A week off before Bosnia and D.I.Y.Blog lesson.

Well, the last couple of days have been lovely weather and so the camper has been cleaned ready to get dirty again on the drive to Bosnia! Wife had another indeterminate birthday yesterday and we went out to Gibbon Bridge in The Forest of Bowland for dinner, and this morning is cold and overcast again, so not much fun playing out. The old Peugeot 205 which Wife has refused to believe would ever die and leave her, has almost died with so many oil leaks that she rivals the Torre Canyon. In the process of teaching Wife a bit more about how to use her newly acquired laptop, we browsed e-bay for a "new to us" car to replace the 205, and have begun a gentle bid on a tidy dark green diesel 206 for which the bidding closes on Wednesday night. Checking our winning bid this morning and sat in dressing gown unwilling to face the slightly unpleasant morning, I strayed to the Blogger edit area and actually read it! I really ought to learn after so many years of just picking stuff up and playing with it, that the best way to get the best out of things is to read the instructions. (Reminder to actually read instructions for mobile phone which I keep moaning about as so complicated I don't understand it)

So, now, new layout, new colours AND photo. I have also found out how those of you that may want to can make a comment may do so by just clicking on "comment" at the end of the blog, without having to be a blogger yourself. It does allow me to edit anything wicked or more vulgar than I myself might write however, and it IS readable by others, so remember that and please respect and keep the anonymity of each other by referring to people that I mention in the same manner. There is also a hyperlink to my specific blog e-mail for other messages too, so I hope that old and new friends may be able to chat with me more easily than before. We are almost into the realm of a "glossy" rag mag now. Watch this space!

Best wishes, Doc

What’s up Doc?......Tits, for a start!

Well, of course it’s April 1^st, and something was bound to go wrong. In terms of planning for the Great Trip, things have not got much further advanced. I have been working at the Barracks until Friday night and have now finished the locum appointment for a month off during which Father and I are going to Bosnia. I attended my first ride-out with the Aire Valley Harley Owners Group last weekend, a good but slightly chilly trip from the dealership in Leeds back to the Dales where I had come from! Anyway, it was a good ride, well organised and marshalled and there were approximately 60 of us thundering up Wharfedale, into Nidderdale and out of Pately Bridge, on to the giant golf balls at Menwith Hill Radio station and then to the Hooper Lane Hotel for lunch. It was a very enjoyable run, although seeing the scenery when riding in such large convoy is always hard as it requires a lot of riding concentration. It was a very friendly group, most welcoming and when I got home and told Wife, who normally is none too keen to ride pillion, that there was a further ride-out this Sunday to Blackpool, she was quite enthusiastic to come too. This took a little special preparation on her part as she had to sort out the sheep and feed the spare lambs before we left, as well as digging out her leathers from the back of the cupboard and suitably adjusting her jeans and chaps (does my bum look big in this?) etc. Then we couldn’t find her helmet, so after a quick panic, I found one that fitted in the garage, but with a certain amount of mildew on the lining which I hastily brushed off, though I hardly like to mention that there may be a few spores left in the hair and it could turn green spotted over the next few days. Yesterday, I spent a considerable number of hours happily ensconced, keeping my head down, out of the way in the garage cleaning the bike. Although I rode out on her last week, she has seen action most of the winter, so had not had a decent spring clean. Of course, the battery was a bit flat, because it has been for a while and does not hold its charge very well, and I should have changed it, but a few hours on the battery charger got her going and she looked as good as I can get her by 7.00 o’clock. I decided that I would fill up with petrol on the way in the morning. Finally, I proudly placed the new logo, which my talented designer nephew has done for me to promote the blog when I am in the U.S., on the back of the top box. Ready for the show, ready for Blackpool, ready for a pillion.

Back to this morning. The Chapter meets at the dealership in Leeds, so, since they were due to ride an hour before they even arrived near us, I e-mailed to warn the Road Captain that I would pick them up in Burnley. I wouldn’t have minded really going over to Leeds first, it’s not at all a bad trip and the weather was absolutely glorious, but that would have meant the farmer(Wife) getting up at 5.30 rather than 7.30, and there may not have been enough time to get the bum to look O.K. in those jeans and chaps. The ride was due to pass through Burnley around 10.00, so we left at 9.25, allowing 10 minutes to get petrol and 15 minutes to get to Burnley, perfect timing. Popped in to garage, pulled up at pump, loaded petrol, removed Wife’s helmet, (no growth on hair yet) to remove stud earrings which should have been changed to rings but were left with butterfly back clips which pressed into skull inside helmet, got back on bike and fired her up(bike, not Wife.) ……..or not!

The battery was stone dead. Now just a technical aside for those of you who do not know much about bikes, or Harleys. ( This is for benefit of those on this side of the Atlantic, rather than those in the U.S.A.(North America) The Harley has a "big V-twin" engine, and I mean BIG! 1500cc of throbbing growl which comes from just two massive cylinders which is why they make such an evocative noise. The downside of that is that it takes a whopping heavy duty battery to kick it into life. There is no kick start, which, in any case, if there was, would almost certainly break your leg or dislocate your hip, and it is only possible to bump start if you are on a 1 in 5 hill or if you have the England rugby scrum pushing you. My immediate thought was a jump start, but I had taken my jump leads out of the pannier when I cleaned her yesterday, so desperate, as the time clicked by, and with Pillion trying to look forlorn at side of the bike, I went back inside and bought yet another pair (my sixth!) for nine quid. I grappled with the ridiculously small screw under the top box to release the seats and access the battery, cutting my index finger in the process and bleeding over newly cleaned and polished Harley. Then, of course, the crocodile clips were so big they would hardly clip on the terminals and would need Wife to hold then in place while I pressed the ignition, rather like doing cardiac defibrillation on a motorcycle. ( I pictured the scene in a small brain bubble, as I shout “charge 350….STAND CLEAR” and fire, converting the asystole into a throbbing regular pulse.) I then proceeded to ask everybody on the forecourt if they could please allow me to jump start off their battery. Sod the bloody lot of them! “In a hurry, am already late for football.” “I have to be in Burnley in 5 minutes!” (So do bloody I!), “No, sorry, I’m on my way to golf” (SO?) “I don’t know how to open the bonnet”, “No, I’m running late already”. Finally, at just on 10.00, a kind lady with a VW Golf and a young daughter offered to help, but, like I said, it needs a whopping battery and what will start a 1500cc four cylinder Golf, wouldn’t even begin to turn the big V-twin. With thanks for her letting me try, and a final feeling of despair, I watched her leave the forecourt. Just as I was thinking that we would have to get the bus in all the clobber (only runs two trips in the morning anyway, although a helmet is advisable, and the leather chaps protect your jeans from the chewing gum left on the seats from the school run the day before) a silver diesel Vectra pulled up alongside Forlorn Pillion and I realised she had pulled! This driver, had passed the forecourt on his way somewhere local and had come back because he “had seen a motorcycle in distress”. Thank you God! More thank you’s to this man, Ian, who it turns out was off to do some work on a motor tricycle he is building. Phenomenal!..not only has he stopped but Ian knows all about motor bikes, AND has his own professional jump leads, AND the diesel Vectra has a walloping lump of a battery, and very soon the patient is out of intensive care and ready to leave. (The only thing he didn’t have with him was a plaster for my finger, which was by then congealing inside my glove, the leather of which was turning into a skin graft). It turned out that Ian, our guardian biker angel is a member of the “Silsden Sewer Rats” (no shit?) and so I hereby nominate him to the Chapter Director for their Golden Turd Award for Kind Hearted Generosity for 2007. Unlike me, who can just talk the talk, this guy can walk the walk as well. Thanks so much Ian. Perhaps I can return the favour sometime when you are needing help with a bit of tinkering yourself, maybe a free vasectomy at home or chopping out your verrucas or something more up my street? In the meantime, when I get back from the States, perhaps I will look up the Sewer Rats and bore them to death with a picture show over a bevy or two?

So, dejected after what seemed like, and reads like, 20 minutes, but actually took place in 10, the time was 10.10 and 15 minutes away in Burnley, unless they were running late, the Ride-out would have been on the way out of town at least 25 minutes ahead of me. We decided that, since we had got ready for it, and at last the bike was running again, we might as well set off and do the ride, which is what we did. I knew the route, or at least 90% of it, and I knew that they were parking up at a hotel for lunch at…?…Well it was at a hotel at either the extreme north end of the prom or the extreme south. Never mind, we were en route again and had a lovely ride through the back lanes of Lancashire in beautiful sunshine with sheep and lambs in the fields, daffodils in the hedgerows, flowering cherries forsythia and gorse in open bud and a faint hint of bursting leaf buds on the trees and in the hedges. The Harley bubbled with enthusiasm, the Pillion likewise, my mobile rang in vain in my jacket, and we arrived rather miraculously in Blackpool, after I had spotted a few names I remembered from the itinerary and kept the sun behind and slightly to the left of me!

We arrived on the promenade, almost opposite the North Pier, and swung left to cruise down to the far South end. All the time, I had expected to suddenly be absorbed in a throbbing mass of Harleys enveloping us from behind, or to suddenly spot the tail end Charlie Marshall’s orange vest in front, and so here, now, rider’s and Pillion’s eyes were peeled as we cruised down the Prom past the myriad slot machine halls, cheap holiday shops and boarding houses. At the far end are a lot of hotels with large parking areas in front, and indeed, it would have to be quite large to park up almost 100 bikes which would have probably been on the ride. Not a whistle of them, not a Harley in sight, even as we drew into Lytham St.Annes. It definitely wasn’t down here. 100 Harleys thundering down the High Street here would probably have caused Lancashire Health Authority a major headache as their A and E beds filled up with the “older than me oldies” of this elite Blackpool dormitory, dropping with coronaries as the “Rockers” hit town in force. The only yellow vest would have been lines of paramedics. No, definitely not here, so we turned round in the forecourt of The Eventide Care Home, gunned the throttle to still feel alive and help a few residents on their way, and roared back up to Blackpool again. It was now about 12.45, and apart from anything else, we both needed a wee. The extreme south end of the Prom by the sand dunes, is actually about the best of Blackpool as far as I am concerned. Here, on the left, past Maplins’ Holiday park on the right, is a coach park, virtually empty today and smothered in blown sand, but it pointed to a toilet, so we slithered in and parked up. Couldn’t turn off the engine of course, as we may not have had the good fortune to encounter a second Sewer Rat had it failed to start again, so we went in turns, me first, because, although I have a longer valve, Wife has a stronger bladder. I was astonished to find a row of cubicles with stainless steel doors in what I had previously thought was an old red brick, flat concrete roofed, deckchair store. Adjacent to these doors, embedded in the walls of this building, crafted lovingly in elegant mock brick shithouse style, were coin meters, for 20 pence pieces….I mean 20 pee a wee! Those of you whom I can now count amongst my five fans, will recall my comparisons with real money( old money) when I recounted the cost of my cowboy gun, but a wee in a public loo used to be free for men, and sadly both men and women who wished to use a cubicle, (the latter who, despite burning their bras and becoming “emancipated” in the 60’s never managed to get the hang of hitting a projecting porcelain butter dish from the wall) had to pay 1 penny, which, of course, is how we gained the metaphor expression of “spending a penny”. Now 1d, or 1 penny, was 1/240 of a pound, by today’s prices, the equivalent of just less than ¼ P! This loo therefore represents an inflation rate of 8000%, or in income terms, this would mean that the average income in this country, had it kept pace with the inflation cost of a pee, would be about £80,000 p.a. Had I been on my own, I would probably have wet the sand dunes, but with wife present too, I spent the 20pence and then, gentleman that I am, held the door open and shouted to her to come over and inherit the throne!. That way we reduced our personal inflation rate and made an old man very happy in the loss of the equivalent of four shillings! While I waited by the still running bike, I checked to see who had phoned me in vain earlier. It was Daughter, so I phoned her back. She’s had a good week, made her targets, and had good day yesterday at the Rugby in Twickenham with some mates from work. Wife returned and took over conversation. She finished call and hung up and then checked her phone. First thing she noticed was the date, 1^st April. No surely, I thought suddenly, it must be the 31^st, ‘cos Tuesday, 2^nd, is Wife’s birthday. Aagh!!! No, it’s tomorrow, Monday. That was the day I was going to creep out and get card and present. Too late. Missed it, got date wrong, admit it there and then or pass it off nonchalantly. Pass it off nonchalantly! Discretion is the better part of valour. Still a chance to get card at petrol station and think hard about sudden off the cuff pressie. The time was now 1.00 o’clock. We were both feeling hungry and decided to make one more effort and go to the far north end of the prom and hunt for the battalion of Harleys and lunch.

I regret that we passed the whole front again, right up to The Norbreck Castle Hotel and beyond, and still saw no other Harley anywhere. We arrived at the right turn which takes one East, away from the beach and towards the M55 and M6. Pillion suggested that we should not go back to town centre as we could not leave the engine running while we ate there, so we should set off and find a road house en route back to Home. As we were leaving the outskirts of Blackpool, in Kirkham, we saw on our left a nice looking hostelry, called The Blue Anchor. What particularly caught my eye was the food sign and the fact that there were some tables and umbrellas outside, so we could park up, engine running and eat at the table on the verandah. This seemd like a great idea, and we went in, finding an extraordinarily friendly welcome from the owner staff, to whom we explained the plight and our need to eat out at the table to stay close to the bike. They were very helpful , despite the fact that nobody felt it was warm enough to sit out, and very soon, several had been out to admire the bike, and we had our meals delivered and were talking with the owner, Lorraine, and two members of staff on the balcony overlooking the main road. We had just started to eat our fish and chips(really good by the way) when there seemed to be a rumble of thunder in the West rolling around in the clear skies somewhere. Suddenly, the whole of the bloody Light Brigade “rode into the valley of death” the thundering Harley hooves flying past and waving at us and hooting their horns. The Chapter was on it’s way home to Leeds after lunch, so even though we never spoke to any of them, they finally caught us up! It was quite a spectacular ride past, which was enjoyed by the staff and patrons at the pub. They however, had their own little rumble of thunder, it’s V-twin heart still beating gently, right under their verandah, and we stayed and chatted for almost an hour about all sorts of things. An incredibly friendly family, lovely food and a really nice place to have stopped. So, the April 1^st Ride-out went tits up. We didn’t ride in gloriously noisy convoy and companionship together, but we did have time to see and enjoy the countryside; we didn’t meet the members and discuss the ride and the bikes over lunch in a hotel overlooking either the north or south end of the prom, but we found a lovely pub and friendly welcome in Kirkham, and we didn’t get off to a good start and had to keep the engine running for over 5 hours, but we got all the way, rode 84 miles and got back to the farm without needing the RAC. Incidentally, when we arrived we were both dying for a cuppa,we parked up in the yard before putting the Iron Lady to bed, and switched off the engine….. Don’t ask!

Best wishes, Doc

Bosnia or bust!

I seem to be straying away from the original intention of simply recording my big dream trip, but that is because so many other distractions seem to get in the way of continuing to sit down and add the points of interest on my planned itinerary. So now, I am going to relate some of the story of me and Bosnia.
In his wonderful philosophical tale of "The Prophet", Kahlil Gibran states that "Your children are not your own" He likens them to arrows that are fired from the bow and fall where they will. I don't imagine that my parents knew anything of The Prophet, though the book was written in 1923, but the concepts were drawn from Islam, rather than Christianity, and their reading would not have taken them there. My going to Bosnia and my subsequent visits there would not have come about at all if my parents could have dictated where I, the oldest of their three "arrows" might fall.
My initial visit to Bosnia was in 1999, as a Regimental Medical Officer in the Territorial Army serving with an honourable Heavy Artillery Regiment of the British Army, and it was actually rather unexpected really, although I welcomed it at the time.

I need to go back to 1991 to start with. Officer Son, was then 13 and was at a bit of a loose end in the evenings after school. In my day we joined the scouts and slightly later a Youth club. When I was nine, I joined what was then called the Wolf Cubs, but is now a politically correct multi-sex organisation known as Cub Scouts. ( Odd that the girls would want to join the Cubs. Boys would never have wanted to join The Brownies, although joining the Guides could have been fun!) I went every Wednesday evening for years and then moved on to Scouts and Senior Scouts and Rovers, finally leaving when I went to University at 18. It was a superb organisation and I enjoyed it a lot. I still have my scout shirt upstairs in my cupboard, although it would never fit now! I keep meaning to throw it away, but I can't bring myself to. It is about 45 years old now but is as good as when I last took it off. Son did not fancy joining the local scouts, and I can't say I blame him really. Our local village scouts was very parochial, whereas my own troop was in a large town and also attached to my school, so the activities were much extended by excellent leadership and additional financial support. No, Son opted to join the Yorkshire North and West Army Cadet Force. This in itself was quite a radical move in our family, since, during World War 2, my Maternal Grandfather, who had fought in the First World War became a Conscientious Objector, my Father was a newly qualified doctor and was non combatant in a protected occupation, and my Mother was Pacifist inclined (although many who met her would have found that argumentative streak of hers hard to associate with that viewpoint). My Father in Law was a Civil Servant, also in a protected occupation, working at that time in what was called The Ministry of Works, and he was responsible for the Civil Defence of all the Whitehall Government buildings, including Downing Street and The Palace of Westminster. My maternal uncles worked in the fire service and agriculture respectively, and my paternal uncle was exempted because of ill health! From this, it is clear that my family's part in Hitler's downfall was largely supportive, from the "Lines of Communication and Rear Party" positions only! ' I myself stayed in the scouts at 14, when most of the other lads at school were joining the Combined Cadet Force, largely because of my parents distaste for the military, and their strong beliefs in Christian Pacifism. So, it was a bit of a shock when Son decided to become a boy soldier. I have always believed that it is the duty of a parent to be an enabler, not a dictator. We should advise from the best of our knowledge, but then the child must decide for themselves. We aim the arrow true, then watch it soar, but we cannot pull it back! So, of course, we supported him in his wishes, and encouraged him in every aspect of his new found activity. And it was obvious, within the first three months, Son had found himself, found confidence, found self respect, found ambition and direction and application, and the beginnings of an inate ability to plan and lead. One thing lead to another, and although never an academic, his military strengths and canny understanding of tactics and situations grew and he went to Sandhurst at 18, already an obvious professional soldier and leader.
Now all that stuff is just a Dad looking back and being immensely proud of his Son, but the story is to tell you that I got a call from Son's A.C.F. Senior Officer when he was about 15 asking if I would perhaps consider becoming the medical officer for the Yorkshire North and West A.C.F.. This involved "simply doing some routine examinations of the T.A. Officers from time to time, and going away with the cadets to annual camp to run the medical facility". Well why not! It couldn't be much different from being a St.John Ambulance Officer and I had done that. "Yes", I agreed, I would happily do it. A few days later, I was sent some forms to complete. I was a bit surprised, (why should I have been surprised?....it IS the Army after all!) because the forms asked me to sign the Official Secrets Act forms, to take the rank of "Acting Captain".(..actually the lowest of the low, a Second Leiutenant), and to give various body measurements for a uniform. It emerged after a telephone call that I was actually joining the Territorial Army as a "Class B Officer". I was rather taken aback, not because I particularly objected from any ethical or religious point of view, but because I had never ever in my wildest dreams seen myself as any sort of soldier. And now, at 46 years old I found I had "signed up" and taken the Queens's shilling. So, presumably, with my dear Mother and her Dad rolling in their graves, I became a "soldier". I have to say that I did not actually think much at all about what they would have thought, because I was so pleased to see the positive development in my own son, that I was happy to become a part of it and to give something back.
Now, let's just get something straight, this was not a role that might some day be played in a film by Steven Seagal; rather a phenomenally boring back seat job being done by someone who had not the slightest knowledge of anything military, although I was quite pleased to have 3 stars on a flash, managed to get some sort of shine on my boots, albeit with liquid polish, and Son showed me how to wet and wear in my hat (NOT called beret which are things worn by French onion sellers) My role was to do a few routine medicals and then, at the Annual Camp supervise the nursing staff in the medical centre where we predominantly treated sprains, gnat bits, diarrhoea and the occasional small cut. I think the most exciting of my combat field hospital was a fractured foream and an appendicitis, but at least, I didn't miss them, and duly despatched child soldiers to appropriately comfortable NHS beds where they spent the rest of camp. I did this for about 3 or 4 years, until, in 1997, after a series of rather poo-filled events, which may come to light later on if I am feeling particularly honest and morose, lead to me taking a six month sabbatical from my Village practice. After 20 years, I welcomed a bit of a change, and, with the slight Army connection, and Son at Sandhurst, I applied for a six month locum post as a civilian medical practitioner with British Forces in Germany. I left in July 1997 and stayed 6 years, which was a bit more than any of us actually expected, least of all me, who had intended to clear my head and come home and sort things out. . The upshot of this was that I became very much more familiar with the Forces and their ways, and for Son's sake I actually learned a lot about the Army and Army Medical Services and I started to regard the lads and Officers as brother soldiers with Son. I actually wanted to serve them better, and so, in 1998, when the new hostilities had broken out in Kosovo, and the Army Medical Services were heavily stretched, I rather rashly and nihilistically volunteered for an active service role. I felt strongly that 23 years experience in an older man was better than sending a young newly qualified doctor into a risky area, after all they had a lifetime to live and work, and I had had all that and was not so important. I took little concern for my safety or what I might encounter. I had done several Army Courses in emergency work and battle injury and major incident management, and was a highly experienced doctor and competent minor surgeon. I felt I could cope, except perhaps with my physical fitness, which, was to say the least, well past it if ever it had been really there at all. I was accepted, and asked to be the Regimental Medical Officer to the **th Regiment, The Royal Artillery, in a place called Glamoc (pronounced Glamotch) . In April of 1999, I went to the two weeks training before deployment, and although it was all total mystery to me, somehow bluffed my way through the training, learning to use the new Army rifle, the General Purpose machine gun, (bloody useful stuff for a doctor!)all the webbing and kit with which we were issued, and going to PT classes! The PT and the runs, I largely managed to miss due to having two screws in my right ankle, and being over 45, but I did attempt the Army fitness test and passed most of it but failed the run in the allotted time by about two minutes. I did however learn some really useful new skills, like how to make a bivouac, hide in undergrowth in a trench, sleep out in a bivvy sac and protect myself from the elements, all of which have proved invaluable in my motorcycle camping trips as I can now happily manage without a tent! I proved a dab hand with the 9mm pistols however, my experience of shooting almost every type of confiscated handgun at The Lancashire Police Gun Club coming in rather handy. The 9mm Browning automatic is a pain, especially when it jams. I have to confess that a Smith and Wesson Revolver would have been more to my liking! 19 Officers, mostly long standing T.A. and one or two older retired Reservists were invited to a competition pistol shoot on the last day by the Range Officer. We had a competition sweepstake and each put a fiver in; winner takes all. I felt a bit nervous with this weapon, and not very familiar with its weight and shape. We lined up in fives for shoot offs, which I managed to get through with what seemed like some ease and luck. I was in the last four, up against two Infantry Officers and a Reservist who had been a Gurkha Officer. He was quite intimidating as he had been mooted to be the best shot of all of us. The five rounds were taken and we lined up. Five fast shots at own pace, to be taken within 15 seconds. We fired. My pistol jammed after two shots, I knelt, opened, cleared, re-loaded, stood, pushed my imagined index finger at the target and gently but rapidly squeezed off the last three succesive shots I was delighted then to be suddenly acclaimed be the most "warrey Doc" they had seen, having beaten my nearest opponent by a shot and three points to take the hundred odd pounds pot. A great confidence boost, but I was still, an enormous, if somewhat bluffing, square peg in a round hole, which I remained throughout my operational tour. And so, off to Bosnia, which, in 1999, rather disappointingly for me and my expectations,( if fortunately for the peoples there) was very much quieter, and peaceful, and I knew immediately that I really never would be played by Steven Seagal and they would probably not make the film!
Isn't it odd, how, almost no matter what you do and what choices you make in life, there are occasions when you meet people or find yourself in places that, in retrospect, you just knew you had to do as a part of your life's journey. You sometimes just get that feeling that it's right and this was something that only you could do, and that it was important. That is rather how Bosnia turned out for me. To go into the areas of still total desolation and destruction and to see people in the Glamoc Valley who had probably lived much like some of our local Lancashire country people before the Wars, but who were now in despair, poverty, and extreme hardship, really got to me and I could identify with them like I could to my rural patients back home. This valley is 1000 metres above sea level , a glacial, effluvial plain of wonderfully fertile, then land mined soil, farmed by families of Serbs, Bosniacs, and Croats, side by side in strip farming principles around a co-operative for generations. I will not discuss the role of my Regiment there, but suffice to say that I was living with the rest of the Battery to which I was assigned, in a former saw mill in what is termed a Corrimec, a corrugated container turned mobile home. I was very lucky, because I was serving in the acting rank of Major and so had a Corrimec to myself for the most part. Most of the soldiers shared a 12 foot by 8 foot unit in three or four to a unit, in bunks where they had no privacy and had to store all their kit and personal belongings. Most of their time was spent patrolling and looking out for criminal or military activities which were prohibited. and then either intervening or reporting intelligence as appropriate. The tour was largely quiet from the action point of view fortunately, because, as I soon came to appreciate, the locals were far more important than any action or adventure that I might have pictured myself involved in and supporting. There is life saving and life saving, and it soon became obvious that the lives that needed saving were not ours but those who were termed the "returnees", the refugees who were moving back into the valley to examine what was left of their homes and lives, and wonder whether they could ever pick them up again. My slightly exasperated, but wise and empathic Commanding Officer allowed me a lot of leeway, albeit under the control of a "proper" Major who understood the protocols and security better than I did. We could never have achieved what we did without the C.O.'s generous and forgiving attitude towards his "square peg of a Medical Officer". I had eight Medics and a Medical Sergeant with me, all of whom needed occupying, when the small sick parades were finished. We started out by sending a few on the patrols, and then gradually increased to going to see what the medical needs of the few returning locals were. Most of them were alone or in small groups and were elderly men. Their houses were largely ruins, many wih no roof, and burned out. The opposition forces had driven through the valley killing, raping, and looting, and had then systematically, with engineer/demolition units, stripped the houses of everything, pipes, wires, floor boards, and windows and had put debris and general filth and dead animals in the water cisterns in which they all have to have to collect rain water for every water need. The electricity poles had been chain sawn down and removed, the roads bombed and blasted, the animals killed, the fields mined, and all the furniture, soft furnishings and farm machinery stolen by organised criminals. People fled with carrier bags and wheelbarrows, many miles over treacherous mountain passes and through the forests to escape the genocidal massacres. This is not to say that the forces who did this in the Glamoc valley were unique. They all had forces which did the same to the other groups. No ethnic group was any the less terrible in its treatment of the others. This was a terrifying civil war in which, without intervention, many more thousands would have died, and many more hideous atrocities would have been committed, previous neighbour against previous neighbour. In 1999, and even still today,although it is improving a bit, there was mistrust of other ethnic people, tales of who they were, had been, what they did, who hid who and suchlike. I was so lucky, I did not have to see any of that. What I saw was that they had all suffered and whatever their ethnicity, it was of absolutely no consequence to me. All I had to know was whether they could be trusted in their treatment of me and my men, and whether we could trust them. We made it absolutely clear that we had no favourites, and that anything we did for one, we would do for another if we could. In particular, we set about cleaning the wells and water cisterns to try to get clean and healthy water back for washing and drinking. We cleaned out 17 cisterns when we were there, always slightly wary as we were told that some were mined, but we never found anything dangerous. In one we retrieved an entire set of pots and pans, cutlery and dishes which had been thrown in by the destroyers. They were all beautifully washed by their nine year immersion and scrubbed up perfectly. We found animal carcasses and old bits of glass and bottles and old buckets and junk, but nothing really dreadful fortunately. When we were doing this we came across four eldelry men in particular, who had all lived in the same village on the Western side of the plateau. They appeared to all be in their 70's, but actually, it became apparent were a lot younger than that. They had left thier wives and families in Banja Luka, where they were squatters in other's houses and had returned to see if they could survive a winter in the valley and get some semblance of their homes back together. All the refugees living in other cantons were having to move back from whence they had come in order to free up the homes in which they were squatting, so they had little option but to come back anyway, but life in the rural highlands is far harder and more severe than in the bigger towns and cities. They came back with a handcart on which they had put all the things they could in order to survive and had pushed it up the mountain pass for almost two weeks to return here. Their attitude was humbling. They were determined to survive, and yet in these houses, and winters of 3 feet of snow and 20 degrees of frost, their chances were slim. There were others too of different ethnicity, and we soon had a group fo about 24 people to try to work with, but these four, we nicknamed "The Old Pioneers".
Big do's and little do's, the upshot was that we raised some £2,400 in that Battery, from raffles, friends back home, church donations and ourselves. In conjunction with the United Nations who helped some with windows and rooves, and with the Belgian Army who provided some generators, chain saws and a few tractors, we ourselves provided enough food for all these 24 people to survive the winter, a lot of clothing, work in re-building, timber, bricks, cement, and sand, and tools and finally we paid for the pioneers to have 4 acres of their lands ploughed for the following year and left them Barley seed and vegetable seeds to plant in the spring. We met their families who came over to visit to see how they had got on, and at that stage, I became a friend to a bright 12 year old single child, grand-daughter of one of the pioneers, There are many others with whom I am still friends, but this one child, is the one about whom I am most proud. She could talk a little English when we were there in 1999, and was keen to practice. She was a typical 12 year old slightly shy lass, but surprisingly with drive and ambition, a desire to put the terrible things of her childhood behind her, an eclecticism, an open mind, a respecter of the others' rights to exist. She and her parents, and her Grandparents, and this family have become almost another family to me in some ways, although she is the only one of them who can speak English and my Serbo-Croat is totally useless!
When we all parted,rather emotionally, at the end of my tour in November 1999, I rather rashly found myself saying " I'll come back next year and make sure you made it through the winter". And so, in 2000, I went, and none of them were surprised to see me! They had all made it, and they had had 4 acres of barley which they hand cut and sold to a brewery, and they had vegetables and logs and old chairs and Grandma had moved back and the family came at weekends to help the restoring programme. I took a trailer of bedding and clothes and utensils and seeds and anything that would enable further returnees to make life easier and I saw most of the 24 people we had worked with and they had all survived and many had grown the vegetable seeds in small plots round their houses, and many of the rest of their families were coming back.
In 2001, about to plan a second visit , this time with an enormous 3 ton trailer of Car Boot booty, my Father, who was then 89, insisted that it was too far and too lonely and dangerous to drive alone, and that he was going to come with me for company and security! The thought of my 89 year old Father "riding shotgun" on the Bosnia Stage, did not exactly make me feel any safer, but the bonding time we had to gether was wonderful! We have been every year since, and every one has been a story and an adventure in it's own right, with memorable, and remarkable and sometimes dangerous highlights, except last year when I could not leave Father when he was, unfortunately, taken quite seriously ill. Our last visit was in September 2005,see inset photo) but with him now off the critical list, I scheduled that I would go again this Easter. Upon the news, like Lazarus,risen from his death bed, Father has rolled up his bed and walked again ,and decided that he wants to come too, "for a last trip". Although he has said this for the past four visits, this time, I truly suspect that is is sadly true, and the rest of my family are not at all certain that it is either reasonable or sensible. But, when the arrows have left the Archer's bow, can they tell the Archer how to shoot? This archer clearly intends to go hunting or drop in the process and that has got to be better than sitting in his hut thinking about it. I do propose to take some special care this time though. We will set out on Easter Sunday, the day after his 95th birthday, and travel in my camper with a bed and loo and my cooking for him. It will be slow, and sedate rather than the mad autobahn race, and I am certain that Bosnia won't have seen a campervan in the last 20 years, let alone one with British plates, and I am not even quite certain how safe it will be, as it is very conspicuous, but if this is how we have do do it one more time, then so be it.
Oh, by the way, our 12 year old Returnee is 20 this year; she's reading law at University. Perhaps I know the person who will the first woman President, but whatever she does she will certainly be a fighter for the right and I am proud of her.
Perhaps it was one of those things....me and the boys there at just the right moment in history? Whether it was fate or chance, or whatever, what a wonderful privelege to see all this now coming to fruition. I wish you all peace Bosnia Hercegovina.

So, once again, perhaps for the last time, the old team, together, Archer and Arrow, it's Bosnia or bust!

Best wishes, Doc

Tower of Babel? No progress there then!

I have been really shaken up by all this talk of global warming, and this week received a shock which has really disturbed me, especially in the light of headlines about "EU switch off our lightbulbs" which was the front page headline in The Daily Mail yesterday. This was in response to the EU summit when 27 representative ministers from the EU countries swore that they will reduce Carbon emissions by 20% by 2020, and the first thing that is proposed is to outlaw all current light bulbs in the European Union countries in favour of the "low energy" fluorescent bulbs! The joke in the United Kingdom of course, is now "how many EU ministers does it take to change a lightbulb?", a joke, for those of you, who are not from our culture, which has been made at the expense of any group of people who one is implying is incompetent in some area of their lives, for decades, almost certainly since the first commercially available electric lightbulb was developed.

I don't wish to be an inverted snob, but when I say that I don't watch television's Channel 4, it is principally because whenever I have glimpsed it, particularly when Daughter is at home and watches it, it seems to be full of American Soaps, such as Friends, and E.R. and "reality T.V. stuff" and in general, these programmes don't appeal to me much. I suppose that I have regarded it, rather like I regard The Daily Sport, something that people oggle when they can't absorb much of the written word, but maybe,(only maybe) that is a misjudgement. On Thursday evening, sat in my camper van, I found the evening's TV rather miserable, and before switching off and returning to my Road Plans, I flicked channels and, on Channel 4, I came across the documentary "The Great Global Warming Swindle" which had just started. I caught some comment about how the carbon dioxide theory was ridiculous and started to watch. Well! I spent the next hour and a half with jaw dropped open, quite aghast as I listened with astonishment and a deep fascination to the most eminent of specialist scientists from around the world, as they revealed the actual facts about "global warming" and the significance of papers and research on many factors which have been looked at in regards to this "new" phenomenon. I had sort of heard that there were a lot of people who disputed claims about global warming and Carbon dioxide emissions, and had rather rapidly dismissed them as being fed by parties interested in maintenance of the staus quo with regards to consumption of fossil fuels, particularly oil companies around the world. I had scathed at the U.S. policy of not signing up to the Kyoto Agreement on reduction of CO2 emissions, and I suppose had rather embraced the idea of reducing greenhouse gases and encouraging solar and wind energy, although, I have to confess, that, with the single major problem of waste disposal, I find nuclear power to be the most efficient, cleanest and most easily produceable in vast amounts, despite everyone else seeming to despise even the mention of it.

This programme was, to me, an absolute revelation. It seemed that the evidence it presented was well researched, unbiased, and showed high degrees of statistically significant correlation with what appears to be happening in our global climate and weather patterns. I wish I could get a DVD copy to see it all again and study exactly what was said and look up the research myself, but at the moment, one can "rent" it from Channel4 downloads, but not buy a copy.
In essence, what it was saying was that, historically, as studied in arctic ice core samples, the relationship of CO2 in the atmosphere to any of the climate changes in the past has been virtually unrelated when plotted on graphs. Bearing in mind, man's dominance on the planet in the last million years and in particular the enormous increase in the use of fossil fuels and hydrocarbons since the Industrial revolution, the climate changes which have occurred in the last hundred and fifty years have shown no bearing at all with CO2 levels or pollution. Indeed the CO2 levels have fluctuated for millions of years both higher and lower than they are now, or are predicted to become, with no directly correlated evidence to climate change. I was really surprised, in light of what we are told, that mankind's total contribution to CO2 from every aspect of lifestyle, activities and power, serves to create about 2% of the world total CO2. The exact figures for the rest I cannot quote, but I recall that it was about 16% from volcanoes, and 34% from all other animal life burping and farting! The rest of the atmospheric CO2 comes from....THE SEA! I was stunned....how did they get to these figures? They obtained this information from analysis of dissolved CO2 in the ice core samples which date back at least 65,000 years. They compare them with the pollens and remains of organic debris and sea creatures found in the waters before and after these periods. There is no direct correlation between the amount of CO2 in the ice and the times that the global climate took ups and downs. The only item of real interest in this, is that, when the seas are warmer, they release CO2 into the atmosphere, and when they are colder, they absorb it back. Now, why do the sea temperatures change and how, and over what period of time? Firstly, it seems that the volume and surface area of the sea are so vast thatwarmth and cold affects different parts of the sea at different times and the alterations in localised temperatures affect the global situation over very long periods, like hundreds of years! For example, it may take 800 to 1000years of a warm sea in the south pacific to have an effect in warming the seas in the North Atlantic, as the currents beneath ebb and flow and the waters gradually mix. It is as if one puts a pint of cold water into the tap end of a very hot bath; the water will gradually mix and alter to a uniform temparature but it will take a very long time, and the overall effect, despite the fact that perhaps a 1000th of the water will have been altered will be relatively small. So, if the CO2 which comes and goes from the sea is the largest fluctuating element of the whole amount of CO2, it is changes in sea temperature which CAUSE the rise or fall of the CO2, not the other way round, and the change in sea temparature which is happening over many decades, periodically changes the amount of ice at the poles, either greater or smaller, in phases. So sometimes more land is exposed and sometimes it is flooded again. As for the heat and rain patterns, freezing or warm winters or wet or dry hot summers, this is not dependent on CO2 either. They are dependent upon wind patterns and cloud protection. The sea heats up when the clouds are reduced and cools when they are more dense. The heating element is simply the most unbelievably powerful and uncontrollable energy source, the sun. The heat and light from the sun dictates what happens to our climate. There is no argument that the dangerous radiation rays penetrate more with reduced cloud cover, or reduced ozone in the atmosphere and those alone may be responsible for increase in skin cancers. The sun however has major gaseous explosions, the so called "solar flares", which spew particles at ultra high speed into the atmosphere and the force of this expulsion produces magnetic changes in the atmosphere and also solar winds, which circulate into our higher atmosphere. These flares have been recorded in many scientific communities, in many countries, over at least the last 400 years, and in the direct plotting of these events against climate change the increase of solar flare activity and the warming or converse, the decrease and cooling, of the global climate subsequently, shows phenomenonally good, statistically significant, tracking of each other, to such an extent that, inverting the plotted activity waves with each other, the two graphs virtually interlock as closely as a jigsaw piece. These minute sloar particles, meeting evaporated waters rising as humidity from the sea, which condese to become water droplets, which in turn become clouds and then shield the earth to some extent from the heat of the sun, thus areas undeneath become cooler. The heat also causes sea temperature change, and this produces alterations in currents, and thus surface wind patterns and overall global climate. However, as previously stated, these significant changes of the sea develop over many decades, and this produces gradual but sustained gradual changes to hotter are followed by gradual changes cooler, likewise over several decades. It cannot just suddenly change, and the odd severe natural event, has probably developed in the core crust over centuries rather than months. Local rises or falls in sea temparatures will cause local increase or decrease in atmospheric CO2, but these are so diluted in the overall amount that they are of little immediate significance in any way at all.
We have infact, had several marked climatic changes over the last 100 years, largely a bit warmer, but after the last World War a bit cooler for a while. At the turn of the 19th century and on several occasions before, people skated on the Thames in winter. In the early 20th Century it was warmer for some time and then in the 40's and 50's became hot in summer and cold in winters. Since the end of the 80's we are currently getting a bit warmer again, but it would seem likely that this has absolutely nothing to do with the insignificance of who we, as mankind are, in the scheme of things. We see ourselves as the most important or influential element on the planet. How arrogant have we become that like King Canute we think we can stand at the edge of the sea and tell it to retreat!
All this is very disturbing news to me. The consequences are absolutely catastrophic for some of the peoples of the world, and very irritating, and annoying for many others. The first realisation being that, in order to influence, manipulate, and profit from, our incorrect comprehension about CO2 production, namely our 2%,(which we are told is changing the whole of life as we know it,) we are being told by our Masters that we are going to have to signicantly change our lifestyles. I will accept happily, that fossil fuels, hydrocarbons, have an effect on the atmosphere, they pollute. They cause smog, asthma, lung and heart problems, dirt, soot, road deaths, and major burrowing below, and scarification and spoil above, the ground. We fight for them, we die for them and we make any excuse to go to war to possess them. They cause people to destroy areas of natural beauty and destroy animal and plant habitats in search of wealth from "black gold". Ethically, of course, a clean renewable source of energy needs to be researched. Hydrocarbons will run out faster than they are being created. But I find it hard now to believe all the other stuff about mankind raising CO2 levels, either significantly compared to natural sources, or with consequent devastating climate effect. The verifiable, evidence based hypothesis, let alone statistically significant research, for this, is JUST NOT THERE! What this means is that the great green campaigners are barking up the wrong trees, or perhaps just barking. I believe they really have every right to believe in simple natural lives, to be planters and reapers and vegan and use wind and wave and solar power; I uphold their right to live that way if they wish, but to be able to make everyone believe in what is clearly a total climatological, ecological misunderstanding of the basic facts is just wicked, and actually could be making the natural inevitable climate change far more significant and far more devastating to millions of people, and ecosystems. It raises totally false hopes of change, with no suitable planning being made to cope with management of the inevitable. How much better to fully industrialise in the short term and progress to the new industrial and technological revolution in research and development; to source energy production methods that really may stand some chance of taking over from fossil fuels and sustain the energy requirements of the future, rather to to talk rubbish about hooking up a windmill from B and Q to a set of old car batteries to run your 12volt T.V., or fixing up a small dynamo in the downpipe of your roof to run your eco-friendly single 4w light bulb to see you to bed when it's raining. Without phenomenal new technologies, the world's energy use cannot be met for much more than another 150 years on fossil fuels anyway. It has to be time for the new scientists to come up with the 21st century miracles, as our forefathers thought they had produced with the electric light and the internal combustion, let alone the jet, engine. To think we are already there now, is a major error, and can only serve to suppress development and invention. Just because we can erect giant windmills ( I mean.....giant bloody windmills for goodness sake!) to tie up to a dynamo (bit 19th century that isn't it?) and help out the national grid for the profit of some landowners who previously owned simple wild moorlandto produce enough electricity to keep 100 offices in Whitehall lit all night, really doen't mean this is the way forward surely! The sooner we start the better, with real money and a real global willing to search, but in the meantime, cutting back and using second best won't get anybody anywhere except to become an extra in a real life sequel to Mad Max beyond Thunderdome! It'll be old bed sheets strapped to your cars next as their second power source for when it is windy, and we will all pay less for our road fund licences if we get horses to pull them on Sunday when we go to do the supermarket shop. ( Of course, the CO2 the horse emits will far outweigh any benefit from the amount that the car exhaust could manage)
We seem to have been set about 20 years to change the world....."Attention all systems...Flash Gordon approaching...and he only has 20years to save the Earth!" Perhaps our Tony may do better in a Flash Gordon outfit than in his Superman kit? Then again, perhaps not. ( Can't you just see his bronze statue in the House of Commons though!)
The amount of energy which we currently consume is a miniscule fraction of the natural energy from the sun from which it all flows. Man cannot expect to harvest that energy in anything like the same amount as our major storage heaters, the seas already do. The energy may be released in warmth, winds, waves, and core energy, but that none of that is harvestable in significant amounts in any better ways than the earth already provides. Yes, of course we should find cleaner energy sources, but not because of CO2, rather because of particulate and chemical pollution. It has been shown that to maintain even a maximum of 20% of our industrial world and personal energy use, no more than this maximum of 20%, at current levels of use could be found from world wide conversion to wind, solar and wave power on a massive and ecologically devastating scale. Even if the industrialised world could do it, most certainly the 80% of the rest could not lift themselves out of poverty and health anything like what we have. The poorer countries have to have energy, in vast quantity and cheap to produce and use in order to industrialise enough to produce basic subsistence income and food to live. Who are we now to say that because we have decided on this bizarre hypothesis of CO2 reduction, we should stop others from producing power from hydrocarbons, which, in most cases, are the only available power production materials available to them? What will be the consequence here? Improved technology in the energy saving lightbulb, which will eventually, as others are phase out, become as expensive, and probably more so than the current bulbs, will lead to increased wealth in the rich countries. Massive taxation on all forms of fuels which are actually cheap and available will mean massive growth in government wealth. Stringent sanctions or withdrawal of aid programmes to countries that are already in poverty but who wish or need to use fossil fuels to make any headway into self sufficiency and independence from constant succour, will lead to worsening poverty, sickness deaths, civil wars and "liberating" air attacks from the supreme powers if they try to produce nuclear energy as an economical alternative?
I am just so aghast at what now appears to be on the First World Agenda, but what can you do? will anybody listen? How can 27 apparently intelligent EU Ministers collaborate in such a scam? Why was the summit on energy not looking at every possible aspect of what this phenomenon might be...could they simply see it as a way to wield power, by ignorance and fear and lies, over the masses and raise taxes on every aspect of our lives? To follow a deluded path at this stage could at best be expensive and make absolutely know differnence to the world's climate. At worst it could cause million to suffer and die in abject pain and poverty, and not have made appripriate plans for actually how to manage with a global change rather than to try and prevent it. Some of you may now expect me to cancel my trip to the USA and parade with a plaque on Oxford Street, saying "meat is sinful", or the "end of the world is nigh". Not a bit of it. I am now much happier at the amount of fuel I shall burn to fly me and my bike to the States, and the amount of gas I shall guzzle on my trip. It am thoroughly confident that it won't make a scrap of difference to the climate although I do apologise to those of you who have asthma, and would enourage Harley to develop a gas conversion for the big twin engines. God and King Canute must be laughing their socks off, though maybe God is actually crying, wondering what to do with the unplanned massive influx of residents. Perhaps it is a good idea that we actually cannot prove or disprove his existence. We really don't seem to have learned much since the biblical report concerning earlier Masters who decided to build a tower to the heavens.. That, you may remember was to show that they had equal knowledge and power with God, and to unite all the peoples in an attempt to change the inevitable. That too ended in tears. Oh world, get your handkerchieves ready, for I seriously feel that we are all about to make the biggest, most arrogant cock-up since Babel.
I don't feel I can just sign off "Best wishes" this time. Instead, I'll just say,

Look into it....... , Doc


Incidentally, for those of you who have waded through this, and have been paying attention to my previous blogs, now you know the other meaning of the word "katharos". Gold stars to you!

Thanks to Aire Valley UK Harley Owners Group

Just a quick acknowledgement to people who I do not yet know for allowing me Chapter membership before I make my great trip. Thank you to the Director, Jonnie No-Bike, to the membership secretary, Sandra, and New Members Rep, Shaz, for allowing me to join and bear your patch to the States. I do hope to meet a few of you briefly on one or two occasions before I go, but I am working away on a locum job and getting to a meeting or ride out may be a bit difficult, although I hope to have more time when I return. Your membership will allow me to visit other Chapters on my trip, and I hope that will be a great experience in getting to know at least some of the American people better, although, perhaps on a blog I sound quite confident, I am often a bit withdrawn in new company, so I have to search a bit for some more of that Yellow Brick Road Lion's courage!
I hope some of you will enjoy following the trip through the Blog and daresay that by the time I meet you properly, you will know a great deal more about me than I do about you!

Best wishes, Yours in Harley, Doc

Contact Doc

I have absolutely no idea whether anyone, other than my immediate family or friends have read, or indeed will read any of my Blog site. It really does not matter much as it's quite cathartic to write. Incidentally, you may be interested, if you didn't know, that the word, catharsis, comes from a greek word "katharos" which means "clean" and catharsis , although I use it in the sense of an outlet for my emotions, also means purgative. So for those of you who don't follow the inner workings of my soul, you are quite entitled to also regard it as a load of crap! I have had one or two people who have actually asked "How do I comment on your blogs in the 'comment' spot at the end?" I believe that to be able to do so, you have to go to the Google blogspot login and register there and it's free from Google. You can use any name you like, and you don't have to start writing your own blog as well, unless you fancy it. Neither can I tell who you are under your blogger name, so say whatever you think. If you want to contact me personally or want to ask me something, I have now opened a new specific e-mail address at docsramblings@aol.com. Part of my idea on this Blog is to be able to make new contacts anyway, particularly while I am travelling. My bike will have my Blogspot address on the pannier, partly for the inquisitive to know what a British registered bike is doing on their patch, and partly to make contact with the natives as I pass through! I will be happy to try to reply to people who contact me, though, if there are an enormous amount (what!) I may just send cc e-mail replies to a bunch at a time as I have a helluva lot of bum in saddle time to get through and can't be writing to the fans all day! So, I look forward to hearing from you and will be happy to receive constructive criticism about the Blog. Also, if anyone knows how to load photos quickly on to the site, let me know because I have not yet been able to work that out and a few pictures occasionally, for those of you whose reading skills are a bit stretched by the intellectual content, may serve to keep you in touch with the experiences on the road of my life.

Best wishes, Doc

Follow the yellow brick road.

Success in any project needs good preparation, and despite the fact that my road trip is still four months off, there seems to be quite a lot which needs to be done to plan it properly. I have found this to be somewhat analogous to Dorothy’s journey to Oz, except for the very definite exception of dear old “Dot” herself. This time it is “Doc” and the travellers, the lion, the scarecrow and the tin man, are all in me, one and the same.. To find the tin man’s heart on the trip, I need to discover the lion’s courage and use the scarecrow’s brain. The courage is growing. The journey begins properly with the plans.
I have spent some time in the last few days working out the route to try to include the places that I have previously listed. As I start to do that, I realise that, despite the huge undertaking that this is to me, it still leaves out so many places and just serves to enforce the growing wonder at how damn big our world actually is. I have got to 60, travelled extensively in Europe, seen T.V. programmes and National Geographic, and only as I contemplate the length of this trip do I start to be awed, at what is massive but still only a fraction of what there is to see in either North America or indeed the world. Such a shame to be here for what seems to be a pretty long time and yet hardly have left the vicinity of my burrow. It also puts into perspective those lives all over the world, and even in my own village, some of whom have never travelled even as far as the end of the line on the local bus.
To begin with, last Saturday morning, in my dressing gown and slippers I sat down with my first morning coffee and a cigarette, and on opening my U.S.A road map realised that the whole of the United Kingdom would fit horizontally in the southern half of Texas. That really rather puts it into perspective. A motor cycle trip from John O’ Groats to Land’s End is about 800 miles by road, and quite frankly, the roads and the traffic for 2/3rds of the way at least, would really make me think twice before embarking on it one way, let alone there and back. The Harley Electra Glide Ultra Classic is probably the single most comfortable motorcycle to ride in the world. Described once, pretty accurately, but with a rather derogatory tone in “What Bike” magazine as “the motorcycle equivalent of a 40ft Winnebago”, .it has deep soft upholstered saddle and soft springing and, compared to most bikes, enough fitted pannier space to take a three piece suite and the kitchen sink. It is certainly no sports bike, but it’s low down torquey grunt will pull away in 4th from 30mph easily and on the German autobahns I have cruised all day at 90 without any problem. It really is fine too, despite the opinion of some petrolheads, if you are a sensible rider, on swoops and bends, as long as you don’t feel the need to “get your knee down” to prove how macho you are. So, I am happy with the machine.( Tin man’s back and knees are so creaky now that he can’t move across a saddle slickly enough now to even contemplate getting his knee down, unless he comes off, which has been known on a few occasions.) I can ride from tankful to tankful comfortably in one session, although the tin man’s knees and back squeak a bit when getting off and need a little exercise at stops. I thought a bit about the wonderful 1974 road (life)trip book by Robert M.Persig, “Zen and the art of Motorcycle Maintenance” The author spoke constantly, metaphorically, of keeping mind and machine in proper trim for the journey of life, in short lectures to the reader which he called "chattaquas". Apart from the bits of general life Zen, I recall that at almost all of their overnight stops, he spent sometime fiddling or adjusting some part of his motorcycle, when in retrospect, he may have improved his life more by spending the time talking with his son or the people he met. I have always assumed that his was a Harley, possibly a Panhead, but can’t be sure. It may have been any one of a number of great American V-twins. Whatever, one of the remarkable things was, that he seemed to have to keep adjusting, or changing, his carburettor needles depending on the altitude at which they were riding in order to adjust for rarified air! I sincerely hope that these constant adjustments are not required on a modern fuel injection engine. (No letters to tell me that F.I. engines don’t have carburettors please…I KNOW!) I think it all works automatically on an injection engine, but I guess I had better check. I am hopeless at mechanics really. I will tackle all sorts but usually end up with lots of bits that don’t seem to have a place to fit back. I re-built my 1973 MGB roadster in 1981, and ended up with several cardboard boxes of bits, some of which I had replaced, but quite a lot of which I had no idea where they came from, let alone where they should have gone back. It still runs though, so perhaps it’s a bit like the human body, some bits are duplicated or slightly surplus to general running? It could even be better as it’s that bit lighter! ( Reminder to join an American road rescue insurance when I get there!)
So, anyway, I will return the relevance of the comfort of the Harley later, and revert to the planning.
I started to get a bit bored trying to write the route down. The scale of the map is small, so it is not that clear, and I suppose that, to do it really well, I should have large scale maps of each State to unfold and study. Straw man’s brain does not work like that however. Only a few neurones fire at any one time, and as in all my academic life, these soon started to find other things to distract.. It started by thinking about the weather and which States I could travel in just shirt and jeans, and where I was compelled to wear a helmet and where I can use just a bandana against the dust and the sun.(Always wanted to ride “Easy Rider style” but have never been able to in UK or Europe) I intend to fly into Montreal and then ride over the border into New England, where I will start. Here I learn, it may, sometimes, actually be wet in July, so I need to pack a lightweight rainsuit. Just because Doc has chosen to tour the U.S.A. on his dream trip in summer and autumn of 2007, does not mean he won’t encounter rain. Far from it. It’s quite likely to rain in Utah in the two weeks I shall be there. Currently I use either my warm Goretex jacket and overtrousers or my old Triumph green rainsuit. The former is too bulky to take with me and probably too hot, and the latter looks really naff on a blue and silver Harley! I need to look for another. So, I go to the U.S. Harley-Davidson web site to explore the accessories pages. I really hate the fact that everything Harley has to be that awful orange and black. I mean, traditional for them it may be, but those colours don’t go well with any of their bikes except the orange and black livery 883 Sportster and who really wants one of those,except perhaps someone who want to look and sound like a giant bee?! Time they took a new look at their fashion apparel. No, on second thoughts, I don’t think I’ll buy Harley, as I don’t like the colours and they charge way over the top for you to wear their labels. In this country, the few dealers that there are, simply take the U.S. price and put a “£” sign in front, in place of the dollar, so it is almost twice as expensive here. I never did like the habit of paying to advertise somebody’s clothes. It’s like buying cars. I would always take the garage label off the back window. Why would I pay them all that money and then advertise them all the time for no benefit to me? I can see why some people would want to wear a replica football shirt to identify themselves as supporters or followers of a club or player, and why some may want to sport a hat with “Disneyland” on it .These things are highlights of their lives and so important that, like a modern day apostle, they feel compelled to preach it constantly in any way they can, but such things as showing off the name of your trainers’ manufacturer, which simply serves to fuel a sad materialistic demand to be the same or better than your friends, I have no patience with. Most of the people in trainers don’t actually do any sports anyway. They simply put them on their feet without undoing them, rather like a pair of slippers, and then sweat in them causing athlete’s foot and stinky socks. Don’t get me wrong, I really have actually mellowed a bit in the last few years. I do allow myself to be a bit of a “tag-hag” with some really nice kit. I will wear Esprit or Polo or Farah or Levi’s or Louis Phillipe or North Face clothes but with the exception of the latter, all the symbols are discrete, and what’s more their stuff is really good taste and looks good, and, I have to confess, that in good Yorkshire style, I have usually picked them up from Charity shops as almost new, no doubt having belonged to people of my age who have just had to buy them but have coughed their clogs before being able to get out much to show them off! My whole point here being that, all these fashionable manufacturers make a whole variety of colours and styles with their logos on them. You don’t get them saying we only make them in orange and black! Like so many times, I do not want the “tag” I want the style and design.
So, after deciding that I don’t want a Harley rainsuit, I noticed an area I have not seen before, a route planner. Wow, now that really is good. idea.. Sadly for all of us Harley riders in the rest of the world, the mapping is only available for the U.S.A., although, I know the system, MapQuest, is available for much of Europe certainly. That reminds me of one of the impressions I currently have about the U.S. as a whole, that they really have no concern for anybody outside themselves, even England (England). I hope that, as I meet the people themselves, this is an impression that will be removed, but I rather hold my breath on that one, because the parochialism of the Counties and the States seems to isolate them from everything else.
For the next six hours, I worked on the Harley Route planner and the Rough Guide to the U.S.A., plotting the start and end of the routes and then filling in the stops and adding route alterations. Boy, did I stiffen up, sat at the kitchen table for that long, but finally I completed it and upload ten continuous one way routes to my document file. Having checked them and noted the distances and riding times for each I added it all up. 18,274miles and 342 hours of ride time! That is twice the crow fly distance I had estimated and at 3 hours riding a day will give me just four days off! My heart sank. What I want is a dream trip, not an endurance ride with back ache and haemorrhoids! I printed off the hundred odd double sheets of the route and an hour or two later sat and looked at them rather sadly as I saw that the trip was really much more than I felt I could manage. At 3.00o’clock I decide to get washed and dressed to feel better! On returning to the table with disappointment in my heart ,I was just about to start pruning it all down, when I noticed in Texas that I had inadvertently clicked the computer entry several times and was about to do a 2,400 mile trip there which involved several circuits of San Antonio, Flagstaff and Dallas.. Yes, there on the outline map was a circle not just a line. I checked the others and found that several were similar. I had had a few problems, sometimes, in concentration and where exactly on the route I had placed a few stops. In the wrong place it takes you in a circle or up and down the same road. So, with some new enthusiasm, an hour or so later, I had revised them all and checked all the stop positions. The route had shrunk to a truly manageable 13,909 miles with 262 hours riding, in 3 hour lots. That is a total of 90 days on which I shall have to make road progress and 26 full days off. At least 2,000 miles of this are actually seeing the regions I want to see, so are in fact sight seeing trips or riding experiences which I want to do, so now all is very pleasing again, Straw man is vindicated, Lion has gained some more courage and Tin Man’s heart is beating gently once more. As I transferred the route to the Road Map with a marker pen a long continuous pink line satisfactorily appeared, now truly highlighting the points of interest I want to see on the way. (Perhaps it should have been a yellow brick road marker but it would not have showed up on the map)
Last night, sat in my camper van on the Garrison where I am doing a locum at the moment, I took out Plan 1, New England, and my Rough Guide to add notes on the places I am due to pass by and want to visit. I expect the highlights of this part of the trip to be Boston and Harvard, maybe Cape Cod if I can ferry the bike over, and then to see the houses of Mark Twain and Harriet Beecher Stowe in Hartford before turning north west to the end of Plan 1 at Niagara Falls. I have planned a lot of smaller roads through country and hills and it should be a nice trip of some 940miles. There seemed nothing very remarkable to impede my progress or cause me to stop on the way down from Montreal to Boston, and yet……
Bollocks! I noticed that en route, there is a town called Waterbury, that’s Waterbury (Vermont) where, in the sixties, two hippies set up camp and started to make ice cream for roadside travellers. This place is now “the number one tourist destination in Vermont”. The two hippies still make ice cream there, and outside the town has grown enormously into a large industrial complex of creaming, churning and freezing. Now I don’t much like going to number one tourist destinations, although I recognise that most of my trip will be going to them! I am sorry, and here, I have to confess, I don’t actually feel at all guilty. This is the home of Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream, purportedly now the biggest and best ice cream manufacturer in the world ( it would be wouldn’t it!) I just might have to stop off for petrol about then and will need a stroll about to ease my back and knees. And if I just happen to have a quart of ice cream when I’m there and watch it being produced, well, so what. But don’t expect me to be seen wearing a basketball cap with B and J on it!

Best wishes, Doc