chris horner gives billy demong a ride up the hill. not that i heard mention of it in the tour coverage, because astana are evil obviously. and the aso is perfectly right to ban all those doper teams from the tour. except if they're french. (though to be fair both bruyneel and co and the aso are probably glad they weren;t there given the recent news re vladimir gusev)
and while sastre, freire and the like seem pleasant to the point of tranquillity there's always cadel evans. he's a looper, oh yes he is
outside of cycling post of the week has to go to feltbug who sent me all the way down memory lane with this intro to the lost world of the mix tape
Saturday, 26 July 2008
Friday, 25 July 2008
Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill
Abduction
The fairy woman walked into my poem.
She closed no door
She asked no by-your-leave.
Knowing my place
I did not tell her go.
I played the woman-of-no-welcomes trick
and said:
"What’s your hurry, here’s your hat.
Pull up to the fire
eat and drink what you get –
but if I were in your house
as you are in my house
I’d go home straight away
but anyway, stay.”
She stayed. Got up and pottered
round the house. Dressed the beds
wasted the ware. Put the dirty clothes
in the washing-machine.
When my husband came home for his tea
he didn’t know what he had wasn’t me.
For I am in the fairy field
in lasting darkness
and with the cold there
dressed only in white mist.
And if he wants me back
there is a solution –
get the sock of a plough
smear it with butter
and redden it with fire.
And then let him go to the bed
where lies the succubus
and press it with red iron.
“Push it into her face,
burn and brand her,
and as she fades before your eyes
I’ll materialize
and as she fades before your eyes
I’ll materialize.”
The fairy woman walked into my poem.
She closed no door
She asked no by-your-leave.
Knowing my place
I did not tell her go.
I played the woman-of-no-welcomes trick
and said:
"What’s your hurry, here’s your hat.
Pull up to the fire
eat and drink what you get –
but if I were in your house
as you are in my house
I’d go home straight away
but anyway, stay.”
She stayed. Got up and pottered
round the house. Dressed the beds
wasted the ware. Put the dirty clothes
in the washing-machine.
When my husband came home for his tea
he didn’t know what he had wasn’t me.
For I am in the fairy field
in lasting darkness
and with the cold there
dressed only in white mist.
And if he wants me back
there is a solution –
get the sock of a plough
smear it with butter
and redden it with fire.
And then let him go to the bed
where lies the succubus
and press it with red iron.
“Push it into her face,
burn and brand her,
and as she fades before your eyes
I’ll materialize
and as she fades before your eyes
I’ll materialize.”
Thursday, 17 July 2008
tom waits
Well it's Ninth and Hennepin
All the doughnuts have names that sound like prostitutes
And the moon's teeth marks are on the sky
Like a tarp thrown all over this
And the broken umbrellas like dead birds
And the steam comes out of the grill
Like the whole goddamn town's ready to blow...
And the bricks are all scarred with jailhouse tattoos
And everyone is behaving like dogs
And the horses are coming down Violin Road
And Dutch is dead on his feet
And all the rooms they smell like diesel
And you take on the dreams of the ones who have slept here
And I'm lost in the window, and I hide in the stairway
And I hang in the curtain, and I sleep in your hat...
And no one brings anything small into a bar around here
They all started out with bad directions
And the girl behind the counter has a tattooed tear
"One for every year he's away", she said
Such a crumbling beauty, ah
There's nothing wrong with her that a hundred dollars won't fix
She has that razor sadness that only gets worse
With the clang and the thunder of the Southern Pacific going by
And the clock ticks out like a dripping faucet
'til you're full of rag water and bitters and blue ruin
And you spill out over the side to anyone who will listen...
And I've seen it all, I've seen it all
Through the yellow windows of the evening train...
All the doughnuts have names that sound like prostitutes
And the moon's teeth marks are on the sky
Like a tarp thrown all over this
And the broken umbrellas like dead birds
And the steam comes out of the grill
Like the whole goddamn town's ready to blow...
And the bricks are all scarred with jailhouse tattoos
And everyone is behaving like dogs
And the horses are coming down Violin Road
And Dutch is dead on his feet
And all the rooms they smell like diesel
And you take on the dreams of the ones who have slept here
And I'm lost in the window, and I hide in the stairway
And I hang in the curtain, and I sleep in your hat...
And no one brings anything small into a bar around here
They all started out with bad directions
And the girl behind the counter has a tattooed tear
"One for every year he's away", she said
Such a crumbling beauty, ah
There's nothing wrong with her that a hundred dollars won't fix
She has that razor sadness that only gets worse
With the clang and the thunder of the Southern Pacific going by
And the clock ticks out like a dripping faucet
'til you're full of rag water and bitters and blue ruin
And you spill out over the side to anyone who will listen...
And I've seen it all, I've seen it all
Through the yellow windows of the evening train...
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
helsinki
so this time we take a ferry across the baltic, decide against a walk, get another taxi, with a pleasant but uncommunicative taxi driver who drops us off in the street right outside where we're staying. we look around. there's the pub pete, which is already full of the type of people who are into their drinking routine by midday. i like the look of it. t assures me it'll be a solo mission. so, this'll be the hostel, i say. t looks around, conditioned by the baltic experience. i don't understand, where are all the sex clubs. and there are none. and we are glad.
how i love helsinki. along with the above there are no random bunches of english boys lagering it up, no drunk scots being arrested, no cokeheads trying to get into my room at night. we are warned in the guidebook there may be drunks and public drunken-ness. and yes, the finnish jakey is present and we did see people drinking beer in the street. but the worried finns should look no further than the uk for proper drinking in the street mayhem.
what we liked
- the academica bookstore. my favourite anywhere, ever. after failing to get latvian or estonian poetry in english the finns not only have some but it's also in french, spanish, german and greek, among others! not only that their poetry in english section is bigger and better than the vast majority of bookshops in scotland. books are pricey tho
- moomins (t). the tove janssen presence is all pervasive. i can't see it but there you are
- architecture. from the railway down helsinki abounds in kick ass turn of the nineteenth century architecture
- kiasma/ateneum and galleries. yes we liked those. kiasma possibly my favourite gallery foyer anywhere
- maxim cinema. the comfiest chairs anywhere. we go to see once. we like it
- the beach
- seurasaari mellow, mellow, mellow
- the people. you have to smile at the metalheads. we had planned to go to some metal karaoke but in the end we were just too tired. we got interviewed for some magazine and they were somewhat bemused that 'coming to see the metal boys' was one of reasons to come and see helsinki. and yes, we did see one of lordi's guitars and it was ridiculous
downsides
- helsinki seagulls. truly they are bastards
how i love helsinki. along with the above there are no random bunches of english boys lagering it up, no drunk scots being arrested, no cokeheads trying to get into my room at night. we are warned in the guidebook there may be drunks and public drunken-ness. and yes, the finnish jakey is present and we did see people drinking beer in the street. but the worried finns should look no further than the uk for proper drinking in the street mayhem.
what we liked
- the academica bookstore. my favourite anywhere, ever. after failing to get latvian or estonian poetry in english the finns not only have some but it's also in french, spanish, german and greek, among others! not only that their poetry in english section is bigger and better than the vast majority of bookshops in scotland. books are pricey tho
- moomins (t). the tove janssen presence is all pervasive. i can't see it but there you are
- architecture. from the railway down helsinki abounds in kick ass turn of the nineteenth century architecture
- kiasma/ateneum and galleries. yes we liked those. kiasma possibly my favourite gallery foyer anywhere
- maxim cinema. the comfiest chairs anywhere. we go to see once. we like it
- the beach
- seurasaari mellow, mellow, mellow
- the people. you have to smile at the metalheads. we had planned to go to some metal karaoke but in the end we were just too tired. we got interviewed for some magazine and they were somewhat bemused that 'coming to see the metal boys' was one of reasons to come and see helsinki. and yes, we did see one of lordi's guitars and it was ridiculous
downsides
- helsinki seagulls. truly they are bastards
tallinn
so we get off the hellish bus having seen more trees than either of us had previously imagined. plus loads of storks which was cool. and again with the taxi. but this time a big blacked out merc with a russian driver. we'd been in riga after all. and again dropped off right where we were staying. we walked up the street and i said - look there's the hostel. and t said - isn't that a stripclub above us. and isn't that a sex boutique next door. and yes it was.
and that was our abiding memory of tallinn. very nice yes but loads of stripclubs, russian speaking women hanging out outside them, dodgily dressed chain smoking russian blokes in tow. while riga there was an undercurrent in cleaner, more tourist friendly tallinn you had the sense you could get into bad trouble much more easily.
the old town itself was nice to look at but full of tourists, like a theme village and as soon as we left, which was only briefly, we realised what an island it was. outside the centre the prices halved, the bigger buildings became faceless, more modern, and those avenues with lovely old wooden houses were places the tour groups just didn't go. we'd meet people later who'd been to tallinn years before and wouldn't go back now. riga should look at tallinn carefully if it doesn't want to turn into it.
which is a shame as in riga we'd had a sense of latvia but in tallinn we had no sense of estonia or its people. we went to the kumu to see the estonian art, saw the same images we'd seen in the soviet exhibition in riga, old cold war era cartoons from workers magazines, where the workers are all proud and free and the capitalist bosses are crude jewish caricatures. as for the more modern estonian art many excuses were made for the sense of not knowing what to do in the face of the soviet collapse but by and large we just didn't like what we saw, not because of any dislocation but because it just plain wasn't that good
our best times in tallinn were when we got out of the old town, away from its theme park old worldiness and into the park, onto the tram. or, as on our last night into the dm bar, a place which only plays depeche mode, 24 hours a day. strange yes, but oddly enjoyable, especially after a couple of vodkas the size of a house or, in t's case, the strange and vile smelling local tourist tipple, vana tallinn (even worse than the latvian black balsam which she'd also tried)
t recommends the textile and design museum, we both thought the kalev chocolate was better than the latvian laima (tasted like cooking choclate - sorry, latvia). the best food we ate was in the african restuarant, just across the road from the (astonishly) scottish club. but the best thing, still that crazy depeche mode bar.....
and that was our abiding memory of tallinn. very nice yes but loads of stripclubs, russian speaking women hanging out outside them, dodgily dressed chain smoking russian blokes in tow. while riga there was an undercurrent in cleaner, more tourist friendly tallinn you had the sense you could get into bad trouble much more easily.
the old town itself was nice to look at but full of tourists, like a theme village and as soon as we left, which was only briefly, we realised what an island it was. outside the centre the prices halved, the bigger buildings became faceless, more modern, and those avenues with lovely old wooden houses were places the tour groups just didn't go. we'd meet people later who'd been to tallinn years before and wouldn't go back now. riga should look at tallinn carefully if it doesn't want to turn into it.
which is a shame as in riga we'd had a sense of latvia but in tallinn we had no sense of estonia or its people. we went to the kumu to see the estonian art, saw the same images we'd seen in the soviet exhibition in riga, old cold war era cartoons from workers magazines, where the workers are all proud and free and the capitalist bosses are crude jewish caricatures. as for the more modern estonian art many excuses were made for the sense of not knowing what to do in the face of the soviet collapse but by and large we just didn't like what we saw, not because of any dislocation but because it just plain wasn't that good
our best times in tallinn were when we got out of the old town, away from its theme park old worldiness and into the park, onto the tram. or, as on our last night into the dm bar, a place which only plays depeche mode, 24 hours a day. strange yes, but oddly enjoyable, especially after a couple of vodkas the size of a house or, in t's case, the strange and vile smelling local tourist tipple, vana tallinn (even worse than the latvian black balsam which she'd also tried)
t recommends the textile and design museum, we both thought the kalev chocolate was better than the latvian laima (tasted like cooking choclate - sorry, latvia). the best food we ate was in the african restuarant, just across the road from the (astonishly) scottish club. but the best thing, still that crazy depeche mode bar.....
riga
where we met a lovely taxi driver who took us right up to where we were staying. we got out, walked down the street and i said - look there's the hostel. and t said - yes it is. is that a stripclub? and yes it was.
otherwise riga was fabulous. sex trade aside the people were great, the old town picturesque without being overly touristy. we visited the old soviet academy of sciences but even the foyer was too intimidating for us to venture further! even in the short time we were there riga's recent history leeched out from the obvious in the former of the bunker that now houses the occupation museum to the not so such as the nice building we stopped in front of that turned out to be a former kgb interrogation centre.
the eastern-ness(?) we found most prevalent was in the exhibition of soviet era paintings, all agricultural and metal workers and happy soldiery. what was all that about? how did people respond? what did the (older) women looking after the exhibition think of us from the west as they saw us looking at their past? it was fascinating.
then by brilliant coincidence it turned out the song festival was on celebrating the end of occupation. people from all over the baltic states (even a bunch from romania) had gathered together, all dressed in their local costume, to march thru the city, past the freedom monument to a mass singalong at the song ground. it was supposed to take two hours - it lasted at least five. mean while in one of the city parks they were having a song marathon where everyone got a twenty minute spot to do their thing, from traditional folk songs to polka. it was fantastic. not a drunk in sight. scottish nationalists should take note in terms of the expression of national cultural expression. i;ve never seen anything like it. it was fantastic.
time went past too quickly and we had to leave. our last sound at the hostel - some english lads bailing out shouting - oi mate where the fuck have you been? we've got a plane to catch. lovely.
and off to the bus station to catch the bus, getting leaked on, get bitten by fleas and curse the leaking chemical toilet. such was our introduction to estonia.
otherwise riga was fabulous. sex trade aside the people were great, the old town picturesque without being overly touristy. we visited the old soviet academy of sciences but even the foyer was too intimidating for us to venture further! even in the short time we were there riga's recent history leeched out from the obvious in the former of the bunker that now houses the occupation museum to the not so such as the nice building we stopped in front of that turned out to be a former kgb interrogation centre.
the eastern-ness(?) we found most prevalent was in the exhibition of soviet era paintings, all agricultural and metal workers and happy soldiery. what was all that about? how did people respond? what did the (older) women looking after the exhibition think of us from the west as they saw us looking at their past? it was fascinating.
then by brilliant coincidence it turned out the song festival was on celebrating the end of occupation. people from all over the baltic states (even a bunch from romania) had gathered together, all dressed in their local costume, to march thru the city, past the freedom monument to a mass singalong at the song ground. it was supposed to take two hours - it lasted at least five. mean while in one of the city parks they were having a song marathon where everyone got a twenty minute spot to do their thing, from traditional folk songs to polka. it was fantastic. not a drunk in sight. scottish nationalists should take note in terms of the expression of national cultural expression. i;ve never seen anything like it. it was fantastic.
time went past too quickly and we had to leave. our last sound at the hostel - some english lads bailing out shouting - oi mate where the fuck have you been? we've got a plane to catch. lovely.
and off to the bus station to catch the bus, getting leaked on, get bitten by fleas and curse the leaking chemical toilet. such was our introduction to estonia.
Friday, 4 July 2008
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
italo calvino
I would like to swim against the stream of time:
I would like to erase the consequences of certain events
and restore an initial condition.
But every moment of my life brings with it an accumulation of new facts
and each of these new facts brings with it its consequences;
so the more I seek to return to the zero moment from which I set out,
the further I move away from it;
though all my actions are bent on erasing the consequences of previous actions
and though I manage to achieve appreciable results in this erasure,
enough to open my heart to hopes of immediate relief,
I must,
however,
bear in mind that my every move to erase previous events
provokes a rain of new events,
which complicate the situation worse than before
and which I will then,
in their turn,
have to try to erase.
Therefore
I must calculate carefully every move
so as to achieve
the maximum of erasure
with the minimum of recomplication.
from if on a winter's night a traveler
I would like to erase the consequences of certain events
and restore an initial condition.
But every moment of my life brings with it an accumulation of new facts
and each of these new facts brings with it its consequences;
so the more I seek to return to the zero moment from which I set out,
the further I move away from it;
though all my actions are bent on erasing the consequences of previous actions
and though I manage to achieve appreciable results in this erasure,
enough to open my heart to hopes of immediate relief,
I must,
however,
bear in mind that my every move to erase previous events
provokes a rain of new events,
which complicate the situation worse than before
and which I will then,
in their turn,
have to try to erase.
Therefore
I must calculate carefully every move
so as to achieve
the maximum of erasure
with the minimum of recomplication.
from if on a winter's night a traveler
rilke
the first elegy
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels’
hierarchies? and even if one of them pressed me
suddenly against his heart: I would be consumed
in that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothing
but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure,
and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Every angel is terrifying.
trans stephen mitchell
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels’
hierarchies? and even if one of them pressed me
suddenly against his heart: I would be consumed
in that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothing
but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure,
and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Every angel is terrifying.
trans stephen mitchell
Friday, 27 June 2008
first of the all night races
the plan - go to work, come home tomorrow morning, not be excited and get at least four hours sleep, get in the van, drive for another four hours, pitch the tent, register, warm up and race all night. oh yes and it'll be raining!
at least it'll keep the midgies down. even then, i'm sure it won't be pretty....
at least it'll keep the midgies down. even then, i'm sure it won't be pretty....
moniza alvi
I would like to be a dot in a painting by Miro
I would like to be a dot in a painting by Miro.
Barely distinguishable from other dots,
it's true, but quite uniquely placed.
And from my dark centre
I'd survey the beauty of the linescape
and wonder - would it be worthwhile
to roll myself towards the lemon stripe,
Centrally poised, and push my curves
against its edge, to give myself
a little attention?
But it's fine where I am.
I'll never make out what's going on
around me, and that's the joy of it.
The fact that I'm not a perfect circle
makes me more interesting in this world.
People will stare forever -
Even the most unemotional get excited.
So here I am, on the edge of animation,
a dream, a dance,a fantastic construction,
A child's adventure.
And nothing in this tawny sky
can get too close, or move too far away
I would like to be a dot in a painting by Miro.
Barely distinguishable from other dots,
it's true, but quite uniquely placed.
And from my dark centre
I'd survey the beauty of the linescape
and wonder - would it be worthwhile
to roll myself towards the lemon stripe,
Centrally poised, and push my curves
against its edge, to give myself
a little attention?
But it's fine where I am.
I'll never make out what's going on
around me, and that's the joy of it.
The fact that I'm not a perfect circle
makes me more interesting in this world.
People will stare forever -
Even the most unemotional get excited.
So here I am, on the edge of animation,
a dream, a dance,a fantastic construction,
A child's adventure.
And nothing in this tawny sky
can get too close, or move too far away
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
dylan thomas
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
Sunday, 22 June 2008
anne sexton
Wanting to die
Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.
In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.
Still-born, they don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.
To thrust all that life under your tongue!--
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say,
and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.
Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.
In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.
Still-born, they don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.
To thrust all that life under your tongue!--
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say,
and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.
Saturday, 21 June 2008
and things i dislike this week....
avid brakes
which are fitted as standard on both my last bikes and which i've had problems with in each case. in the former it was all about avid's foolish pad replacement finnickiness - was the stupid pad clip the best they could do? The easiest way to replace these, unless you have the fingers of an elf, is to remove the caliper. now call me cynical but i'm not about to be doing this any time soon in the middle of an endurance race. or at night.
as to the latter bike. well there the rear brake just hasn't worked since i got. my bike shop guy can't/won't/isn't going to fix it and i'll be making yet another trip to him tomorrow to suggest it may be disc alignment that's causing the awful noise and juddering braking so characteristic of the bike since buying. race friendly? i think not. was i happy this week when, after taking the bike out for the first time after it being 'fixed' i was almost instantly back to using front brake only, a rule of diminishing returns for me on the steep bits and the reason all of my left elbow is currently a fetching shade of green. at least it wasn't broken which at first i feared. modesty forbids me putting up a picture of my shoulder, revealed to be full of gouges once i;d pulled my jersey out of it. ow, that's got to hurt, said t. she wasn't wrong. was i happy? i was not.
suffice to say i will be avoiding any bike sporting avid brakes in the future.
talking of things disappointing and unreliable on to the euros and the entire french team. i threw what can only be described as a strop when italy, for god's sake, put them out of their misery. i shan't repeat any of it. no i really shan't. then it was an early bath for sweden and further grumpiness. tonight i endured the only game i've actually been able to watch, a two hour borefest until the last two minutes until croatia actually scored then the turks who, unlike their european counterparts really do play to the final whistle, scored in the dying seconds on injury time in extra time. what drama! and then croatia blow it on the penalties. germany are the only winners after this performance. other than france and sweden my third team choice, poland, because of the immigrants obviously, had to be my third team and a good choice for a proxy scotland they were. three games and off home. it was as if they were wearing blue....
which are fitted as standard on both my last bikes and which i've had problems with in each case. in the former it was all about avid's foolish pad replacement finnickiness - was the stupid pad clip the best they could do? The easiest way to replace these, unless you have the fingers of an elf, is to remove the caliper. now call me cynical but i'm not about to be doing this any time soon in the middle of an endurance race. or at night.
as to the latter bike. well there the rear brake just hasn't worked since i got. my bike shop guy can't/won't/isn't going to fix it and i'll be making yet another trip to him tomorrow to suggest it may be disc alignment that's causing the awful noise and juddering braking so characteristic of the bike since buying. race friendly? i think not. was i happy this week when, after taking the bike out for the first time after it being 'fixed' i was almost instantly back to using front brake only, a rule of diminishing returns for me on the steep bits and the reason all of my left elbow is currently a fetching shade of green. at least it wasn't broken which at first i feared. modesty forbids me putting up a picture of my shoulder, revealed to be full of gouges once i;d pulled my jersey out of it. ow, that's got to hurt, said t. she wasn't wrong. was i happy? i was not.
suffice to say i will be avoiding any bike sporting avid brakes in the future.
talking of things disappointing and unreliable on to the euros and the entire french team. i threw what can only be described as a strop when italy, for god's sake, put them out of their misery. i shan't repeat any of it. no i really shan't. then it was an early bath for sweden and further grumpiness. tonight i endured the only game i've actually been able to watch, a two hour borefest until the last two minutes until croatia actually scored then the turks who, unlike their european counterparts really do play to the final whistle, scored in the dying seconds on injury time in extra time. what drama! and then croatia blow it on the penalties. germany are the only winners after this performance. other than france and sweden my third team choice, poland, because of the immigrants obviously, had to be my third team and a good choice for a proxy scotland they were. three games and off home. it was as if they were wearing blue....
Friday, 20 June 2008
ana blandiana
Perhaps Someone is Dreaming Me
Perhaps someone is dreaming me -
That's why my gestures
Are so soft
And unfinished,
With their aim forgotten
Half-way,
Grotesquely,
That's why my outlines get blurred
Second by second
And my deeds melt...
And perhaps the one who's dreaming me
From time to time is plucked
From sleep,
Awoken,
Carried by force into
His true life,
That's why I darken
Suspended sometimes
As from a thread that melts with snow,
Without knowing
If he will fall asleep again
So that something might happen to me
Again.
trans Peter jay and Anca Cristofovici
Perhaps someone is dreaming me -
That's why my gestures
Are so soft
And unfinished,
With their aim forgotten
Half-way,
Grotesquely,
That's why my outlines get blurred
Second by second
And my deeds melt...
And perhaps the one who's dreaming me
From time to time is plucked
From sleep,
Awoken,
Carried by force into
His true life,
That's why I darken
Suspended sometimes
As from a thread that melts with snow,
Without knowing
If he will fall asleep again
So that something might happen to me
Again.
trans Peter jay and Anca Cristofovici
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