Reproduced from The Observer Newspaper (October 2014)
Six mornings a week Zahra Alizada is on her bike long before 5am, slipping through the grey pre-dawn in a small pack of women savouring the brief peace on Kabul’s normally hectic, dusty streets.
Afghans rise early, and many of them are still scandalised to see a woman in sports kit speeding past on a racing bike. The Afghan women’s cycling team know this because, as the traffic swells towards the end of their morning training at around seven, men and boys start hurling insults and sometimes stones or chunks of rubbish at the women as they ride past.
“My sister encourages me,” says 16-year-old Alizada, one of the stars of the team, who juggles up to four hours training a day with school. “If a women just walks down the street, people often harass her, so if you go out on a bike they will certainly bother you. You just have to not let yourself care about it.”
So the women get up earlier than everyone else in summer and winter, and train after dark in the fasting month of Ramadan, racing around the empty roads of a half-finished housing development or straining up hills near a reservoir on the edge of town.
“These girls are challenging a big taboo in Afghanistan, riding a bicycle,” said Shannon Galpin, an American who is helping to train the team and, through her tiny charity Mountain2Mountain, has drummed up hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment, sponsorship and publicity. She supports both male and female teams, but her work is inspired by the role of cycling in women’s rights movements worldwide, and her heart is clearly with the revolutionary girls. “Bikes equal freedom of movement and independent travel,” she says. “They are a cheap and accessible way for women to get to schools and hospitals, and they make it harder for men to attack them.”
Their hair is covered under helmets, but otherwise, in their loose tracksuits and trainers, they look much the same as the male team cycling beside them as unofficial guards.
“I’ve been fascinated by cycling since I was very young. I love the speed,” Alizada says. “Most of the time we exercise with the boys, to help make us braver, stronger. Sometimes when I’m with them, I feel like I’m not a girl.
Driving them all is coach Abdul Sadiq, whose obsession with cycling began decades ago when he read about a lovelorn Afghan who cycled to India to woo a Bollywood star. Sadiq spent years chasing visas to make the same trip, which never happened. Instead he ended up as the country’s first, and for years only, professional cyclist.
“People call me the father of cycling here,” he says with a grin.
Sadiq has been trying to get Afghan women on bikes for decades, a project interrupted by the Taliban but restarted with his own daughter as soon as the hardline government was toppled.
Under communist rule, women often cycled to school or work, and his club had more female cyclists than men, but when civil war swept into the city he was forced to shut it down for the women’s safety. “There was one mujahideen commander who was like a wild animal from a jungle. He was very surprised to see that girls could bike, and every day we trained he would come and stare at us,” Sadiq said.
“I called all my students to the club and said the women can no longer train because of the security situation. The girls started crying, and for me it is one of my saddest memories.”
Years of conservatism have left their mark, and the women’s team today is a tiny, if determined, band: 15 cyclists in total, and just six of them on the national team. Most of the others are novices. “Years ago it was easy to persuade parents to let their daughters cycle; now I have hundreds of cases where the women want to cycle but their family refuses. One girl even lay down crying at her father’s feet, but he still would not let her.”
Many families say they worry as much about safety as their daughters’ reputations. In a country where girls have faced acid attacks just for going to school, the dangers of doing sport in public go beyond insults or the momentary impact of a well-aimed stone. Last year one of the riders was slammed off the road and her bike by a man on a motorbike, and spent nearly a week in hospital and a month recovering.
In September, as the summer heat waned but Afghanistan was filled with political tension waiting for the results of fraud-riddled elections, Sadiq also ended up in hospital after an attack.
“Coach and myself have been getting threats. It seems in this case that one of the threats was real,” Galpin said dryly. But he, the Alizada sisters and the rest of the team are back to training undeterred, their hopes fixed on the 2016 Olympics and a quiet revolution at home.
The first international appearance by a female Afghan cyclist was only three years ago. They have yet to win any medals – or even finish some of the tougher races – but that is only pushing them to train harder.
“These girls are not competitive. They haven't won any races and they have broken no records,” Galpin admits. “Many have only started riding in the past couple of years. They do not always finish the longer races, but they are winning every time they line up at international competitions, changing the face of the sport and showing the determination and bravery of Afghan women.”
My personal view
As an update to this story, which has captured my attention, the Afghan Women's Cycling Team were awarded the 2016 National Geographic Adventurers of the Year.
This was shared with mountain climbers, extreme kayakers, solar pilots, trial runners and conservationists. They are in illustrious company in this current year as well as with previous winners being Ellen MacArthur (2006) for her circumnavigation by yacht, Tim Cope horse whisperer (2008) , Felix Baumgartner cosmic space jumper.
The award is far reaching and recipients have been nowhere near household names or commercial successes but have displayed exceptional qualities and endurance in their pursuits.
The Afghan Women's Cycling Team team have also been nominated for the accolade of a Nobel Peace Prize.
In a May 2016 article in National Geographic Shannon Galpin, who has worked and travelled in Afghanistan for eight years supporting art installations and of course the AWCT through her non-profit organisation has expressed worrying concerns.
A New York Times Article has alleged corruption, mismanagement and abuse affecting the team. Their Coach and Mentor is reportedly at the centre of the scandals. Ms Galpin is obviously devastated at this most unwelcome distraction to the women riders especially as the sport has galvanised other teams to form including a co-ed bike club so that boys and girls can ride together in solidarity. It is a defining time for the future of the team . The women have already claimed a great victory in getting this far but as Shannon concludes "they cannot continue to ride alone".
Saturday, 7 May 2016
Friday, 6 May 2016
Sword in the Stone
It is important to always read the small print.
It is a sign of our times that there are those out to mislead, bamboozle and fleece either intentionally or not and they can put a veneer of respectability on it by disclaiming everything in the miniscule text somewhere at the end of a document or on-line application.
In my case the small print was on a nice, compact and glossy brochure for the Cornish Tourist attraction of Tintagel Castle.
It is a magical place, there is no doubt about that whatsoever.
Imagine a perfect location for a fortress, add to it the moody sea, an endless sky, a cave, a tortuous walkway access and a legend.
Tintagel is intrinsically associated with King Arthur and his entourage, the Knights of the Round Table. Everyone knows the tales of gallantry, questing, romance, betrayal and nobility centred on the boy turned king who pulled the sword out of the stone, the mystical wizard Merlin, the heroic Sir Lancelot and the perhaps fickle and impressionable Guinevere.
My first experience of Tintagel could not have been more magical.
We were on a family holiday in a static caravan, incidentally manufactured in our home town some 200 plus miles to the north. On a particularly wet day we had steamed up the car on a drive along the dramatic Cornwall coast looking to tick items off our checklist of the perfect English seaside vacation. We had feasted on battered fish, chips and mushy peas ( the main cause of the aforementioned steamed up vehicle), bought ice creams in a beach-side car park, spent a few pounds in the amusement arcade and looked afar on a huddled group of sad looking donkeys in the lee of a line of camper vans parked up, their owners waiting for the cry of "surfs up".
For all of these highlights the day was still dark, gloomy and wet.
As we headed back on the inland route to our caravan pitch I remembered having seen a leaflet earlier on the noticeboard in the chip shop about a puppet depiction of the Arthurian Legend that very evening at Tintagel Castle. The place was not too much of a diversion.
The idea went down well with the family in spite of their damp clothing and over indulgences.
As if conjured up by Merlin himself the weather improved remarkably. Two hours later, by the time we made our way across the elevated wooden bridge and cliff hugging pathway onto the plateau of the castle ruins it was the the most wonderful summers evening you could hope for.
The performance portrayed by the marionettes and their handlers caught the very essence and mysticism of the characters and storylines. Our children, now all in their 20's often recall with great fondness the ambience, emotion and humour that we were fortunate to see.
Just last year we revisited Tintagel.
Somewhat older and perhaps a bit more cynical and critical there was, nevertheless the same feeling of history and that age of chivalry embodied by Arthur and his Round Table Knights. Rather than a theatrical rendition there was now a visitor centre with film show, gift shop and cafe with everything available in every global language, such is the drawer of the legend.
I sat quietly on a slab of exposed rock at the highest point of the promontory rock looking out to the Atlantic Ocean trying to recall what I knew about the stories of that era.
I knew by instinct that the Court of King Arthur was the epitome of equality , honour and chivalry. The Cornish ethic of gallantry was a strong strain running through everything. In movies and literature there was humanity, frailty, vulnerability and a deep conflict of emotions surrounding the main protagonists. Even though that period of contemplation was on a cooler september day I felt a warm glow of pride and nationalism at the very thought of being in the very birthplace of English idealism and spirit.
I thought about getting a memento of my visit. Part of the rocky slab on which I was sat was loose and so I pocketed it in my cagoule. I was happy with a piece of our heritage, and not at all guilty about vandalising a national monument.
Back at the cafe, sipping a latte I was browsing through yet another tourist leaflet.
The small print left me reeling.
There was no foundation whatsoever that Arthur lived at or even visited Tintagel Castle.
It appears that the whole legend may be a complete fabrication.
There is no authoratative record of anyone called Arthur in that era.
The fifth and sixth centuries were the Post-Roman Period in England when everything was up for grabs by the previously suppressed tribes and European Invaders. There was scope for a hero to come to the rescue and restore peace and tranquility from the anarchy.
It is now thought by academics and historians that the saviour was more likely to have been an ex-Roman Administrator and with Camelot possibly the Romano-British settlement of Colchester.
The Arthurian Legend was embellished in the Medieval Period, some 800 years later by the likes of Geoffrey of Monmouth and other speculative writers under the guise of historical fact.
There may not have been a Round Table.
The French introduced the idea of The Holy Grail in their own versions of folk tales.
I am a bit disappointed by these revelations but not surprised.
It appears that, as we all may have suspected, the very essence of Englishness so often grounded in the Arthurian Legends is in fact based on the matter of fact activities of an accountant and the imagination of our near neighbours in Europe. Nothing has really changed really, has it?
It is a sign of our times that there are those out to mislead, bamboozle and fleece either intentionally or not and they can put a veneer of respectability on it by disclaiming everything in the miniscule text somewhere at the end of a document or on-line application.
In my case the small print was on a nice, compact and glossy brochure for the Cornish Tourist attraction of Tintagel Castle.
It is a magical place, there is no doubt about that whatsoever.
Imagine a perfect location for a fortress, add to it the moody sea, an endless sky, a cave, a tortuous walkway access and a legend.
Tintagel is intrinsically associated with King Arthur and his entourage, the Knights of the Round Table. Everyone knows the tales of gallantry, questing, romance, betrayal and nobility centred on the boy turned king who pulled the sword out of the stone, the mystical wizard Merlin, the heroic Sir Lancelot and the perhaps fickle and impressionable Guinevere.
My first experience of Tintagel could not have been more magical.
We were on a family holiday in a static caravan, incidentally manufactured in our home town some 200 plus miles to the north. On a particularly wet day we had steamed up the car on a drive along the dramatic Cornwall coast looking to tick items off our checklist of the perfect English seaside vacation. We had feasted on battered fish, chips and mushy peas ( the main cause of the aforementioned steamed up vehicle), bought ice creams in a beach-side car park, spent a few pounds in the amusement arcade and looked afar on a huddled group of sad looking donkeys in the lee of a line of camper vans parked up, their owners waiting for the cry of "surfs up".
For all of these highlights the day was still dark, gloomy and wet.
As we headed back on the inland route to our caravan pitch I remembered having seen a leaflet earlier on the noticeboard in the chip shop about a puppet depiction of the Arthurian Legend that very evening at Tintagel Castle. The place was not too much of a diversion.
The idea went down well with the family in spite of their damp clothing and over indulgences.
As if conjured up by Merlin himself the weather improved remarkably. Two hours later, by the time we made our way across the elevated wooden bridge and cliff hugging pathway onto the plateau of the castle ruins it was the the most wonderful summers evening you could hope for.
The performance portrayed by the marionettes and their handlers caught the very essence and mysticism of the characters and storylines. Our children, now all in their 20's often recall with great fondness the ambience, emotion and humour that we were fortunate to see.
Just last year we revisited Tintagel.
Somewhat older and perhaps a bit more cynical and critical there was, nevertheless the same feeling of history and that age of chivalry embodied by Arthur and his Round Table Knights. Rather than a theatrical rendition there was now a visitor centre with film show, gift shop and cafe with everything available in every global language, such is the drawer of the legend.
I sat quietly on a slab of exposed rock at the highest point of the promontory rock looking out to the Atlantic Ocean trying to recall what I knew about the stories of that era.
I knew by instinct that the Court of King Arthur was the epitome of equality , honour and chivalry. The Cornish ethic of gallantry was a strong strain running through everything. In movies and literature there was humanity, frailty, vulnerability and a deep conflict of emotions surrounding the main protagonists. Even though that period of contemplation was on a cooler september day I felt a warm glow of pride and nationalism at the very thought of being in the very birthplace of English idealism and spirit.
I thought about getting a memento of my visit. Part of the rocky slab on which I was sat was loose and so I pocketed it in my cagoule. I was happy with a piece of our heritage, and not at all guilty about vandalising a national monument.
Back at the cafe, sipping a latte I was browsing through yet another tourist leaflet.
The small print left me reeling.
There was no foundation whatsoever that Arthur lived at or even visited Tintagel Castle.
It appears that the whole legend may be a complete fabrication.
There is no authoratative record of anyone called Arthur in that era.
The fifth and sixth centuries were the Post-Roman Period in England when everything was up for grabs by the previously suppressed tribes and European Invaders. There was scope for a hero to come to the rescue and restore peace and tranquility from the anarchy.
It is now thought by academics and historians that the saviour was more likely to have been an ex-Roman Administrator and with Camelot possibly the Romano-British settlement of Colchester.
The Arthurian Legend was embellished in the Medieval Period, some 800 years later by the likes of Geoffrey of Monmouth and other speculative writers under the guise of historical fact.
There may not have been a Round Table.
The French introduced the idea of The Holy Grail in their own versions of folk tales.
I am a bit disappointed by these revelations but not surprised.
It appears that, as we all may have suspected, the very essence of Englishness so often grounded in the Arthurian Legends is in fact based on the matter of fact activities of an accountant and the imagination of our near neighbours in Europe. Nothing has really changed really, has it?
Thursday, 5 May 2016
Cabin Fever
For those who have flown in a commercial airliner there can be mixed feelings of excitement and uneasiness.
The former is associated with the purpose of the flight, a holiday, reunion, migration to another country and the latter being perfectly natural where you trust others to do their job and get you to your destination safely.
I was a very late starter in flying with my first overseas vacation to involve use of a passenger jet being at the age of 37.
This can be explained by a number of factors including perfectly good destinations within driving distance in the UK and Northern Europe, a young family with insurmountable logistics for foreign travel , the cost of course and the fact that a relative died in a plane crash in the 1970's. The last tragedy probably played at the back of my mind more than the other more material issues.
I did experience stronger emotions of terror than excitement on my first take-off from Manchester en route to Cephalonia, Greece. I did not really know what to expect in terms of speed along the runway, the accompanying noise of powerful engines and the general rattling and bouncing that goes with a acceleration from a standing start to heave the aircraft and its load into the air.
The steep angle of ascent into the Lancashire sky and a few more lurches and twitches of the cabin did cause me palpitations as did the occasional shudder and stagger from turbulence which was inevitable in the warming air of a July morning.
Within a few years I came to take flying for granted as our main annual holiday was now more likely to be a dash for the sunshine around the Mediterranean. I was being prepared for a once in a lifetime flight to visit my wife's family in Australia via Singapore.
To many of us being a passenger in a commercial aircraft is straight forward and enjoyable. That was becoming my attitude until my younger brother had to spend a couple of days in a hyperbaric chamber in his local hospital following what appeared to have been a near catastrophic failure of the cabin oxygen system on a short haul flight returning from Germany.
This is an extreme example of just one health implication of flying.
Apparently there are a few other health issues that we should be 1) aware of and 2) a little bit scared of.
An aircraft cabin is a closed environment. The air pressure is at 75% of normal atmospheric pressure which is the equivalent as being for the duration at the same altitude as Mexico City. The lowering of oxygen in the bloodstream can cause the condition of Hypoxia with feelings of dizziness, fatigue and headaches.
On a flight we are 100 times more likely to catch a cold. Half of the cabin air is re-circulated causing germs and viruses to spread easily amongst the passengers.
Humidity levels can be as low as 4%. Gradually under such conditions there can be drying out of the mucus membranes in nose, throat and ears. On a 3 hour flight, which from the UK will get you to the central Mediterranean, it is possible to lose one and a half litres of water from the body with a real risk of dehydration.
Even our taste buds are affected being numbed at high altitude. Dryness and air pressure changes can affect ears, sinuses and taste. My ears regularly build up with pressure and pop multiple times.
You may have noticed feeling bloated and with stomach pains and even constipation which is down to air pressure.
There has been a lot of encouragement in the media in recent years to wear compression socks, take an aspirin and if possible move about the cabin to offset the risk of deep vein thrombosis.
A lesser known and publicised side effect is cosmic radiation. A seven hour flight gives exposure to the same dose of radiation as having an X-Ray.
Not wanting to cause panic but there have also been incidences of E.Coli and other bacterial infections from on-board water supplies.
Plenty to think about then and that is before you accept any of the complimentary pre-prepared and warmed up catering, experience the stress of being pestered by cabin staff to buy a lottery ticket or something from the glossy, aspirational in flight duty free brochure.
It should be remembered that flying is still one of the safest ways to travel even if you arrive at your destination in a poorer state of health than when you left home.
(Source document; The Independent)
The former is associated with the purpose of the flight, a holiday, reunion, migration to another country and the latter being perfectly natural where you trust others to do their job and get you to your destination safely.
I was a very late starter in flying with my first overseas vacation to involve use of a passenger jet being at the age of 37.
This can be explained by a number of factors including perfectly good destinations within driving distance in the UK and Northern Europe, a young family with insurmountable logistics for foreign travel , the cost of course and the fact that a relative died in a plane crash in the 1970's. The last tragedy probably played at the back of my mind more than the other more material issues.
I did experience stronger emotions of terror than excitement on my first take-off from Manchester en route to Cephalonia, Greece. I did not really know what to expect in terms of speed along the runway, the accompanying noise of powerful engines and the general rattling and bouncing that goes with a acceleration from a standing start to heave the aircraft and its load into the air.
The steep angle of ascent into the Lancashire sky and a few more lurches and twitches of the cabin did cause me palpitations as did the occasional shudder and stagger from turbulence which was inevitable in the warming air of a July morning.
Within a few years I came to take flying for granted as our main annual holiday was now more likely to be a dash for the sunshine around the Mediterranean. I was being prepared for a once in a lifetime flight to visit my wife's family in Australia via Singapore.
To many of us being a passenger in a commercial aircraft is straight forward and enjoyable. That was becoming my attitude until my younger brother had to spend a couple of days in a hyperbaric chamber in his local hospital following what appeared to have been a near catastrophic failure of the cabin oxygen system on a short haul flight returning from Germany.
This is an extreme example of just one health implication of flying.
Apparently there are a few other health issues that we should be 1) aware of and 2) a little bit scared of.
An aircraft cabin is a closed environment. The air pressure is at 75% of normal atmospheric pressure which is the equivalent as being for the duration at the same altitude as Mexico City. The lowering of oxygen in the bloodstream can cause the condition of Hypoxia with feelings of dizziness, fatigue and headaches.
On a flight we are 100 times more likely to catch a cold. Half of the cabin air is re-circulated causing germs and viruses to spread easily amongst the passengers.
Humidity levels can be as low as 4%. Gradually under such conditions there can be drying out of the mucus membranes in nose, throat and ears. On a 3 hour flight, which from the UK will get you to the central Mediterranean, it is possible to lose one and a half litres of water from the body with a real risk of dehydration.
Even our taste buds are affected being numbed at high altitude. Dryness and air pressure changes can affect ears, sinuses and taste. My ears regularly build up with pressure and pop multiple times.
You may have noticed feeling bloated and with stomach pains and even constipation which is down to air pressure.
There has been a lot of encouragement in the media in recent years to wear compression socks, take an aspirin and if possible move about the cabin to offset the risk of deep vein thrombosis.
A lesser known and publicised side effect is cosmic radiation. A seven hour flight gives exposure to the same dose of radiation as having an X-Ray.
Not wanting to cause panic but there have also been incidences of E.Coli and other bacterial infections from on-board water supplies.
Plenty to think about then and that is before you accept any of the complimentary pre-prepared and warmed up catering, experience the stress of being pestered by cabin staff to buy a lottery ticket or something from the glossy, aspirational in flight duty free brochure.
It should be remembered that flying is still one of the safest ways to travel even if you arrive at your destination in a poorer state of health than when you left home.
(Source document; The Independent)
Wednesday, 4 May 2016
Can't see it myself
A question.
What in your opinion is the best rock or pop song to come out of Holland?
I live in the east coast Port City of Hull which runs an overnight passenger and freight ferry to and from Rotterdam and so you could say that for those returning to the UK the best thing to be heard coming out of Holland would be the song playing on their media player when setting sail.
I admit that, when the theme of music of Dutch origin came to mind, I did struggle to put together a shortlist.
There are the obvious contenders who have stormed the world with their particular style but then again I can say, hand on heart and swearing on the lives of my nearest and dearest that I have never bought or owned a record by Father Abraham and The Smurfs.
As a tenous link to the Netherlands one of their famous musician sons was Eddie Van Halen although technically he did leave with his family for America at the age of 7. His influences are more likely to have been experienced Stateside rather than dyke-side.
Every country on earth has at least one pop and rock legend who is of megastar status within its own borders but is incapable of breaking out and enjoying fame and fortune on other shores. The likes of Johnny Halliday (France), Shaking Stevens (UK) and for Holland, Herman Brood are good examples (letters of complaint from respective Fan Clubs will be responded to).
In the metrosexual climate of Europe a few individuals have just been adopted without consideration of their nationality. A prime example of this being the clubland, electro-pop and DJ Armin Van Buuren.
Eccentricities of a nation can be reflected in some of its music output. The rock classic, Hocus Pocus by the Dutch prog-rock group Focus is perhaps the most full on bonkers sound but never fails to get me to fire up my air guitar and roll about laughing at the yodelling vocals.
By a process of elimination I have arrived at perhaps the top contender for the definitive rock and pop song from Holland. The song is Radar Love. It was co-written for the 1973 album, Moontown by George Kooymans and Barry Hay, members of Golden Earring.
It was not an instant global hit, only reaching the number one hit parade position on home ground and strangely in Rhodesia but yet everyone must be able to recognise the distinctive slow rift start, punchy rhythm and high tempo beat behind snappy and repetitive lyrics.
The song, quite long at one second over five minutes soon began to appear on compilation albums and particular those with a car driving theme. It has been voted on many occasions as best driving soundtrack and for this reason it has become firmly entrenched in the public consciousness.
It is also regularly featured in media from movies such as Wayne's World, Pushing Tin and The Break Up and on television including at least two appearances on The Simpsons, and as background music on the X-Files, Six Feet Under, My Name is Earl and of course, Top Gear.
Golden Earring almost single handedly created Dutch Rock history in the 1970's. Other artists have paid homage to the song with the first cover versions being heard as early as 1974 when the big band sound so characteristic of James Last brought out a rather tame, smoozy and mass appeal version.
Bands and performers touring Holland found Radar Love to be a real crowd pleaser and many shows were opened or closed to its strains by Def Leppard, REM, Carlos Santana, Thunder, U2, Crowded House, The Blue Man Group, Bryan Adams, Hanoi Rocks, New Model Army and Patti Smith.
The distinctive riffs and vocals will also be making their way across the universe having been associated with radio broadcasts to the NASA Space Station and Mars Pathfinder.
It might not be at all bad if a distant intelligent species first perception of the human race is the best and arguably most successful record to come out of Holland.
What in your opinion is the best rock or pop song to come out of Holland?
I live in the east coast Port City of Hull which runs an overnight passenger and freight ferry to and from Rotterdam and so you could say that for those returning to the UK the best thing to be heard coming out of Holland would be the song playing on their media player when setting sail.
I admit that, when the theme of music of Dutch origin came to mind, I did struggle to put together a shortlist.
There are the obvious contenders who have stormed the world with their particular style but then again I can say, hand on heart and swearing on the lives of my nearest and dearest that I have never bought or owned a record by Father Abraham and The Smurfs.
As a tenous link to the Netherlands one of their famous musician sons was Eddie Van Halen although technically he did leave with his family for America at the age of 7. His influences are more likely to have been experienced Stateside rather than dyke-side.
Every country on earth has at least one pop and rock legend who is of megastar status within its own borders but is incapable of breaking out and enjoying fame and fortune on other shores. The likes of Johnny Halliday (France), Shaking Stevens (UK) and for Holland, Herman Brood are good examples (letters of complaint from respective Fan Clubs will be responded to).
In the metrosexual climate of Europe a few individuals have just been adopted without consideration of their nationality. A prime example of this being the clubland, electro-pop and DJ Armin Van Buuren.
Eccentricities of a nation can be reflected in some of its music output. The rock classic, Hocus Pocus by the Dutch prog-rock group Focus is perhaps the most full on bonkers sound but never fails to get me to fire up my air guitar and roll about laughing at the yodelling vocals.
By a process of elimination I have arrived at perhaps the top contender for the definitive rock and pop song from Holland. The song is Radar Love. It was co-written for the 1973 album, Moontown by George Kooymans and Barry Hay, members of Golden Earring.
It was not an instant global hit, only reaching the number one hit parade position on home ground and strangely in Rhodesia but yet everyone must be able to recognise the distinctive slow rift start, punchy rhythm and high tempo beat behind snappy and repetitive lyrics.
The song, quite long at one second over five minutes soon began to appear on compilation albums and particular those with a car driving theme. It has been voted on many occasions as best driving soundtrack and for this reason it has become firmly entrenched in the public consciousness.
It is also regularly featured in media from movies such as Wayne's World, Pushing Tin and The Break Up and on television including at least two appearances on The Simpsons, and as background music on the X-Files, Six Feet Under, My Name is Earl and of course, Top Gear.
Golden Earring almost single handedly created Dutch Rock history in the 1970's. Other artists have paid homage to the song with the first cover versions being heard as early as 1974 when the big band sound so characteristic of James Last brought out a rather tame, smoozy and mass appeal version.
Bands and performers touring Holland found Radar Love to be a real crowd pleaser and many shows were opened or closed to its strains by Def Leppard, REM, Carlos Santana, Thunder, U2, Crowded House, The Blue Man Group, Bryan Adams, Hanoi Rocks, New Model Army and Patti Smith.
The distinctive riffs and vocals will also be making their way across the universe having been associated with radio broadcasts to the NASA Space Station and Mars Pathfinder.
It might not be at all bad if a distant intelligent species first perception of the human race is the best and arguably most successful record to come out of Holland.
I've been drivin' all night, my hand's wet on the wheel
There's a voice in my head that drives my heel
It's my baby callin', says I need you here
And it's a half past four and I'm shiftin' gear
When she is lonely and the longing gets too much
She sends a cable comin' in from above
Don't need no phone at all
There's a voice in my head that drives my heel
It's my baby callin', says I need you here
And it's a half past four and I'm shiftin' gear
When she is lonely and the longing gets too much
She sends a cable comin' in from above
Don't need no phone at all
We've got a thing that's called radar love
We've got a wave in the air, radar love
The radio is playing some forgotten song
Brenda Lee's comin' on strongThe Song itself
We've got a wave in the air, radar love
The radio is playing some forgotten song
Brenda Lee's comin' on strongThe Song itself
The road has got me hypnotized
And I'm speedin' into a new sunrise
When I get lonely and I'm sure I've had enough
She sends her comfort comin' in from above
And I'm speedin' into a new sunrise
When I get lonely and I'm sure I've had enough
She sends her comfort comin' in from above
We don't need no letter at all
We've got a thing that's called radar love
We've got a light in the sky, radar love
We've got a thing that's called radar love
We've got a light in the sky, radar love
No more speed, I'm almost there
Gotta keep cool now, gotta take care
Last car to pass, here I go
Gotta keep cool now, gotta take care
Last car to pass, here I go
And the line of cars drove down real slow
And the radio played that forgotten song
Brenda Lee's comin' on strong
And the newsman sang his same song
Oh one more radar lover gone
And the radio played that forgotten song
Brenda Lee's comin' on strong
And the newsman sang his same song
Oh one more radar lover gone
When I get lonely and I'm sure I've had enough
She sends her comfort comin' in from above
We don't need no letter at all
She sends her comfort comin' in from above
We don't need no letter at all
We've got a thing that's called radar love
We've got a light in the sky
We've got a light in the sky
We've got a thing that's called radar love
We've got a thing that's called radar love
We've got a thing that's called radar love
Tuesday, 3 May 2016
Campagnolo
When it came to buying my first proper racing bike back in 1982 I wanted the best that I could afford.
This extravagance was only possible through a bequest from my Grandfather as at that time I was an impoverished student.
Money was tight, even under the old Grant system and my diet reflected this. I lived on ox liver, tinned tomatoes and for a real treat I could often be found sitting in a city centre doorway working my way through a baguette, just the baguette with nothing on it.
Momentarily flush for cash in my bike fund the decision on what equipment to put on the custom measured racing frame was made easy. It had to be Campagnolo.
The founder of the Italian components empire, Tullio Campagnolo was a legend in his own lifetime.
He not only invented, engineered and patented an unsurpassed catalogue of equipment but also a larger than life image of himself on which he capitalised for his business interests.
Take the most well known story of how the quick release skewer came to be.
Anyone with a modern racing bike with lightweight wheels will be very familiar with the quick release. In design it is the epitome of form and function. In its pure incarnation it consists of a long, thin rod, threaded on one end and with a lever operated cam assembly on the other. The rod, inserted into the hollow axle of a wheel hub is secured at the threaded end by a nut fixing and then the lever can be closed to secure the wheel to the frame forks and dropouts.
My first experience of a quick release was fraught with difficulty and uncertainty and to some the use of it can constitute a major problem.
There are, in this internet age, many on-line tutorials on how to correctly use the mechanism. How to loosen, how to tighten, in what position to leave the lever when the wheel is secured are the main issues.
This only goes to illustrate the pitfalls as well as the advantages.
At the age of 26, as the Campagnolo legend goes, the enthusiastic Tullio was competing in top level cycle races in his home country. His Palmares or record of achievement shows participation in events such as the classic Astico Brenta (still running today) in Northern Italy, the epic Milan San Remo and the Giro Lombardia albeit very much in the lower placings.
Racing bikes of the time were unwieldy although there were innovations taking place to make frames stronger and lighter. Fixed gears were the normal transmission with the rear wheel being the mounting for different cogs, one on each side.
If a gear change was required it was a case of stopping, dismounting and wrestling with the wingnut fixings to be able to turn the wheel around, refix and then continue.
You can imagine the sheer frustration and inconvenience arising from this performance. Any forward momentum and motivation to go fast would just disappear. It would only be on a downward slope that you could hope to turn a bigger gear to regain lost time.
On an undulating course the stop-go-stop-go rhythm, or lack of it, must have been infuriating.
The Campagnolo story in this instance involved just such a scenario.
Tullio was in the Gran Premio della Vittoria (now the name of a major horse race). On snow covered roads, whether due to altitude of just the early Spring weather he attempted to change gears.
Frozen hands made it difficult to operate the wing nuts on the back wheel and he lost time on his rivals. This setback had quite an affect on the mid twenty something. The phrase "necessity is the mother of invention" must have been at the forefront of his post-race-post-mortem and so, the legend goes, the quick release skewer was invented.
There has been some doubt cast on the authenticity of the story. The photograph looks like an intentional pose but that is not intended to be a criticism.
Research has suggested that Tullio did not even appear on the start list for the Gran Premio della Vittoria and that the race is later in the season and therefore unlikely to be subject to an extreme winter climate.
Whatever the truth Tullio was a prolific inventor during his life and many developments that we now take for granted were amongst his many Patents.
He was also quite analytical of existing equipment and had a determination to reverse engineer and make them much better.
He pioneered an early version of a derailleur gear changing system although already widely used in mass production models.
I cannot help but marvel at the Campagnolo components that still adorn my 1982 wonder bike purchase.
The brake sets, front and rear changers retain that satin lustre as though machine polished only yesterday.
I have kept the downtube gear shift levers even though their operation demands a lot of pre-planning and that momentary downward glance can be hazardous whilst travelling at speed on a public highway. Younger cyclists on expensive carbon or aluminium frame bikes with integral components often flag me down to have a gawp at the Campag group set as even at distance it just shouts out quality and style.
The chainset, unfortunately, sheared its threads a few years ago now but I keep that work of art on public show on the shelf at the back of the garage/bike shed/workshop.
Me and Tullio have a bit of history through his beautifully crafted and manufactured components.
I have my Grandfather to thank for the means to purchase the bike and I think that he would certainly have got on well with Mr Campagnolo had they ever had an opportunity to meet.
This extravagance was only possible through a bequest from my Grandfather as at that time I was an impoverished student.
Money was tight, even under the old Grant system and my diet reflected this. I lived on ox liver, tinned tomatoes and for a real treat I could often be found sitting in a city centre doorway working my way through a baguette, just the baguette with nothing on it.
Momentarily flush for cash in my bike fund the decision on what equipment to put on the custom measured racing frame was made easy. It had to be Campagnolo.
The founder of the Italian components empire, Tullio Campagnolo was a legend in his own lifetime.
He not only invented, engineered and patented an unsurpassed catalogue of equipment but also a larger than life image of himself on which he capitalised for his business interests.
Take the most well known story of how the quick release skewer came to be.
Anyone with a modern racing bike with lightweight wheels will be very familiar with the quick release. In design it is the epitome of form and function. In its pure incarnation it consists of a long, thin rod, threaded on one end and with a lever operated cam assembly on the other. The rod, inserted into the hollow axle of a wheel hub is secured at the threaded end by a nut fixing and then the lever can be closed to secure the wheel to the frame forks and dropouts.
My first experience of a quick release was fraught with difficulty and uncertainty and to some the use of it can constitute a major problem.
There are, in this internet age, many on-line tutorials on how to correctly use the mechanism. How to loosen, how to tighten, in what position to leave the lever when the wheel is secured are the main issues.
This only goes to illustrate the pitfalls as well as the advantages.
At the age of 26, as the Campagnolo legend goes, the enthusiastic Tullio was competing in top level cycle races in his home country. His Palmares or record of achievement shows participation in events such as the classic Astico Brenta (still running today) in Northern Italy, the epic Milan San Remo and the Giro Lombardia albeit very much in the lower placings.
Racing bikes of the time were unwieldy although there were innovations taking place to make frames stronger and lighter. Fixed gears were the normal transmission with the rear wheel being the mounting for different cogs, one on each side.
If a gear change was required it was a case of stopping, dismounting and wrestling with the wingnut fixings to be able to turn the wheel around, refix and then continue.
You can imagine the sheer frustration and inconvenience arising from this performance. Any forward momentum and motivation to go fast would just disappear. It would only be on a downward slope that you could hope to turn a bigger gear to regain lost time.
On an undulating course the stop-go-stop-go rhythm, or lack of it, must have been infuriating.
The Campagnolo story in this instance involved just such a scenario.
Tullio was in the Gran Premio della Vittoria (now the name of a major horse race). On snow covered roads, whether due to altitude of just the early Spring weather he attempted to change gears.
Frozen hands made it difficult to operate the wing nuts on the back wheel and he lost time on his rivals. This setback had quite an affect on the mid twenty something. The phrase "necessity is the mother of invention" must have been at the forefront of his post-race-post-mortem and so, the legend goes, the quick release skewer was invented.
There has been some doubt cast on the authenticity of the story. The photograph looks like an intentional pose but that is not intended to be a criticism.
Research has suggested that Tullio did not even appear on the start list for the Gran Premio della Vittoria and that the race is later in the season and therefore unlikely to be subject to an extreme winter climate.
Whatever the truth Tullio was a prolific inventor during his life and many developments that we now take for granted were amongst his many Patents.
He was also quite analytical of existing equipment and had a determination to reverse engineer and make them much better.
He pioneered an early version of a derailleur gear changing system although already widely used in mass production models.
I cannot help but marvel at the Campagnolo components that still adorn my 1982 wonder bike purchase.
The brake sets, front and rear changers retain that satin lustre as though machine polished only yesterday.
I have kept the downtube gear shift levers even though their operation demands a lot of pre-planning and that momentary downward glance can be hazardous whilst travelling at speed on a public highway. Younger cyclists on expensive carbon or aluminium frame bikes with integral components often flag me down to have a gawp at the Campag group set as even at distance it just shouts out quality and style.
The chainset, unfortunately, sheared its threads a few years ago now but I keep that work of art on public show on the shelf at the back of the garage/bike shed/workshop.
Me and Tullio have a bit of history through his beautifully crafted and manufactured components.
I have my Grandfather to thank for the means to purchase the bike and I think that he would certainly have got on well with Mr Campagnolo had they ever had an opportunity to meet.
Monday, 2 May 2016
Family Planning
I feel a little bit better, although still very mortified, by the news that a good proportion of parent's regularly raid the piggy banks and money boxes of their children for everyday expenses.
I admit to having done that very thing for some years.
I have shamelessly worked on the insider knowledge of generous gifts of coinage from doting grandparents that the children, when very young, were not aware of nor would they actually appreciate that they were quids in.
There was no question that I was technically misappropriating the funds.
Had I been in charge of a petty cash float in a business context or donations in a charitable sphere and adopted the same practice then I would be open to criminal action and all of the sanctions that go with that.
However, I contend that I have a moral legitimacy to tap into this resource on the basis that I am investing in a roundabout way for their longer term futures.
The moneys may seem to be frittered away on a food shop, to pay a domestic bill or to help fill up the family car with fuel. Such expenditure is essential to the smooth and efficient running of a household. I can truthfully and without fear of contradiction state that I have not profited personally from any re-assignment of cash nor gambled or speculated with it.
Perhaps the most selfish application would be for the purchase of a takeaway meal where I am responsible for the choice of menu and also undertake the logistics of going to order and bring it back but yet we all share in it.
When the children were younger the pickings were fairly spartan, as I said, but in teenage years with an allowance and also potential income from part time and casual jobs there can be quite a tangible reserve at my disposal.
I do make a point of asking for a subby first although I find that very difficult and in some respects regard it as a failure as a parent and father.
If the children are out at school and I am confronted with an expense I just dip into the nearest jar of coins, stack of pennies or deposits of loose change which have been left lying around as though discarded. I admit to having used a kitchen knife or a scale ruler to tease coins out of a piggy savings bank but that has to be a last resort regardless of the pressing circumstances.
In most instances the re-allocation of monies goes unnoticed and I may get an opportunity to actually reimburse within a few days. This can take the form of paper money to replace a handful of shiny, higher denomination coins so I am actually repaying any "loan"with accumulated interest as well as the capital.
This access to cash, which the media have dubbed "Bank of Baby" does appear to play a significant role in the UK economy being the oil to grease the wheels of local commerce. In current hard times the involuntary funding by the children can keep a family above the poverty line and out of the clutches of loan sharks and other high interest lenders.
When I was in my teenage years I received, and gratefully, one penny per week per year of my age. In the 1970's this was more than enough to cover my Speed and Power Magazine, plentiful goodies and even for a short period meant that I could adopt smoking as a hobby. I did learn the error of my ways. The magazine print run ended, the price of sweets rose with the rampant inflation of those times and my Mother found out about my unhealthy pastime.
I appreciate that my own children have had a higher standard of living to aspire to notwithstanding peer pressure to have the current and next trainers, clothes and consumables. This is reflected in their levels of pocket money and other incomes. Take baby sitting, for example, I used to earn £2 for a full evening when old enough to be trusted with younger siblings or neighbours kids. I understand that the going rate is now about £20 plus perks.
In all, it is possible for youngsters to accumulate quite a savings pot.
Perhaps in the not too distant future they may be encouraged to start a pension whilst still at school or take out an investment to accumulate towards a first house purchase. That would be a shame to heap yet more expectations and stresses on a generation to destroy any prospect of any childhood innocence and enjoyment.
So, what better way to alleviate tension by using their monies for said everyday expenses.
It is not as though they will not ever get it back is it?
The term "Bank of Mum and Dad" is now firmly entrenched in our modern society. This is the vehicle by which those earlier purloined funds are returned in full plus access to our own experience and life skills.
I therefore feel wholly justified, like the reported 30% to 40% of other parents of taking on the role of a practical Robin Hood character.
There rests the case for the defence.
I admit to having done that very thing for some years.
I have shamelessly worked on the insider knowledge of generous gifts of coinage from doting grandparents that the children, when very young, were not aware of nor would they actually appreciate that they were quids in.
There was no question that I was technically misappropriating the funds.
Had I been in charge of a petty cash float in a business context or donations in a charitable sphere and adopted the same practice then I would be open to criminal action and all of the sanctions that go with that.
However, I contend that I have a moral legitimacy to tap into this resource on the basis that I am investing in a roundabout way for their longer term futures.
The moneys may seem to be frittered away on a food shop, to pay a domestic bill or to help fill up the family car with fuel. Such expenditure is essential to the smooth and efficient running of a household. I can truthfully and without fear of contradiction state that I have not profited personally from any re-assignment of cash nor gambled or speculated with it.
Perhaps the most selfish application would be for the purchase of a takeaway meal where I am responsible for the choice of menu and also undertake the logistics of going to order and bring it back but yet we all share in it.
When the children were younger the pickings were fairly spartan, as I said, but in teenage years with an allowance and also potential income from part time and casual jobs there can be quite a tangible reserve at my disposal.
I do make a point of asking for a subby first although I find that very difficult and in some respects regard it as a failure as a parent and father.
If the children are out at school and I am confronted with an expense I just dip into the nearest jar of coins, stack of pennies or deposits of loose change which have been left lying around as though discarded. I admit to having used a kitchen knife or a scale ruler to tease coins out of a piggy savings bank but that has to be a last resort regardless of the pressing circumstances.
In most instances the re-allocation of monies goes unnoticed and I may get an opportunity to actually reimburse within a few days. This can take the form of paper money to replace a handful of shiny, higher denomination coins so I am actually repaying any "loan"with accumulated interest as well as the capital.
This access to cash, which the media have dubbed "Bank of Baby" does appear to play a significant role in the UK economy being the oil to grease the wheels of local commerce. In current hard times the involuntary funding by the children can keep a family above the poverty line and out of the clutches of loan sharks and other high interest lenders.
When I was in my teenage years I received, and gratefully, one penny per week per year of my age. In the 1970's this was more than enough to cover my Speed and Power Magazine, plentiful goodies and even for a short period meant that I could adopt smoking as a hobby. I did learn the error of my ways. The magazine print run ended, the price of sweets rose with the rampant inflation of those times and my Mother found out about my unhealthy pastime.
I appreciate that my own children have had a higher standard of living to aspire to notwithstanding peer pressure to have the current and next trainers, clothes and consumables. This is reflected in their levels of pocket money and other incomes. Take baby sitting, for example, I used to earn £2 for a full evening when old enough to be trusted with younger siblings or neighbours kids. I understand that the going rate is now about £20 plus perks.
In all, it is possible for youngsters to accumulate quite a savings pot.
Perhaps in the not too distant future they may be encouraged to start a pension whilst still at school or take out an investment to accumulate towards a first house purchase. That would be a shame to heap yet more expectations and stresses on a generation to destroy any prospect of any childhood innocence and enjoyment.
So, what better way to alleviate tension by using their monies for said everyday expenses.
It is not as though they will not ever get it back is it?
The term "Bank of Mum and Dad" is now firmly entrenched in our modern society. This is the vehicle by which those earlier purloined funds are returned in full plus access to our own experience and life skills.
I therefore feel wholly justified, like the reported 30% to 40% of other parents of taking on the role of a practical Robin Hood character.
There rests the case for the defence.
Sunday, 1 May 2016
Tour de Yorkshire- a bit gushy, I know
I have every respect and admiration for the Pro Riders on this years Tour de Yorkshire.
I rode out to see Stage 1 on friday, a round trip of only 35 miles from my home for a bit of static spectating with my son from the open south aspect, but front row, race-side of a bus shelter.
We were not far off hypothermic from that "apocalyptic weather" as declared by commentator Ned Boulting and our plans to ride up to Scarborough to see the final stage today were thwarted by a resulting feverish state in head and accompanying feebleness in muscles.
To a cyclist, there is nothing worse than making a plan, getting keyed up and prepared to embark but then being struck down by a performance changing physical state.
The tremendous field of riders at the TdY2016 endured, over the three days, some 13 on the road hours of exposure to the elements, or as we call it, the well known Yorkshire climate of four seasons in one day.
In a state of convalescence I spent a most enjoyable, thrilling and motivating few hours watching the live TV coverage of Stage 3 from the comfort, draught-proof and almost balmy environment of my living room.
I lived every pedal stroke and was breathless at every exertion on the harsh undulations of the tortuous route, such was the all engrossing nature of the action being played out before me. I loathed the steep hills and feared the rapid descents.It was a stage full of ups and downs.
For the armchair cyclist the hours flew by as though mere minutes.
The final couple of kilometres had a therapeutic effect, in particular my shouting and screaming at Nicholas Roche and Thomas Voeckler to just keep going for fear of their being overwhelmed by the chasers.
There was a horrible moment when Voeckler veered off to the right of the roundabout just before the cobbled section which runs between the sea wall and the base of Scarborough Castle cliff face. I feared for two possible outcomes of this manouevre based on my own knowledge of the seaside resort, both nasty, either an involuntary entry into the quayside funfair or a plunge into the cold, murky waters of the harbour.
It was with relief that he came back into view as the TV camera panned to wide angle having lost no ground to Roche who had taken the shorter, official approach and exit to the island.
I had to make a quick choice when it was clear that they were the dual contenders for the overall winner of the three day epic race.
Being a big fan of Roche Senior in his racing days I was inclined to root for his talented son but opted for Voeckler as he is nearer my own age and well, it is accepted that old guys need to support each other's dreams and aspirations.
Our living room rocked with joy at his victory. I could have jumped on my bike and ridden up to share in his obvious elation at this performance, had it not been for the fever, aches, etc, etc, etc, etc..........
The Tour de Yorkshire, after only its second running has become established as a tremendous three day event, to follow on from 2015 and on my very own doorstep. All credit must go to the Organisation and many volunteers who made it a visual and emotional experience not to be forgotten. As for the massive crowds and enthusiastic support, well, roll on next year.
I rode out to see Stage 1 on friday, a round trip of only 35 miles from my home for a bit of static spectating with my son from the open south aspect, but front row, race-side of a bus shelter.
We were not far off hypothermic from that "apocalyptic weather" as declared by commentator Ned Boulting and our plans to ride up to Scarborough to see the final stage today were thwarted by a resulting feverish state in head and accompanying feebleness in muscles.
To a cyclist, there is nothing worse than making a plan, getting keyed up and prepared to embark but then being struck down by a performance changing physical state.
The tremendous field of riders at the TdY2016 endured, over the three days, some 13 on the road hours of exposure to the elements, or as we call it, the well known Yorkshire climate of four seasons in one day.
In a state of convalescence I spent a most enjoyable, thrilling and motivating few hours watching the live TV coverage of Stage 3 from the comfort, draught-proof and almost balmy environment of my living room.
I lived every pedal stroke and was breathless at every exertion on the harsh undulations of the tortuous route, such was the all engrossing nature of the action being played out before me. I loathed the steep hills and feared the rapid descents.It was a stage full of ups and downs.
For the armchair cyclist the hours flew by as though mere minutes.
The final couple of kilometres had a therapeutic effect, in particular my shouting and screaming at Nicholas Roche and Thomas Voeckler to just keep going for fear of their being overwhelmed by the chasers.
There was a horrible moment when Voeckler veered off to the right of the roundabout just before the cobbled section which runs between the sea wall and the base of Scarborough Castle cliff face. I feared for two possible outcomes of this manouevre based on my own knowledge of the seaside resort, both nasty, either an involuntary entry into the quayside funfair or a plunge into the cold, murky waters of the harbour.
It was with relief that he came back into view as the TV camera panned to wide angle having lost no ground to Roche who had taken the shorter, official approach and exit to the island.
I had to make a quick choice when it was clear that they were the dual contenders for the overall winner of the three day epic race.
Being a big fan of Roche Senior in his racing days I was inclined to root for his talented son but opted for Voeckler as he is nearer my own age and well, it is accepted that old guys need to support each other's dreams and aspirations.
Our living room rocked with joy at his victory. I could have jumped on my bike and ridden up to share in his obvious elation at this performance, had it not been for the fever, aches, etc, etc, etc, etc..........
The Tour de Yorkshire, after only its second running has become established as a tremendous three day event, to follow on from 2015 and on my very own doorstep. All credit must go to the Organisation and many volunteers who made it a visual and emotional experience not to be forgotten. As for the massive crowds and enthusiastic support, well, roll on next year.
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