Anticipation of the road

I'm heading to Canberra this afternoon. Nothing special, just a straight burn down the Hume Highway.

But jeez I'm looking forward to it.

I rode my motorbike yesterday after a 5-day break from riding (for no particular reason - it's cheaper to get a lift if I can), and even though it was just around the dull streets of traffic-choked Sydney, it was so liberating.

Packing the bike this morning, strapping on my new sheepskin seat cover, pulling on the boots... Its exciting. And even though the ride down promises to be a boring, long stretch of straight roads, I can't wait just to get out there.

It's a great feeling.

And I would walk 4500 miles...

Riding home in the heinous Sydney traffic last week, I looked down at the odometer to see an even 47,000km staring back at me.

I'm not sure if it is just me, but I usually love those moments when I see the '000.0' tick over - it's almost like seeing a shooting star: you know it happens, but to actually be looking at the right place at the right time is rare, and strangely enticing.

But last week this milestone was not enticing at all. Admittedly, there was that moment of glee at seeing the actual event; and then I realised what this means.

When I took ownership of this particular motorcycle in January this year the odometer read something along the lines of 39,500km. The first 500km or so of riding were marred by mechanical monsters sabotaging the machine every week. It wasn't until that 40,000km mark that we really started working together as partners.

That means that this year I have travelled 7,000km almost completely trouble free.

Great, right?

Until I realised: I may have covered 7,000km aboard my bike, but I haven't actually been anywhere.

What a bloody waste.

In fact, of the 7,000km I would be lucky if i have spent 700km doing riding that I have enjoyed and actually wanted to be doing.

I guess this is the sickening joy of the suburban commuter. 6,300km of wasted mileage on a fine machine in a beautiful country. 6,300km of horrible city riding in horrendous traffic along the same worn-down roads with the same dangerous drivers.

I could have travelled to Perth and (almost) back. Or up and down the east coast of Australia, exploring the back roads.

I could have revisited my entire trip through the UK and France, with kilometres left to spare.

Instead I have spent 6,300km battling along Parramatta Road, the M4, James Ruse Drive, Epping Road, and a variety of other equally-ridiculous roads all within the boundaries of greater Sydney. What a magnificent tour. What a wonderful use of my time and money. Hoo-bloody-ray.

Please excuse my cynicism. Since my return I have been extremely disenchanted with certain aspects of Sydney, and find myself itching to let it out.

Living in a city like Edinburgh I came to value space and time as extremely desirable commodities. The short walk to and from work allowed me more time to do things that I like to do (sometimes constructive, sometimes indulgant, always enjoyable).

Travelling 60km+ each day in a two-hour (minimum) round-trip across Sydney is the opposite. I arrive at destinations stressed and already worn-down. The activites that follow are usually attacked with less vigour and are rarely as enjoyable.

Sydney offers some wonderful opportunities, and I have definitely benefitted from many of them this year. It is a great city, with a lot of positive aspects.

But it comes at a cost, and at the moment I am struggling with finding the means to pay that cost. I am struggling to find the desire to justify the expense.

Mostly, I'm just struggling. Is this what life was always like here?

Time well spent

I wrote a ridiculously long email to a very good friend yesterday - nothing new for me - recounting just a tiny portion of my travels through France. I thought I was being quite sparse on the details, leaving out plenty, until I looked back over the email and realised it was probably in excess of 1500 words. Ok, I just copied and pasted the email into MS Word - 2,345 words.

Considering that it would take me a good day and a half to produce a decent 2,000 word academic essay, or perhaps a good couple of hours to produce a credible 1,000 word news article, this email sure didn't feel so huge. It only took me about an hour to write (and it felt like much less), and it wasn't terribly written.

Looking back, it is exactly the same with my motorcycle journey. It didn't take all that long, and it didn't feel as life-changingly epic at the time... But reading back over what was just a simple re-telling of a much-told, shortened story, I was inundated with waves of happiness, laughter, excitement and, most of all, nostalgia.

I may not have fully recognised it at the time, but riding through France on a half-broken, fully-loaded motorcycle has brought me some of the best memories of my life. And being the best memories means they were also some of the most valuable learning experiences, merely because I remember them!

I now know how to use broken French and comical miming to explain to a French mechanic a suspected fuel supply problem on a motorcycle; I know that dipping a fresh croissant in a cup of steaming hot coffee creates a warm, dripping, heavenly breakfast; I know that just a sleeping bag on the groundsheet of the tent is not going to keep you warm enough through French autumn nights; I know that hard work, compromise and an open mind can make any dream come true, no matter how seemingly naive; I know that I am lucky enough to be dating the best (most beautiful, intelligent, patient, and understanding) woman in the world, without exception.

The list could go on for well over 2,345 words.

These memories-turned-lessons, not just from France but from all of 2008 and 2009, are what have been driving my 2010. Thus far it hasn't been the best year, but it was never going to be after the highs of life in Europe. 2010 was always going to be about working, rebuilding, and learning how to act on these lessons learned; how to better embrace and appreciate the important things in life, whilst still acknowledging the hard work needed to have them.

Life isn't ideal now, but it will be soon. I know that, because I have had it before - and idealism can lead to the ideal, even if that ideal is different to what you had hoped. In the mean time, I still have the most amazing memories and lessons to call upon whenever I need...

Excerpt from the aforementioned email...

Now where was I up to with telling you about the UK and about the mad travels over there? Basically, after living in Edinburgh for just over a year, I decided to blow all my money (which was not much money) on a motorcycle and a decent tent and head to France. The aim was to see how far I could get before I ran out of money (which wasn't all that far in the end). But it was amazing.

The bike was pretty shit. I remember taking it on the first long-haul test run, taking it from Edinburgh to London (400mi) and back for the weekend, just to see how it would go. I left Edniburgh at about 6am in driving rain and high winds on a bike I had ridden less than 20mi on, only to discover that it didn't like water at all. Hahaha once I crossed the border into England and the rain stopped, the bike ran fine. I got it to London, and a mate helped me pull it apart and fix it up a bit, and it didn't miss too many beats until I got to France a couple of months later.

I crossed the channel into France sometime in September I think it was. And it was amazing. I was planning to ride south, avoiding the motorways as much as possible, camping wherever possible, and doing really whatever I felt like. I had two dates to keep to - I was meeting my parents in Dijon about 4 days after I got to France, and then I was meeting Monisha in Nice about 4 days after I met my parents.

My parents were going to Dijon to visit old friends who had bought an 11th century French abbey in this gorgeous little farming valley and converted it into a luxury hotel - http://www.abbaye-dela-bussiere.com/home.shtml - so I said I would meet them along the way. They, of course, were staying at their friend's hotel, while I was planning on just camping up the road at the community camp ground.

I met them on the evening they arrived (I'd turned up a little earlier in the day), and they were in a rush to go meet their friends for a birthday dinner for somebody. So they went off to eat an 8 course meal at the hotel (the chef has a michelin star or two apparently), while I made a cup of soup in my tent in the pouring rain, read a book, and went to sleep.

I got a call in the morning from my mother - she was quite embarrassed. Apparently her friends didn't know that I was camping out up the road until they asked after me towards the end of the night, and so mum got in a shitload of trouble. Hilarious. So they invited me to come stay at the hotel as well and oh my god, I have never stayed anywhere so nice in my life. It was amazing. I can't even tell you how amazing it was. When you are rich, go stay there for a week or two. I still entertain the thought of applying for a job there or something like that... its a little piece of heaven.

I left them after a couple of days to go and meet Mon - it was a day and a half trip to Nice, and I didn't want to be late. I camped out that night, and then when I went to start the bike in the morning (with 500mi still to go to get to Nice), the bike wouldn't start. Hahaha it took me almost two hours of jump starting and fiddling and pushing this bike around the caravan park (where people were hurling abuse at me for making such a noise so early in the morning) before I finally got it running and to a bike store to get a few new parts - a whole new experience in itself when dealing with a French mechanic in my very, very limited French.

To make up for the lost time, I jumped on the motorway and screamed down to Nice... I swear I did an average speed of about 95mph the whole way, which is moving fairly quick on a fully-loaded 600cc bike...

I got to the airport about 10 minutes after she came out of the gate, we packed even more stuff on the bike, squeezed Mon in, and set off for our campsite for the night. Brave girl that one. I took a wrong turn (didn't have maps, was only going by French street signs), and we ended up on a highway going in the wrong direction with no turnoffs and no space for u-turns. Thats fine, I had done that a few times before - you just wait till the next turn off, turn around, come back and start again.

But then the bike stopped. Monisha gave me a funny look, I shrugged my shoulders, started it again, and off we went. In another few miles it stopped again. Shit. Hahaha after a long discussion, we decided to stick wtih the original plan - get to the next turn-off, and either look for a hotel there or turn around and get back into Nice and find a hotel there and deal with it in the morning (it was dark by this stage).

So off we go, stopping occassionally, restarting, going, stopping, restarting, making very slow progress. We searched around at the next town but couldn't find a hotel anywhere. So, by now cold and very frustrated, we decide to try to get back into Nice. Back on the highway. We made it about 4mi back towards Nice (it was about 25mi away) before the bike just wouldn't start again. Hahahaha now we were stuck on the side of a highway, in the middle of nowhere with no towns or turnoffs or anything. And I have the best girlfriend in the world. She calmly decided that she would use one of those roadside phones to get a towtruck driver. He came, and spoke not a word of English, and struggled to understand our French. We finally got him to take us and the bike to the nearest hotel - which we had just missed out on getting to ourselves.

It cost us 300 euros for the tow truck, another 100 euros for the hotel, and I still had to get the bike fixed in the morning. Hahaha I think I cried a little that night...

The next morning was a comedy of errors. The local mechanic spoke no English, no one spoke any English, and my French does not included mechanical terminology. So after hilariously acting out the problem with the bike, and what I thought might be wrong with it, the mechanic makes out to me that he can't fix it now, and it would take 5 days to get the part (this involved about 4 people helping to translate) and it would cost over 200 euros. The next nearest mechanic who might be able to do it sooner was in Nice.

I was pretty much out of money already, so I called my uncle in Australia (a bike mechanic) and described the problem to him. He offered a few ideas over the phone, and I thought they were worth a try. So in the hotel carpark, with Monisha handing me spanners and holding bits and pieces as I pulled the bike apart, I finally isolated the problem and put together a temporary fix.

We made it in to Nice that afternoon (holding our breath the whole way) and set about finding the next mechanic. He was also out of parts, but would have one in within 2 days, and, combined with my dodgy fixing and a few extra bits and pieces, I could get the bike fixed up for about 50 euros total - and I could keep riding it in the meantime. Hahaha so we did that, and from then on had at least two problem-free weeks of riding up and down the Cote d'Azur. And I still have a girlfriend. Unbelievable.

Hahahaha I had the time of my life. The most beautiful countryside, gorgeous towns, history everywhere, friendly people, and amazing food. I can't wait to go back to France. And it was so perfect on the motorcycle... You'd ride into a tiny little village early in the mornings, and all you could smell would be the bakery. And the French people love motorbikers, so everyone would be extra friendly. And you could almost just reach out and touch vineyards while riding through gorgeous back lanes in the middle of nowhere. Absolute paradise.

We had to cut the trip much shorter because of all the money spent fixing the bike, which was unfortunate, but probably for the best - it was October, and it was starting to get much too cold for camping already, and it was only going to get a whole heap worse in Europe over winter.

So we slowly worked our way back up north, stopping everywhere, still camping (although we were having to wear almost all our clothes at night to stay warm), until we got to Lyon where we met Monisha's Edinburgh flatmate, Sam, and stayed with his family for a couple of days.

We made it back to London in once piece, just. By the time we left Lyon the bike was starting to limp quite badly, and it was a bit of a push to get it home - I didn't have the tools to fix the current problem, and even though some nice French mechanics fixed it for free at one stage, it quickly returned. I found out why as soon as we got back into England - the chain was completely stuffed. Hahaha we're lucky we made it back. There are so many more stories to tell... But I'll leave it at that for now...

I shouldn't whinge and wax lyrical all the time

So below this post you will find two of the more fun assignments I've had to do this semester. These are some of the terrible tasks that have been monopolising a significant portion of my Time - and before you start jealously lamenting the life of a student, please give some consideration to the 7,000 words of essay writing, hundreds of hours of reading and research, and two exams that will occupy the next month or so of my life.

After you have considered that, go ahead and poke some fun at the Arts degree - I laugh at it all the time.

In case you are noticing a slight shift in the perspective of this blog, these are actually the current Adventures of Hamish. I, too, hope they will become more exciting very soon.

Another paper I have written this semester (yes, the joys of being a student)

(I hope you have a laugh at some of the hyperbole, the embellishment of usually insignificant experiences, and the rather terrible attempt at combining pseudo-romantic narrative with vaguely historical scholastica. The subject in question is named 'Pilgrim to Backpacker: Travel histories')

Wisemans Ferry: Winding and Wandering on a Pilgrim Trail

“You see things vacationing on a motorcycle in a way that is completely different from any other. In a car you’re always in a compartment... through that car window everything you see is just more TV...
On a cycle the frame is gone. You’re completely in contact with it all. You’re in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming.” (Pirsig)

Being a motorcycle tourist is unique experience. As a motorcyclist every second and every centimetre of the journey is absorbed with exaggerated significance. Unlike in a car, stretching your legs means actually touching the road; every breath is of the air around you; every bump is felt, every change of environment is noticed. The road is as important as the destination, and it seems as though only fellow motorcyclists can appreciate this sentimentality.

As with any tourist experience, the trip begins with the preparation. For a biker this is steeped in ritual: check the weather, maps, fuel, tyre pressure, chain, strap bag to your back seat, climb into your riding gear (jacket, pants, gloves, helmet), press the starter and wait as the bike warms up. The anticipation builds, not just at the prospect of the ultimate destination, but also for the feeling of absolute freedom that the road brings.

Thankfully the weather was fine, and the maps looked promising: I was planning to visit Wisemans Ferry, a place not only of historical value and natural beauty, but also a Mecca for motorcyclists – and this would be my first time making this pilgrimage as a biker.

It wasn’t until after Windsor, when I was forced to turn to my well-beaten guide book that I began to truly feel like a motorcycle tourist. The roads slowly emptied as I followed the path of so many before me, heading north through Ebenezer, and down to the first ferry crossing at Sackville.

The ferries of this trip (I would take three in total) had an intrinsic value of their own – they offered the chance to stop and reflect on the roads just travelled and the roads yet to be ridden. It was on this first ferry crossing that I met a fellow pilgrim – another biker, eager to share tips on roads in the area that were worth exploring. As I made a mental note of road names and directions, I found myself reassured to know that I wasn’t alone.

This sense of community is something that would continue as I powered along Wisemans Ferry Road, pulling in to Hawkins Lookout on a ridge above the Hawkesbury River. A well-known bikers’ haunt, this is almost a compulsory stop for any bikers approaching Wisemans Ferry from this direction. Sure enough, I struck up conversation with a fellow pilgrim almost immediately – crouched first next to my bike, then his (inspecting engines, brakes, tyres, suspension), we talked about the different bikes we’d owned, and the journeys we had taken in the past. A few more riders pulled up and joined the conversation, including two on their way from Canberra to Newcastle via the back roads (seeking “adventure before dementia” in their own words), and the rider that I had met aboard the first ferry.

I had never met any of these men before, yet we were all able to share our stories freely, liberally – we were all united by our shared passion, embodied in our “journey of devotion.” This is exactly what I had hoped to find on this trip.

Down into Wisemans Ferry, I indulged in some genuine history; the reason that non-bikers might come to visit this historic town. Founded by Solomon Wiseman in the early 1800’s, the town gained its name when Wiseman established a ferry crossing here in 1827. Having run continuously in its current location since 1829, this ferry is the longest-running in New South Wales and possibly Australia.5 And then there is the famous Wisemans Ferry Inn. Originally built as Wiseman’s own home, the pub is now the traditional stop off for all bikers on the Wisemans Ferry run, and was where I stopped to catch an afternoon bite to eat.

But ultimately I was here to ride. Across the punt, left onto Settlers Road, sliding along the dirt road to St Albans, then back again along the tarmac to the last of my ferry trips for the day. Chatting with the ferry operators (a privilege that those in cars don’t have, as they are ordered to remain within their vehicles) I was urged to try River Road (ignoring the ‘Road Closed’ signs) before I left the area. A beautiful road that hugs the southern banks of the Hawkesbury, it is quiet, shaded by trees on either side. Add to this the twists, turns and the changes from tarmac to dirt; this idyllic setting becomes an exciting, fulfilling journey.

I was a pleasure seeker, indulging in both the ride and in the pleasure of being a member of a community of riders who had all passed before me. Just like a pilgrim or a grand tourist, it was this community that truly defined my day of riding: riding the established biker paths, engaging passionately with those that I met along the way, and truly earning my place within the motorcycling society.

The sort of papers I occasionally get to write this semester...

(For a history subject called 'Food, Environment and Culture in Europe' - and yes, it is a real subject.)

Foodie Fantasies, Decadent Dreams: An exploration of Sydney’s more luxurious side

Degustation menus, once solely the domain of the most expensive restaurants, exploded onto the Sydney scene around 2004, for no apparent reason other than to allow chefs to demonstrate their expertise. Naturally expecting the best from my restaurant experiences, I decided to optimistically investigate some of Sydney’s more luxurious options.

Restaurateur Guillaume Brahimi puts on a menu to match the fine location of his Opera House restaurant Guillaume’s at Bennelong – he combines his French style with local flavours to present such wonders as the deboned rib eye of Mayura wagyu beef with a tombé of field mushrooms, baby spinach, confit of shallot, and merlot sauce. At $250 with a complement of French wines to match this eight course menu, one would expect such extravagance.

Tetsuya’s is often flouted as one of Sydney’s best, and Tetsuya Wakuda only offers a degustation menu to his diners. I have it on good authority that, amongst the nine courses on offer, it is his tataki of veal with roasted eggplant & caviar that best demonstrates his ability to marry his Japanese background with French styling. To be treated to a meal at Tetsuya’s one would need a spare $290, accompanying wines included.

And how could one go past restaurant of the year for 2009, Quay. Chef Peter Gilmore oversees an eight course tasting menu that can cost up to $400 with the inclusion of his finest wines. He makes a point of showing off his ability to source only the best ingredients with dishes such as the Butter poached quail breasts, pink turnips and onions, white lentils, morels, truffle custard, bitter chocolate black pudding, jamon de bellota, and milk skin.

The purpose of these menus is twofold – they allow chefs to demonstrate their creative culinary credibility, whilst indulging diners with luxuries of nearly unaffordable decadence. For those enjoying such meals there is grandeur comparable to the banqueting of the French courts in the time of Louis XIV: settings and service are impeccable, and meals are presented in such a way that creates harmony between the beauty of the ingredients and the skill of the chef. For those creating the meals, there is an obvious need to put all of their skills on display: dishes are created and plated with flamboyance, flair, and finesse, appealing to the fine tastes of consumers of luxury. But (if the profiles of these chefs is to be believed) there is also an emphasis on creating a harmony with natural ingredients, recalling the Enlightenment philosophies of finding reason in the kitchen, and having an intimate knowledge of the properties of food.

Dishes are supposed to present the extravagance of the Old Regime in their presentation, their showmanship and in the number of courses on offer; but they also pay tribute to the nouvelle cuisine of the Enlightenment in their (apparently) simplistic appeal to natural flavours, and the experience of the chef. Whether or not the degustation menus of Sydney’s finest restaurants are successful in treading the fine line between decadence and natural simplicity, they are all proud of their French inspirations. Ultimately, it is French cooking methodology that still rules supreme in the kitchens of Sydney. I wonder how many of these chefs have a copy of François Massialot’s Le Cuisinier roïal et bourgeois sitting on a dusty shelf in their kitchens…

Adjusting, re-adjusting. Considering, reconsidering.

Time is.

And that is all that we can really say about it. There is nothing else in this world that is comparable, and descriptions (in words) rely on comparison, imagery, tangibility to at least one of the five senses. But Time is different.

Even air you can feel. Time just passes. It just is.

I'm really struggling with concepts of Time this year. Since returning from my grande adventure I haven't been able to grasp how Time works in Australia. I haven't been able to grasp Time at all. It is, to me, some ethereal concept that is as foreign here as the sun was in Edinburgh.

This has been a real problem for me. Where I reach out and grasp at this thing named Time, my hands return full of Discontent instead. And Discontent, contrary to popular belief, is a tangible commodity.

The thing in between Time and Discontent, in Sydney, seems to be another concept that we call Life - have I lost you yet? I, myself, am reasonably confused at all of this. And that is the essence of the problem.

I went travelling to find, above all, Perspective. Thankfully, this is exactly what I brought back with me. Mission successful, right?

Not quite. Perspective on Life is glorious. But Perspective without Time is useless. Perspective combined with Discontent is frustrating.

And that is exactly what I am with Life in Sydney - frustrated. I have no concept of Time here, and my newfound Perspective is fuelling the Discontent.

In more tangible terms, I am enjoying being back at University. The learning and thinking and growing have all reminded me how satisfying personal progress can be. Not having a steady job is difficult, because I miss applying my personal progress to activities that have value outside Academia. I am in an amazing relationship, have fantastic friends, and a wonderful (if absurdly dysfunctional) family.

But I just don't have the Time to use my new Perspective. It is itching to get out, pushing at the flood gates that hold it back, and driving the feelings of frustration and Discontent that exist in between all the other moments. It's like that new toy sitting in the wardrobe that is begging you to play with it, but you know that you have to do your homework first.

But maybe I am looking at it all wrong - maybe I don't need Time to use Perspective. Maybe I need Perspective to understand Time.

I'll get there eventually... I just need a bit more Time.