A sexy new toy gets a little too intimate with the tarmac...

Two days: two accidents. Ballsacks. Neither was serious; the first was a majorly embarrassing drop from near-stationary coming out of the car park by the office - while all the guys watched from across the road, then had to come and help me pick up the bike, all grins to my helpless fuming. Damn lack of upper body strength - men have to play the gentleman to your distressing damsel and wander over to help you out while you lie furiously in the road letting out expletives so vile that the tarmac cringes and kerbs peel away in disgust. I let the rage and shame drive me on the way to Wales, used the hot sting of embarrassment to keep my wrist down, revs up, the engine screaming for me. And as a result pulled in at the destination just a few minutes behind the first person to arrive. Cue victory jive. Plus it turned out that two others had got into, ahem, scrapes on the way - and I had done the least damage to my lovely BMW. Though it sounds cruel, a shade of relief tinged my consternation for the other crashers.

Accident 2: the Hairpin. After the previous day - of dropping, embarrassment, riding, riding, no stopping, riding some more, photos, riding, applying nosebag and generous nosebottle and getting only 4 hours of sleep - an exhausted cad approached a track for the first time. After a few slow laps I stopped for a long break, already weary - but after lunch and a power nap in the van (40 minutes of dozy leather-clad bliss), not to mention the encouragement of the other riders who were zooming around and swapping bikes every few minutes, I went out again. Oh, what larks! I took it slow, got used to people soaring past me on the straights, cranked right over in the corners and scraped some bits of me on the floor, started to get my confidence up, posed like a bastard for the photographer at one of the bends, hared it down the straight, braked for the hairpin, oh god, going too fast for the hairpin, shit, shit, crank it over some more, fuck, it's gone, I'm trying to keep the BM off the floor with my arm, failing, I'm sliding across the track watching the bike slide parallel to me, scoring a white line on to the recently resurfaced tarmac, then tumbling over myself taking in black green blue black blue green black blue and praying to the gods of roadkill that I won't look like the latter when finally I'm still, swearing profusely, craning my neck to see the F800 lying still as a corpse and a marshal waving a flag to slow, oh crap, my boss. It might as well be a white flag. I utterly surrender. I'm such a tit.

So they pick me up, pick up the bike, and it's not serious. My brand spanking new leathers are scuffed up where they've been hassling the track, my extremeties (shoulders, elbows, knees, hips) are starting to pick up a glow of pain, and there's an overwhelming lack of damage to the Beemer - extremeties scuffed, just like my own. They make me hop in the ambulance, it's protocol - and the fellow checks me over, takes a few details, says he's cool with me heading back out if I want. With a wry shake of my head I jump out the ambulance just in time for my scowl of self-loathing to be photographed by the grinning snapper. Fucking ace.

Everyone was pretty nice about it. 'Shit happens', 'Long as you're alright', and 'It's got two wheels, it's made to fall over' seemed to be the general consensus. Even James Haydon (quizzical frowners, Wiki up a storm) gave me a warm smile and asked 'You alright, babe?' with genuine consternation. I was alright - the biggest casualty was my pride. Lucky for me I didn't want to go back out, because the most complex equipment I got to control for the rest of the day was a stopwatch. And they managed to stuff the BMW in the back of the van and me in the front, so I was spared a 5 hour ride home at the end of the day. I never thought I'd see the time when I'd rather take the van than the bike...

So two days later I'm back at my desk, still a little stiff, aching and bruised, but okay. I was encouraged to take the day off yesterday - neck and arm soreness made doing pretty much anything a hassle (you know you're sore when grating cheese brings a tear to your eye). Though it hasn't been decided whether they'll let me take the F800 home for a day or so until it needs to be returned, it's nice to see that they trust me as a rider, despite the 2 incidents - I cruised around on a sporty Yamaha R6 not an hour ago. And crash-wise I'm 2 for 2 over the trip with a young fella with much more experience who's thrown his Harley down twice in 24 hours and done more damage than I have. The moral of the story, folks, is - don't be a twat. It's a fucking hairpin, isn't it? Sloooooow. Dooooooown.*



 - the Current Cad




*Also, don't drop a £7355 bike. Actually, don't drop anything that costs £7355. Just don't drop anything, okay?

A sexy new toy for the Current Cad...

So I'm still at work and having one of those moments where there is absolutely nothing that I should be doing. Which gives me a moment to update you on the reason that I'm jigging excitedly in my swivel-chair (a rare dancing feat of arse and wheels). As of one hour ago, I have a new toy. A BMW F800R, Chris Pfeiffer replica*. Oh, but it's sexy. One minute drooling over the hunk of metal and I'd consigned my poor old Bandit to the lock-up with barely a pang of guilt. (NB: riding in a skirt and heels is not recommended unless you're up for a stiff...er, breeze.)

Okay, I only have it for a week. But I'll be riding it to Anglesey on Monday, then tooling around the track on it on Tuesday feeling like a pro (and trying to keep out the way of the pros). This is the first day I've actually looked forward to going home - on the new steed.

For those many of you who aren't so bike inclined, I...am having trouble concentrating on anything else to tantalize you with. But I'll persevere.

Having met a whole host of different characters in the past week (no, I'm not at Disneyland), I'm starting to realise that everyone has a hidden...thing. No, not that thing. Every single person has one very esoteric and original area of expertise, or particular idiosyncratic experience, that you might never find out unless you ask specifically for it - and then you'll be gobsmacked. It's so easy to simplify your perceptions of the people you come into contact with - whether over a long or short period - into 'That's just my mate Stoogenmeier.' 'That's just Girl With Herring.' But an amazing way to break the ice, or gain a new level of respect for your existing mates, is to really ask after their thing. (Please don't confuse this with the other thing - it may also be a good way to break the ice, but can lead to a loss of respect for your existing mates.) I mean, really ask after it - make them come up with it, ask specifically for it and make them dig deep.

It might be anything - a crazy specialist subject they became proficient in at uni by helping a struggling mate, a life-changing accident or injury, a bizarre hobby they had ten years ago. But it'll really open your mind to the...reality and substantiality of other people's lives. Right now I can feel the 'things' of everyone in the office (I'll give you a couple of seconds to get that image out of your filthy, filthy minds) - just opening your mind to be aware of the hidden talents and experiences of other people really does make you operate differently. Instead of 'man', you see...man...

I know, I know; I'm full of love and respect for my fellow humans with a sickening lack of bitterness and sarcasm. I do apologise. Normal service to resume as soon as possible. But please go out and ask at least one person if they'll share their thing with you. And please phrase it differently. (Or don't; results may vary.) I'll post with some of my people's things tomorrow, if I can.

Okay, it's 5.04 and it's almost time to get out of these clothes and leap onto the new love of my life. Hell yeah, sexual connotations. If it rides like it looks, I'll...wish it was a man.

- The Current Cad




* If you don't know what or who this is (as I didn't until about 3 days ago) then watch this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pXJ6siu8ttY
- And no, I can't do that. Yet... *shifty eyes. Runs off from desk. Comes back with bruises.* No, I can't do that.

It seems I've been terribly naughty. Two whole weeks of steaming naughtiness. Or just over, if you recall the date of my last post on this blog. Yes, it's been too long, but I've been busy. With AWESOME. Before I get right down to business I just want to say a fervent thank you to the people who've joined as followers - I hope I can keep exciting you!

Man, but it feels good to be writing again. I've been editing other people's words for the last week, and while it thrills the child in me to be wielding an avenging red pen, the wordsmith braces her claws against my gut and howls as paid, published writers bludgeon her with flaccid phrases and bad grammar that hits like a carcinogenic two-by-four. Even writing that smeared a smile over my face; I think I may even have winked. It's really hard to find the mood and time to carry on with any of my writing projects outside of work - the novel's pretty involved, I can't get it up for poems like I used to, and even updating the blog has...well, my two-week interweb vacation speaks for itself. Though I adore what I'm doing at the moment at the mag, feeling the thoughts arouse my fingers and trace curves through plastic onto the page is deliciously intoxicating, indulgent as ganache and vital as bone.

And, as happens unfortunately frequently, it's only a quickie this time. I've got to get up and apply hygiene to myself in the morning before work (which I'd prefer to refer to as play, but whatever), and so I'll give you guys a brief taster of the last two weeks which I'll hopefully elaborate on later. So, in the last two weeks I have: ridden the bike around perilous London, had drinks and exchanged numbers with a fairly important fellow, exceeded the speed limit by 30% under a policeman's nose, run my bike flat out at 132mph, written my first content for the mag, got up at 7am at least once (please stifle your surprised vomit, it can impede the performance of laptops), translated 'book on sex tips' for a French girl, locked myself out of my house, watched a harrier jump jet land in my immediate vicinity, had several inappropriate dreams (I mean, it's 7 months 'til Christmas), smashed the rear brake lever off my bike by leaning too hard in a corner, been given many professional handshakes and business cards, sent the most ridiculous drunken email of my life ('WoohBooo!'), fought a man for trying to make a salad, and fucked up my toenail ironically by jumping out the back of a stationary van. Etc.

So until next time, which will hopefully be in only a day or so, I'll leave you with a bastardised written version of my appalling French translation. "Er...elle a achete un livre pour...um...elle sais...avec les garcons et les filles...dans la chambre...?" To which Shirley matter-of-factly replied, "Ah, le SEXE." Thank you, and good morning!


-the Current Cad