering unimaginable emotional pain making decisions like that”.

“You didn't sound like that when Seddon junior got nicked by the police for theft”, I reminded her, “You wanted to strangle him”.

“No I didn't, I was just saying that. Anyway, he got in with the wrong crowd; he was always easily lead”.

“Easily lead”? I said. “At his expulsion ceremony, attended by you and me, the headmaster described him as the leader of the infamous year eleven shop lifting and school burglary squad”.

“Well, he's done very well for himself now. You said it yourself, getting expelled was a real shock for him, he pulled his socks up straight away”. Her youngest was not to be knocked.

But he's my son as well and I remember taking a slightly less forgiving, more robust position regarding his 'education'. What his mother doesn't know is that, soon after, and as soon as I was alone with him, I pinned him to a wall by the throat and instructed him on his future behaviour. I had judged it well and he was near to tears as I informed him that I would kick his backside to oblivion if he ever upset his mother in that way again. Looking back it's me that is close to tears thinking about it; as I say, he's my son as well. Something, though, had to be done, for him, for the best.

Anyway, back to my book. I was reading Robot Visions, Isaac Asimov's collection of robot stories, in which he reiterates the three robot laws: laws that govern the interaction between humans and robots. Basically, Rule 1 says that a robot cannot harm a human, or allow a human to be harmed. Rule 2, a robot must obey an order given by a human, unless it causes conflict with Rule 1. Rule 3 states that a robot must protect itself unless in doing so there is conflict with Rules 1 or 2.

Asimov's robots are invariably humanoid - androids designed to replace humans in some jobs but always intended to exceed human ability and so enhance our existence. In many ways I can see why that's the most popular vision of them and if robots were built to simply replace people, then what other form would they take. In reality, though, the most practical shape for a robot is one that best fits the job its intended for. Why have a robot that builds cars, for example, with hands to grip tools, when the arms themselves could incorporate the tools. Why have a car driven by a robot when a robot car can be built without space wasted on a driver.

These are the robots of our future. Machines formed to perform specific tasks. And as they become more sophisticated, more autonomous, laws that govern behaviour will become increasingly important. Even now we have systems in vehicles that take over the engine management and brakes to compensate for our driving mistakes. With the future bringing even greater control and much of the development and design for these automations done by machines themselves, a totally new set of ethics will evolve. Ethics administered not by people but by machines. Political correctness, the antithesis of our flawed idea of common sense, will be equaled by robotical correctness, as these computerised mechanisms  grapple with the enormity of what they're being asked to do - to look after us in the complexity that is our everyday lives. So, as we head towards full automation, it's not hard to predict the type of programming robotic trucks might have in order to save us from ourselves.

Why can't we chisel off just one more car in the inside lane before the exit slip? Because the automaton we're riding in thinks it's:

1. Not completely safe
2. Not fuel efficient, so unsound for the (human) environment 
3. Potentially damaging for the machine itself

Why can't we pull into the next fast food outlet? Because the robot vehicle thinks it's:

1. Not safe for our long term health (it would be the second visit this week)
2. The machine has already registered an unhealthy increase in our seat weight
3. They don't do discount points for any of our cards

Why can't we set off, now?

1. We haven't fastened our seat restraint
2. We haven't tidied the bunk of items that might fall and injure us
3. We haven't cleaned our teeth

All this in the new world of full automation, where robots replace, and on which we become totally dependent. With the control of industry, activity and life comes the responsibility for safety, well-being and environment. Our new home is an ordered one, where our parents are mechanisms and their hand logical and firm. And always in the best interest of us, their children.

70 in a 30

I had just sat down when he approached, fast, weaving between tables and chairs set out on the pavement outside the cafe. The last thing I hoped he'd do was stop but then he just crashed in front of me, right there, in the chair opposite. I even had my newspaper positioned on the table next to my latte, both waiting to be enjoyed, in peace. Sitting there is normally such a pleasure, occasionally glancing around at the tables to either side, their occupants doing their own thing, all of us at the same pace, all in our own space. Now all that was shattered.

I couldn't help myself but look up, the shock to the chair he had chosen to drop into was such that it seemed to shake the very paving slabs it rested on. And my glance was enough, our eyes met and he spoke, as if invited to do so by that most fleeting of contacts. The journey through my newspaper was now delayed. I took a last look at it, longingly, as if by doing so would somehow allow me to simply keep going. But his impact was too great for that and the influence of his presence too strong, and when he spoke it was obvious I was to be held up.

“Now that's a proper bike”, he said, looking at my Triumph Bonneville parked nearby. I nodded in recognition. He was right, it is a great motorcycle, not one of the old ones but a new model.

“Never really been into bikes”, he went on. “Cars, that's me. And speed, I love it. Acceleration, it's the thrill of acceleration I love. Always have. I've had loads of cars. Jags, sports cars, Mercs. I love Mercs, got one now.

“It's over there, my Merc. I had a bike once, only one I had. I was hammering along, had me mate on the back and some bloke pulled out in front of us. I locked up and ended up in a ditch, my mate went over the top and was thrown only knows how far. We weren't that bad, considering. But that was ages ago. I'm seventy, you know; and I've had a few motors, I can tell you.

“My young niece sometimes takes me out in her car. I recon my reactions are better than hers, as good as when I was thirty. She's terrible. She crawls along. She's got one of those electric things that uses its engine only when there's not enough left in the batteries. Useless, wouldn't go near one. My mate said he had the car for me, a three litre diesel, does a hundred and thirty. Wouldn't touch it; petrol, that's the only one for me, don't care about the cost, don't care what it does to the gallon.

“Only had one serious crash in all the years I've been driving – went into the back of a lorry and had to be cut out. That was years ago. You've got to have your wits about you these days. I had some bloke in front of me last year not pull away at some lights. Made me hit him from behind, did the front grill in. Not cheap on a Merc, I can tell you. It's like in those supermarket car parks, twice I've been hit. Once it was by someone pulling out of a space right in front of me, the other by a car speeding along as I was leaving a parking space. They don't look”.

And with that he spotted someone approaching. They hooked up together and left soon after, with only the briefest of nods in my direction. People were getting up from the tables around me, folding their newspapers in preparation to leave. In no time, the cafe emptied and the pavement flowed.