Godiva Trailriders : a real world mountain bike club based in Coventry, England.

Dave's Scratchings

It's been a long time coming.......

12th March 2007

Killing Crabs The Rick Stein Way.

To kill crabs, turn them on their backs, with their eyes facing you. Drive a skewer or long thin bladed knife between the eyes into the centre of the crab. Then lift the tail flap drive a skewer through the underside of the crab. When the crab is dead it will go limp. Alternatively you could just get some cream from the doctor.

They're like buses....... a change from the normal.....

12th March 2007

Welcome Home Darling.

The fact that he loved her had absolutely no bearing on the job.

He loved his work more and when those in the top office had ordered him to kill her; he was a little surprised but there again they wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t necessary. It’s not as if they had been married for years, six months actually, but as they both worked away a lot and hardly ever saw each other he didn’t see it as a big problem.

The apartment was just as he had left it three days ago, the job in Prague had been a simple enough affair a minor journalist had stumbled on information which may or may not have lead to one of their operatives being uncovered, but they ALWAYS erred on the safe side.

Angela would be home about six thirty, she had called from Madrid; her assignment had been a little more tricky. Threatening loved ones to keep them in line took a special talent that Angela excelled at. She could be having sex with the husband, or his wife, one day and threatening their kids the next. “What a rare talent she is” he thought smiling as he dropped his car keys on the coffee table. As per usual the gun had found its way into his hand luggage somewhere between the Ruzyne departure lounge and his front door; the usual method of disposal would apply and the clean up team would already be in situ

He allowed himself one bourbon before starting to prepare dinner, if Angela came through the door and didn’t smell cooking she would be suspicious and a suspicious Angela was not someone he would like to cross. No, he must keep every thing normal that was the key. The only difference between this home coming and any other was the fact that there was a gun hidden in the fridge next to the chilled Chablis Grand Cru which he would have to open but sadly would not get time to drink; the clean up team were most insistent that they where alone whilst they completed their duties.

The aroma from the rack of lamb was gorgeous as he took up his position behind the breakfast bar, knife poised mid chop waiting for the key in the door. In his minds eye the open plan lounge was no longer their home it had become his killing zone “She’s late” he thought and considered another bourbon; but before the thought could become action the door opened and there stood Angela. Beautiful, enigmatic, deadly. The knife sliced green beans effortlessly as he greeted her with his most disarming smile.

“Darling” she purred “That smells divine”. “Wine?” he offered “That would be lovely” she replied as she glided out of her sable coat. The butt of the gun was cold and delicious in his hand and he could not resist a pause to saviour its sensual feel. The knife seared through the air before parting silk and silently piercing his heart expertly evading bone. “Darling” she purred once more “You NEVER take that long to get the wine”.

15th December 2005

Dave's adventures in Oz (thoughts and observations on a month in the Sun)

PART 1

In which our hero has a hearty breakfast nearly loses his temper and nearly loses his holiday. I booked this holiday 42 weeks and 3 days before it was due, and then counted down every day, hour and minute until it arrived, sharing my mounting excitement with my work colleagues at every opportunity (I can not believe they were not as excited as I was.) And so the great day arrived. My girlfriend (Trina) and I rose early and I proceeded to create a breakfast of prodigious proportions, one which befits such a mammoth journey (for those of you who like detail it consisted of bacon, sausage, toast, mushrooms and scrambled egg and brown sauce washed down with Lashing of Tea and orange juice) Now I normally reserve this sort of breakfast for Christmas day, but like I say this was a special day.

So everything was ready Tickets, Passports, Bags, Full Tummies, last visit to the loo (too much orange juice.), 100 car pile up on the M40 WHAT !! What followed next can only be described as PANIC on a scale not often seen in the stately home of the Billings family. Several anxious minutes later and normality returned as we were assured that the Coach Company (Flightlink) knew all about the crash and there would be no problems. Now lets whisk you forward a few hours and I will paint the scene for you as best as my memory recollects it. We are stuck in the diversion route backlog of a 100 car pile up on the M40, the coach is still 10 miles from Heathrow , there is traffic as far as the eye can see, our plane leaves in 40 minutes and the natives to coin a phrase are getting a trifle restless. The road is long and tempers are short. Repeated questioning of the coach driver's reveals that this is the only route they know so we can not find another way into Heathrow. At the back of the coach mutiny is been talked about in hushed but urgent tones. However what good will it do to seize the bus when we can't go anywhere. Basically we are stuffed! Trina is dispatched to the front of the coach to see if the drivers can contact the airlines to tell them of our various late arrivals, although it must have been hard for them to concentrate given the overwhelming sounds of people tutting and the loud protracted exhalations of breath at frequent intervals not to mention the faint but distinct scrape of knives been sharpened at the back of the coach.

Twenty minutes later and the traffic is clearing, an air of optimism sweeps through the coach. Hey, we might just do it. Ten minutes later finds us hurtling down the road at at least thirty miles an hour, but what's this? I knew the roads outside London were bad but I didn't expect dirt roads. Yes, you guessed it the driver had taken a wrong turn. Bye-bye flight 422 to Narita, Japan Bye-bye holiday.

Needless to say no one sent round the empty hard boiled sweet packet so you could put a few coppers in for the coach drivers. We left the coach at speed with a few parting observations about the Flightlink Company and their future prospects. Nine minutes to go and Trina dashes through to the Air Japan departure area whilst I collect the bags and practice dirty looks at the sheepish looking coach drivers. I have found a trolley, loaded the bags and am approaching the departure desk. It does not look good. Trina is slumped, head down on the desk. We have missed the flight by seven minutes. All of a sudden that hearty breakfast doesn't seem like a good idea, as my stomach churns and, I'm not ashamed to say, I felt the tell tale sting of a tear or two at the corners of my eyes as we see the prospect of our hard work and waiting 42 weeks and 3 days for our holiday disappear up the runway.

Will our intrepid travelling duo get to Australia? Tune in next time folks and find out why they contemplate murder and then embark on a long haul run of their own across Heathrow.

Happy Trails
Dave
©DTBillings

16th December 2005

Dave's adventures in Oz (thoughts and observations on a month in the Sun)

PART 2

You will recall that in the last issue Dave and Trina missed their flight to Australia by a few minutes. Now read on and find out what happened.

"So what happens now" was our immediate and earnest plea to the chap on the flightdesk, there then followed a flurry of keyboard activity that resulted in us being told that we were now on stand by. "And what exactly does this mean" was our hopeful reply, "Well" explained the chap "You are on a list for the next plane out at 7pm" "Well, that's great" we replied, "Well not really" he retorted "If someone else wants to buy a seat on that flight they would get precedence over you".

"So what are our chances?" we asked, "I can't say" he said. "Well how many spare seats are there?" we asked. "I can't say" he replied. "Well when will we know" we asked, There then followed a pause followed by another outburst of keyboard activity. "Come back in ten minutes" He advised. There then followed the longest ten minutes of my life, which was punctuated by frequent trips to the loo. Two minutes to go and up to the desk walks a Japanese business man clutching a flight bag in one hand and more worryingly a gold card in the other. Trina and I exchanged anxious looks and for one brief moment I contemplated murder. There was nothing to be done however and the said business man proceeded to request and was granted a seat on our stand by flight.

It was now seven minutes to seven and the flight was ready to depart about a mile away across Heathrow. We were called to the desk; "We can give you two seats on the plane" announced the somewhat laid back JAL check in guy. There then followed a brief but nonetheless exuberant outburst of yahoo's, whoop's and other various noises designed to express our utter relief and joy. What happened next is still a little hazy but it consisted of a tiny little Japanese girl carrying a radio almost as big as her self appearing as if by magic and urging us to make all possible haste to the boarding gate.

We abandoned our cases in the certain knowledge that we would never see them again (frankly we didn't care at this point) and proceeded to set off at break-neck speed across the Heathrow terminal floor. Every so often little Japanese people would appear on the periphery of my vision and I was aware that they were clearing the more leisurely holiday makers out of our way. It was a truly bizarre and surreal experience, but we eventually boarded a plane (at this point I would have boarded a plane to anywhere).

We could not sit together but we didn't mind and I found myself in the middle section in the middle seat between two Japanese ladies who must have known I was desperate for the loo because they both promptly fell into a comatose state before even leaving the ground and stayed that way for about five hours, both vying for the honour of being first to develop DVT. Of course all of this didn't matter one iota because I was on my way to Australia, land of Sun, Sea, beaches, Kylie oh and sharks, jellyfish, spiders and snakes. What else could POSSIBLY go wrong…?

Stay tuned for the next thrilling installment in which our intrepid hero's have more Plane trouble in Japan, Visit several theme parks and have trouble with local Australian time…

Happy Trails
Dave
©DTBillings

17th December 2005

Dave's adventures in Oz (thoughts and observations on a month in the Sun)

PART 3

So we are eventually reunited eleven hours later in Japan and we now have a six hour wait for our connecting flight to Brisbane. There is a definite spring in the step as we approach the Air Japan flight desk and hand in our travel documents. The young girl behind the desk smiles and swiftly enters our details into the computer. There then follows a brief look of consternation and she enters the details again. The mystified look returns and she calls her supervisor. The supervisor arrives and proceeds to enter the details again, sure in the knowledge that the young girl must have typed them in wrong. The young girl was right and we realise that we are not booked on the flight to Brisbane. In typical Japanese style, the girls are professional and courteous and proceed to book us onto the flight. Thank God the flight was not full. There then followed a rather embarrassing moment when having realised we could get on the flight we both let out a loud HOORAY which was misinterpreted by the girl on the desk as hurry and she the proceeded to apologise profusely and beaver away even quicker. Thankfully Trina who can speak Japanese rectifies the situation and assures the girl that we are not trying to be rude but we are merely excited.

The flight to Brisbane and subsequent transfer to Surfers Paradise went relatively smoothly and we check in to our apartment and are thrilled to find that it has all the comforts you could wish for and is augmented by a wonderful 180 degree view of Surfers Paradise and the surrounding areas, stretching from downtown Surfers centre to Tamborine Mountain.

We hurriedly unpack and set off to explore our surroundings. We are based in the middle of Broadbeach and Surfers Paradise which turns out to be ideal as it is about a mile to the quieter resort of Broadbeach which has shopping and a plethora of pavement café's and restaurants. It also has a slower pace than Surfers Paradise but is right next to the Pacific Fair shopping complex which is one of the best shopping experiences on the Gold Coast. Broadbeach also boasts the magnificent Jupiter's Casino which is truly huge and splendid in its construction.

About 1.5 miles down the road is the resort of Surfers Paradise which is somewhat misnamed as there is very little surfing done there by locals as there are far better surf areas at Coolangatta and Kirra beach but despite this the town is alive and bustling with people, all pursuing the most important thing to all Australians and that is having a good time. Both resorts have one thing in common and that is that they, along with every other place I have been to in Australia, are spotlessly clean and perfectly maintained and presented.

On our second day in the apartment I happened to catch the tail end of the news which informed me that daylight saving was ending and we should change our watches accordingly which we duly did. The next day we decided to get on one of the many modes of local transport and go to Seaworld which is a theme park about thirty minutes ride from the main centre. The park is based on the ones in America and has all the usual attractions of rides, dolphins and water shows. Now usually when the Australians say something will start at 2pm then it invariably does. Not a bit before two nor a bit after but at two (I think they are very much like the Japanese in this respect). So you can imagine our annoyance when we kept missing the shows as they had already started or finished. At this point Trina was about to find a suitable person to lambast when we noticed droves of people heading towards the Dolphin arena, even though it was not due to start for an hour. So with an indignant shrug we followed the crowd and duly took our seat and we were thoroughly entertained for the duration of the event. As the show was drawing to a close I looked down and saw that the time on the chaps watch next to me was an hour later !!

When we got back to the apartment we quizzed the girl on the front desk about this strange time anomaly (we had previously told her off for closing the reception early) and she explained that daylight saving applied only to New South Wales and we were in Queensland. Needless to say we both retired to our room with faces redder than anything the renowned Australian sun could generate. BLOODY POMS !!!.

Happy Trails
Dave
©DTBillings

13th December 2005

A Day in the Surf.

I have had a long held ambition to try my hand at surfing and what better place to hone one’s skills than on the beach in Surfer’s Paradise, Australia. The initial idea was for me to take the lesson and my then girlfriend, Trina, to be ready to capture all the action shots on film for posterity… or the insurance claim that was more likely to follow. The day dawned hot, with a stiff breeze whipping in off the sea as we walked the mile or so to Shane Horan’s Surf School, where we were met by a tall, bronzed athletic chap called Wayne, who soon convinced Trina to also take the plunge and, within minutes, we were standing on the beach with our rash shirts on and an eight foot training surf board each. There then followed a brief period of instruction on the beach covering safety and general surfing rules, like trying not to drown and, if you are under water breaking the surface, to hold your hand in front of your face - better to break your arm than your skull if you are hit by a fellow surfer. Theory completed, it was time to hit the water for the second part of the lesson, which involved wading out to thigh level and turning the board around by forcing the back of the board down into the water and skipping the front across the waves, then waiting for a suitable wave to touch the back end of the board, pushing off with your left leg, lying on the board and coasting into the beach. Easy!

This mastered, the next step after catching the wave was to pull yourself up the board, which had the effect of speeding your board over the water and, with a deft pull of the hand and a slide to either side you could steer yourself across the tops of the waves. So far so good…

All that remained was to catch the perfect wave, jump into an upright position, make like you are drawing a long bow and sit back on your haunches to ride that tube to the inevitable cheers and shouts of “Who is that mystery surfer, with his wild bleached hair and lobster red complexion?”

Well, that’s how I had always dreamed it would be but the reality of it all, however, was a million miles away. First of all, it’s hard to surface with your hand in front of your face when you are upside down and your nose is doing its best to hoover up the sea bed, whilst your board is strapped to your ankle trying to disembowel you with its tailfin. Secondly, what Wayne failed to mention was that, on this particular day, the sea had a four foot swell, w hich would tax even the skill of more accomplished surfers than me. Although I did have a nice day body boarding in Newquay once, it hadn’t prepared me for the waves being four foot above my head.

Another piece of valuable information which I learnt only the day after from a young lady in a surf shop who bore an uncanny resemblance to Demi Moore (I spent a lot of money in that shop for some reason, which is surprising really because it was a girl’s surf shop… Still I do like a snug fit). Anyway, I digress. The information imparted by said girl was that, after every seventh wave, there is, apparently, a lull when you can turn your board around, which would explain why I had been frequently caught mid turn and experienced the altogether unpleasant experience of having an eight foot surfboard hitting me sideways on in the midriff, with the full force of the ocean behind it. Still, I persevered and, having mastered the art of stopping the board with my face, I was more than happy with my days work but not so happy with my swollen nose and bruised midriff. Mind you, look on the bright side; I had faced the might of the surf, I had stared down the barrel of the tube, I had suffered the amused glances of the real board riders and survived. I would go out that night, drink my Tooheys and stand tall in the company of my fellow surfers and answer that age old surfer’s question:

“Jeeze mate, what happened to your bloody nose?”

23rd September 2005

Bike Snobbery A Terrible Obsession.

A girl once told me, many moons ago that the reason why bloke's wore sunglasses was so they could look at girls chests without been given a slap by their current partner. Now I have no idea whether this is true or not but it does bring to mind a rather worrying trend that I have fallen into lately. I didn't even know that I had a problem until my girlfriend casually remarked whilst out on a shopping trip "Is that one any good" to which I absently replied "Nar not really, It's a £99 special."

It suddenly struck me that I could not pass a bike without s sneaky peek at it and of course girls being girls; mine had noticed my odd furtive glances. MY GOD I thought I have become a bike snob, this from the same prat that spent £116 on eBay for a full susser with disc brakes and then compounded the issue further by taking the said bike to Cannock Chase and trying to ride the trails in WINTER! I can still remember the unbelievable aching in my arms as I pushed the mud caked steel frame up the hills whilst my mate Scott waited patiently at the top astride his Orange. Eventually some time later Scott took pity on me and let me ride one of his spare Orange bikes. Well that was it really; I knew that I had made a horrendous mistake and as soon as I got home I gave the bike to my girlfriend's daughter and started scouring the magazines for a decent bike. I was pleasantly surprised that I could get a relatively decent ride for a reasonable amount of money and after numerous emails to Scott all starting with the same header; Is this one any good? I settled on an entry level TREK and am having great fun with the GODIVA TRAILRIDERS.

However the problem persists that when ever I am out in the wide world roaming the streets and I see a bike, either been ridden or propped up against a railing, I CANNOT resist that sideways glance to see what bike it is and whether it is as good as mine. GOD help me if I come across an Orange Patriot 66 on my travels, I am very likely to just stand there blocking the traffic, stammering and dribbling giving passers by the definitive proof they needed that care in the community is not working.

Any how I am off now to find a suitable support group or failing that to buy a pair of wrap around sun glasses so that I can indulge my peculiar perversion in peace.

21st September 2005

A BOY'S BEST FRIEND.

A boy's best friend is his dog...Now to some extent this is true; when I was a lad I had a dog called Rex. I loved Rex and I had loads of fun in our back garden throwing sticks for him to chase, playing ball and my all time favourite game trying to get him to bite my sister (which never worked, by the way).

Yes, life with Rex was great,but as soon as Saturday morning arrived and my mates turned up with their bikes, things changed. Rex was left whining in the back garden and the gang would set off across the fields on an assortment of bikes varying from new Raleigh Choppers to Red Feather racers and all sorts in between. My own bike was a hybrid; the frame was pulled out of Bournbrook River at the back of Selly Oak, the wheels were off my brother's old racer and the rest of the bits where either liberated from skips and dustbins or nicked from Halfords on Harborne High Street. No one bothered to take sandwiches or drinks, puncture repair kits or pumps. We just got on the trusty steeds and pedalled for all we were worth. Sometimes we would end up at Clent Hills and sometimes at Cannon Hill park. We never really had a plan as such, we kind of just followed our noses.

The only concession to refreshment and rehydration was to stop off at Dolan's newsagent for a cider pop lolly, which we swore blind made us feel a bit drunk as it was made with REAL cider apples (according to the wrapper). Suitably rehydrated we would set off again and peddle like our very lives depended on it, the Sturmey Archer gears burning white hot as we flicked up and down the awesome THREE gears, which never seemed to a make a bit of difference to the bike's performance at all, we were just happy to have gears, even if they never actually worked. We would spend the whole day out on our bikes, returning home at about tea time ready for sausage sandwiches on thick white bread (the staple Saturday night tea in our house).

The bike was not cleaned or oiled, the chain was not reset nor the tire pressures checked. It was just dumped in the back garden. If I could be bothered I would prop it against the outside toilet wall; but more often than not I would just let it drop to the ground on the grass at the mercy of the weather, but when I picked it up the next time it would be ready to go; as faithful as my dog Rex and twice as much fun.

Like I said "A BOY'S BEST FRIEND IS HIS BIKE".

5th September 2005

Apres Coed Y Brenin: Blood & Rubber.

Hi Guys, well it's Monday morning and I am back at my desk, the sky is grey and I face the prospect of another day in paradise sitting at my P.c trying to fix problems for people that don't give a toss. Is this what they call living...BUT HANG ON not 48 hours earlier I was in Welsh Wales hurtling down the side of a mountain with every fibre of my being screaming with exhilleration and fear, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end as my muscles burn and my arms and hands feel numb from trying to control my Trek. My brain working faster and with more agility than it has done for years trying to pick the correct route through boulders and tree roots whilst all the time scanning the trail ahead for pit falls and drop offs. For me the mental skill involved in this sort of riding is as importent as the technical skills and fitness, at work I am well within my comfort zone and have been for years (just keep your head down and take the money) so the chance to flex my brain cells is a welcome change. As good as the riding was, the best part for me is the camaraderie that exists within the group.The willingness that everyone has to pitch in, be it cooking breakfast to fixing bike problems. From sharing beer to encouraging those of us who took to biking far to late. This is what sets the Godiva Trailriders apart and long may it continue.

Cheers Lads
Dave B