Stralyaday

We had a beautiful Australia Day in Melbourne. Twas 25°, nary a cloud in the sky and a perfect breeze blowing. I was driving along with the sunroof and all windows fully open soaking up the beauty of being Australian. The iPod blaring and me screeching along at the top of my lungs I was on the looking at lights to ensure no-one was suffering my best Kanye West, Lou Reed, Easy-E, or even Monty Burns ‘See my Vest’. To my utter amazement every single car had all their windows full up. It was too warm to be windows up, no air con so all these clowns are sitting in an absolutely freekin perfect climate; with their climate control on. On Australia Day facryinoutloud?

On Sunday I caught a great show 'Australia Day, My Way' hosted by the Australian comedian Akmal Seleh. He, like so many of us, was pondering what it meant to be Australian. One point Akmal made that I just loved was that Captain Cook discovered Australia despite the fact people were already living here? So by that logic Akmal’s Dad discovered Australia when they arrived from Egypt in 1974 writing in his journal ‘the natives are friendly’ – gold.

It seems at the moment if you’re not talking about the water crisis it’s what it is to be Australian? The term unAustralian has become my most disliked term in the political vernacular while the term multi-culturalism has been subverted by the term integration.

Later that Sunday I was watching the Australia Day awards on TEN where in a tacky piece of cross-promotion the TEN Australian Idol (who wasn’t actually Ozi when he won?) was sworn in by the PM before singing Tenterfield Saddler.

I don’t think I’d heard the oath before and I certainly have no memory of having taking it myself. That’s a bit peculiar isn’t it, immigrants have to agree but we get no say? So here it is:

As an Australian citizen,
* I affirm my loyalty to Australia and its people,
Whose democratic beliefs I share,
Whose rights and liberties I respect,
And whose laws I uphold and obey.
* Australian reaffirming start here

Shock horror; I got a little problem with that.
I’m totally loyal to Australia and its people (all of its people). I have unyielding democratic beliefs, not sure I share them with every Australia; no fan of the 2 party system. Whose rights and liberties I certainly do respect, just wish they hadn’t been eroded away. No biggies yet it’s really just semantics. Whose laws I uphold and obey, mmm. Obey I try as hard as the next bloke; uphold, not so sure. IE If I found a undocumented refugee child I would be jailed for contempt before I would give them up to be detained / jailed in the desert. So, nup, not upholding that. Illegal invasions of Iraq, well it’s hardly upholding a law more being complicit in the breaking of one, but no, not, sort of, upholding that.

This is my conclusion.
I love Australia, from the windswept coastline of the Great Ocean Road to the plains of central NSW, the unrelenting heat and fine red bull dust of the mid North to the humid rainforest of FNQ and everything in between.
I love Australians, not every single one of them, that's not possible. Barring politicians there is no group of people I dislike; just individuals. You can’t see a kangaroo, wombat, Sturt Desert Pea, giant magnetic ant hills, the opera house, the great barrier reef etc, etc, etc and not love Australia. Of course if driving around on perfect day with ones windows up all one would see is ones own small intestine, head up their arse tossers.

This government, previous and future governments, their leaders, members and policies are not Australia. It’s that silicone dust that gets into EVERYthing, the platypus, loving watching Cathy run but cringing when she speaks, roasts and hot puddings at Xmas in 40° heat, helping your mates in crisis and then cracking a tinny with them while BBQing the coat of arms. I love Australia.

After the Gurindji’s 8 year battle to get their land off Lord Vestey the indigenous rights activists Vincent Lingiari was too blind to see the paper work granting his people right to their ancestral land. Then Prime Minister Gough Whitlam picked up a handful of sand and poured it into Vincent’s. Great song by Paul Kelly and Kev Carmody “From little things big things grow” btw. A great gesture that sums up the Australia I love, it's the land, the flora, the fauna and all it's peoples.

I love Australia, every inch of it and every living thing that occupies every inch.
So I’m comfortable hating the war more and more everyday since the illegal invasion, love my Failure Accomplished bumper sticker, not guilty about rejoicing in the sacking of the Immigration Minister and am delighted to exercise my democratic right to question the value of being Australian if the government dobs its citizens into death sentences in Indonesia and leaves them to rot in Gitmo.

And I won’t be called unAustralian because of it.

Bad Timing

I’ve been a regular listener of Democracy Now via podcast for about 12 months now, gottaluvya Amys & Juans. Prior to that, pre podcasting, I used to copy and paste transcripts to Word at lunchtime to read at home that night.
I feel lucky to have come across them during the lead up to the Iraq invasion. I used to have a flick around at lunchtime to world newspaper in the US / UK (in draft 1 I had named and linked to the newspapers but I'm too gutless – don’t want to be sued) and then english.aljazeera.net for balance. Without doubt I found Al Jazeera had the best ‘journalism’. Going to press conference and regurgitating verbatim a government official without question or investigation is not even a poor facsimile of journalism. The main stream UK press certainly didn’t instantly morph into unquestioning sycophantic propagandists as most of the US (and all Australian) mainstream media did... ranting now.

To paraphrase ‘the truth was out there’, just bloody hard to find as the mainstream media weren’t interested and various governments were trying to bury it. Democracy Now were / are a beacon of truth in a thick fog of ‘spin’. They do daily news headlines then generally topical interviews but occasionally have lectures from preeminent scholars; I recommend this one.

Another great thing about Democracy Now is that they have some great music breaks. Two songs in particular I had to get straight away were Buffy St Marie’s ‘Universal Soldier’ (not a Donovan fan) and Phil Ochs ‘I aint Marching Anymore’. Yep shoulda been a hippy.

Two observations.

I may be many things, arrogant, opinionated, a bit of lefty – but first I’m a capitalist. This war would be handsomely swelling the coffers of many protest singers of the sixties – gottaluv the irony in that. The very thing they are opposing is what introduced them to a new generation / market. I found Phil on YouTube and also Donovan doing Universal Soldier and there are comments like “My teenage son asked me for Best of Phil Ochs CD for...”, “I just bought...”. In part they need to thank Dubya for that – so it not just big oil and Haliburton that are reaping (raping?) it in :-)

The second observation is that I feel robbed for having been born in the early 70’s. My formative teenage years were in the 80’s, so I’m not responsible for my dress sense. I got a global recession for my 21^st then 11 years, and still suffering, of John bloody Howard. Goodonya.
During early teens I wanted to be born about 1935. If my parents could keep me alive through the end of the depression I would be 22 when Chevrolet released the ’57 Belair – mmmmmmm ’57 Belair – still freekin adore that car. That was the sole reason for wanting to be born in 1935; ah the innocence of youth.
Later, and still to this day, I’m became plain pissed I wasn’t part of the sixties. I got the antiauthoritarianism thang, organising ability, author of bad poetry, less than terrible orator, defiantly single and unlike Bill Clinton – did inhale. If I could compromise on personal hygiene, bit of stickler for a shower, I could have been the real deal man. Perhaps the long haired ‘Gerry Adams’ of a radical Australian militant group called the Cyan Koalas. OK not as tough as the Black Panthers but better than the Purple Platypus, the Eggpalnt Emus, the White Wombats, the Blue Bilbys? I'm on a role but I'll stop.
I look at the girls looking at Phil Ochs on youtube and am filled with envy. He’s was a pop star in the free lovin’ sixties about the time they invent the pill. I was a geek in the nothing eighties about the time they discover AIDS.
It's freekin wrong I tellsya!

Seasons greetings. Be safe.

Talking the Talk

I presented to the Victorian Cognos User Group recently. That was fun, I hadn’t done a presentation to room full of strangers since my consulting days. I was followed by a BearingPoint guy showing off the fan-freekin-tastic ‘Google in a box’ enterprise search engine then a Cognos consultant previewing some new stuff so I had to be on the ball.

My first job out of school was at Harris Scarfe in Rundle Mall, Adelaide. For me saying ‘not a fan of school’ is like a vampire saying ‘not a fan of sunlight’; it was moi-da. I was doing my final year, hatin’ life, until just before the end of first term Dad relented by setting me a challenge to get a full time job in the short school holidays to win my emancipation. I’m sure D.O.D (dear old Dad) didn’t think I would pull it off but was kind enough to fully prepare me for my plight by telling me at length, on numerous occasions, how hard it is for unskilled youths without even a high school diploma let alone university degree to get ahead in life. Mum was on board from the start (A because she has that ‘unwavering support for everything her kids do’ thing going on, but also because living with Mum on school days she had to endure the bulk of my sincere unhappiness. D.O.D got me on the weekend so he didn’t wear the brunt but upon realising my unyielding commitment to getting out school he too got right on board. The great irony is that the privileged, old boy, blazer, pipe and a good port, rar–rar–rar thing I so deeply resented was solely responsible for getting me out. I jagged it because the HR Manager was an ‘old boy’ and the school put in a good word. They desperately wanted me out so I didn’t soil their precious university entry scores. I had mentally stopped school long before. For my year 11 final accounting exam I got 9% I think. One third of the exam was multiple choice and I ticked ‘a’ for all without reading the questions before leaving while most were still reading the instructions.

I swear dissent is genetic; I was probably contemptuous of the doctor that delivered me due his poncy title. ‘Doctor my arse I’ll call you Bob – champ.’ Even as a new born my intuition was right on; after whacking me on the arse in my first few seconds of life that sadist Bob came back and tried to cut my dick off a few days later. I was still recovering from the whole birth ordeal with my teeth all knocked out, stress causing alopecia, post traumatic stress disorder had me with the night terrors and I’d lost control of my bodily functions. There’s freekin’ Bob with the ‘letters in front his name’ that allow him to go my cock with a sharp instrument. I was 2 weeks old and already hated ‘the establishment’. To smart for Bob though, I got away with most of it. :-)

Over half my life later being an ‘old boy’ continues to have a few advantages when you least expect it but for me not enough to make worthy tolerating 4+ years of pompous twats; being a ‘current boy’ sucked. I can’t help but say there’s no Freudian slip in the preceding phrase despite the fact it was an Anglican boys school in the 1980’s :-) – yes you’ll need a shovel to get that low... Anyhoo, as Simon & Garfunkel said “My lack of education hasn’t hurt me none, I can read the writing on the walls.”

I started my short lived retail career in the Manchester Department, I know my crocheted doilies alright, but a combination of mutual dislike between myself and manager along with my youthful enthusiasm saw me ‘promoted’ to spruiker. The promotion was only in the social sense only as there was the “oh, I could never do that” factor. In hindsight it was probably then I learned the value of being seen within an organisation. If you’re standing at the bus stop and don’t hail the bus it won’t stop. You has gots-ta put you’re hand out and be noticed to gets yoself anywhere gerl-freen!

Even spruiking at Harris Scarfes has a pecking order. The basement entrance was poignantly the starting point; which held a dark significance. As a young fella who knew, so well I could have written a thesis on it, my lack of formal education would see me have to fight my way up from the ground floor; but the freekin basement!
After the basement the central ground floor point is the next stop in the dizzying career of a Harris Scarfe spruiker. That was the best place to be for mine as you were inside protected from the elements and it was the intersection for the escalators and lifts while also having the foot traffic between Grenfell St and Rundle Mall. Having the raging hormones of a 17 year old I feel no remorse in saying it was great place for a perve but it didn’t have the prestige of the Rundle Mall main enterance. Once there you had officially ‘made it’ in Harris Scarfe spruiking but with the melting heat of Adelaide summers and winter winds accelerating down the confines of the Mall, not to mention rain, I figured that wasn’t an important milestone in the grand plan for global domination (mwa ha ha). But that is the Harris Scarfe spruiking Mecca; from there the only place to go is freelance for the big bucks – Roger David, Zamels, Bunnings, K-Mart, game show voice overs, hosting the Oscar’s. That is the standard career trajectory according to the freelance spruikers I spoke to. :-)
I was soon swapped from the basement to the ground floor which suited us both as my colleague was happy to talk power tools in the basement all day, every day. I was happy because now I didn’t, and the ground floor had weekly specials so it was always changing. Plus the visually appeasing vantage point. I was occasionally backup for the ‘top job’ in case of illness and the like. T’wasn’t so bad as the make up and perfume counters are up front of the store, cause they smell nice and have pretty ‘Cosmetics Consultants’ so, there goes them hormones again, I didn’t mind going up there for a change. By the end the first day I had usually managed to have my inept advances rejected by the Lancome girl and the Max Factor girl leaving L’Oreal, Clinique and Estee Lauder girls for day 2 maybe stretching it to day 3 after which I was happy to get back to ‘ground floor - central’.
But I digress; the point is even though spruiking for some time every single morning getting those first words out was tough, full of self-consciousness no doubt exacerbated by those damn teenage hormones again. What is the good of those bloody horm...oh yeah :-)

It was just like that when giving the presentation, once I spat out the first coupe of sentences I got right into stride. I've been eating and breathing the subject matter for a couple of years now, did several timed rehearsals and created the presentation from scratch where cutting and pasting some stuff from internal pressys would have been easier. Preparation, people, preparation. There was a Simpsons reference for levity and the language had a business context with minimal 'geek-speak' so the beanies and Execs would understand (keep up) while throwing in a diagram or two for the techos.

I know it went well because all the Cognos folks made a point to tell me afterwards – yeah right. As another Cognos dude told me "What a great presentation..." I thinking what else would they say to me; the client’s representative? ‘Gee Davo thanks for your time and effort but you’re boring as bat shit and the presentation made no sense.’ I’m sure they were genuine because they are genuine, also others with no vested interest also complimented me and since had a number of requests for copies but it did have me wonder how they handle the inevitable woeful presentation.

Lucky for me half a lifetime ago I would spend my days tempting consumers to fill their kitchens with 5mm Copper based stainless steel cookery, warning them of the potential damage to furniture with hot tea pots on un-doilied tables, or even protecting their families in winter by offering flannelette sheet sets at 'amazing prices shoppers' so talking to strangers in a professional environment was second nature.

While the presentation had me reminiscing about Harris Scarfe I can assure you back then I never thought spruiking would be advantageous 18 years later while talking Corporate Performance Management at Fed Square in Melbourne.

Learn that at Uni!

A Hard Sell

So the environment is (finally) a big problem; now it’s a polling issue. Welcome Johnny we’ve been waiting a decade so. NB hate to be the one break it to you but Iraq ain’t going that swimmingly – look forward to that becoming a polling issue so you can get your brush cut eyebrow, children overboard lying, interest rate advertising obfuscating, cole commission terms of reference restricting, baboon arse fugly head out of the sand on that one too.

But I’m not going to espouse a diatribe on what the federal government isn’t going to do a decade too late on the environment as that’s far too easy. I’ll leave that to others; I choose the hard sell.

Speed limits are dangerous and killing the environments. Yes it sounds ridiculous but there is undeniable science behind that seemingly absurd statement.
I live on a corner block. If I pull out and go left I’m hit a 40kph zone that lasts a few hundred metres and then goes 50 and a ‘cula hun’ed’ later goes 60. If I pull out right I’m in a 50kph zone that turns into a 60 zone at the T section a few hun’ed metres up. I drive 11kms to work and without exaggerating, I’ve counted, and there are 50 billion different speed zones. Apart from the obvious inherent danger in always glancing at the speedo due to the proliferation of speed cameras (can’t play pokies on the way to dropping the kids at school and the gov’s got make a buck somehow) plus constantly watching for speed signs the ridiculous number of speed changes is killing our environment.
Cars are geared to be most efficient around common speeds such as 60, 80 and 100kph. My manual car cruises at 60 in 4th at about 2000Rpm using about 6.5 litres per hundred kilometres (l/100) according to the on board computer. At 40kph the car is in 3rd gear at a slightly higher RPM and the slower speeds equates to about 9.2l/100k. Its simple maths, using the same RPM at lower speeds for the same distance will result in higher fuel consumption. Here is a brilliant real life example. My previous 5.7 litre manual sports ute with massive power gorged on fuel at the rate of about 18l/100k around town. But in 6th at 100kph it was geared to rev at about 1600 giving about 6.7l/100k. At 100kph that’s exactly the same as my current 3.0 litre manual with good power that does about 12l/100k (one third less) around town. It’s because the smaller engine needs more revs to be comfortable so it is geared to be doing about 2400RPM at 100kph.
In addition to using more fuel maintaining a lower speed we take a second slice of the fuel consumption cake again when accelerating from a lower speed zone to a higher - constantly. Then you add the extra wear and tear on the gearbox, brakes, tyres with all the, faster, slower, slower, faster - geesh! I’ll probably require a left knee reconstruction and or hip replacement at 65 not 67 with all these extra clutch actuations. With the danger, the environment, my joints society can’t bare the cost!
Plus, really drawing the long straw here, brake dust is dirty and very abrasive which ends up on the roads from all the braking from one speed to another goes into drains and kills the dolphins. I’ve always said my driving style is green. By braking less for corners and round-abouts I don’t have to accelerate out of the corner saving fuel and I don’t kill dolphins with brake dust. Why don’t we just go out and buy a cheap, imported, no name brand of canned flipper, oh I mean tuna. Is that too far? Excessive changes in speed limits KILLS DOLPHINS! (I told you it was going to be a stretch)

Back on a more serious note in Queensland or maybe New South Wales outback you would be into a 100kph and you would get a sign ’50 ahead’, slow down to 50 – Sir Wheat. Similar at the other end; you’d be in the 50 zone and get a 100 sign, none of this confusing 100 to 80, then 60, then 50 at both ends. Being the cynical dissident I can’t help but think it’s all part of a ‘cunning and devious plan’ to confuse us in order to raise speed camera revenue. On my recent road trip I’d found I was always doing something leaving a town; butting out a cigarette, closing the windows & sunroof while turning the air back on, scoffing deep fried something, adjusting my, um, ‘make up’, interrogating the GPS, all of the above - what ever. Up north if you past a speed sign you knew it was 100 no questions asked. Down south if you cruise past speed sign and don’t see it you have no idea. I missed one and was cruising at 80 looking for the hun’ed sign until a truck came barrelling up behind me so I guessed it must have been 100. To add to my cynicism they will wack in an 80 and then half a kay down the road you see another sign and it’s... another freekin’ 80. Surely they’re taking the piss, they just want you start building up for 100, tricked ya it’s an 80, click – thanks for visiting Victoria that’ll be a cupla hun’ed – would you like to pay the pokies while you’re here. Pricks – I don’t (perhaps selectively) remember a 100 sign then another 100 sign a minute later. Too bad you missed it, you can sit at 80 until a semi trailer driver that’s been awake for 83 hours who’s filled with more psuedo ephedrine than a ward of flu sufferers catches up and places his bullbar on the rear parcel shelf of your family car – Sir Funkin Wheat.

I’m not going to mention speed limits coming down while braking performance and electronic dynamic safety systems have improved exponentially in the same period. I won’t harp on about driver education being the only and obvious answer to reducing the road toll. I don’t even advocate increasing speed limits I just think the excessive changes in speed limits as implemented in southern states are confusing, dangerous and despite conventional thoughts to the contrary increases environmental damage.

Lament the Cement

In the December issue of WHEELS magazine letter of the month was a consumer talking up the value of run flat tyres. If someone tries to talk up run flats to me at first I wouldn’t say a word, as “Ppfftt” isn’t a word. Once my eyes finished rolling I would ask them what BMW dealership they work for. BMW have deleted the spare tyre from much of their range in favour of run flats. The letter showed me that for some cars run flats may actually be more than rort to sell more tyres.

However I have a 130i M-Sport with the 18” wheel option. It is fitted with Eagle NCT 5’s which are likely a very good touring tyre given a larger profile as they are fitted standard to the Chrysler Voyager and Peugeot 406 estate. This, no doubt, being the first and only time Chrysler Voyager, Peugeot 406 Estate and BMW 130i M-Sport are mentioned in the same sentence should be proof enough they shouldn’t wear the same shoes. I can confirm that with the strongest conviction. The real crime is they run a unique, from the research I’ve done, 205/45/18 up front so I’m stuck with them. I jest that the tyres on my car aren’t new technology and they weren’t invented by Firestone or Bridgestone but Flintstone. They afford a similar level of ride quality and grip as a single uneven rock cylinder a’la the ‘Flintstone-mobile’. (How did that car turn?:-) By not fitting them to their own ‘M’ cars BMW admit run flats aren’t for performance cars. Again something I can completely confirm.

For all the alleged value of these things as I drove from my home in Melbourne to the Gold Coast for Indy this year I was very concerned that if I had a flat Back’o’Bourke I would have to crawl to the nearest town, given the firm sports suspension and large rims I wouldn’t be hopping along at 80kph on a B road - as the marketers would tell you. I would likely have to shack up in the local pub for a number of days while the 205/45/18 was ordered in from who knows where. So great if you’re close to home or in the urban density of Europe but at the song says “...this is Au-stralER”.
Further, and this could be my bias, but I feel getting a flat tyre has become a whole lot more dangerous since the advent of the run flats. There seems to be push towards the perception a flat tyre is guaranteed to result in a Canyonero-esque multiple barrel roll finishing in a disproportionate flame ball. With a 40, 50 and 110kph limits in Australia combined with the low profile tyres of modern cars that would be fitted with run flats what is this danger of a flaty, I’ve been lucky enough to survive a few?

It was refreshing to see someone actually say something positive about run flats and I now accept they may have a place. Just not on my 130i or any other car I’ll own in the foreseeable future for both the road trips I enjoy and the performance I demand. Run flat or not it’s such a shame that so much of the great work BMW did making the 130i M-Sport a brilliant car is negated by the NCT5's tyres that are simply totally out classed by the car’s capability.
Good for the BMW engineers ego, really bad for upholding the 'Ultimate Driving Experience' sticker that stares at me while I'll understeer into another corner while a taxi casually drives around me on the outside (OK there maybe a bit of 'poetic license' there) and traction control shuts everything down on exit. The cement I lament (said tyres) brings the myriad of safety systems in so early you couldn't freak out Grand Ma on the way to Xmas lunch. Seriously man, at least you could have some fun battling the understeer with the hand brake if you took her 4 cylinder Camry.

Get it out and get it Dirty
Driving from my home in Melbourne to the Queensland Gold Coast for Indy gave me an opportunity to test out my 130i’s touring abilities. The first difference from my previous cars was the departure checklist which involved checking wiper fluid, tyre pressures and pressing systems check using the expansive on board computer. Then it is simply a matter of foot on clutch, starter button, go. Previously, with my premium brand Australian performance car, I would not leave before checking the oil and radiator levels whilst loading up with 5 litres of Mobil’s finest and a spare 1.5 litres of water; just in case.
For me one the joys of driving long distances is the ability to unashamedly assume the diet of Homer Simpson en route. I like to use Homer’s paper bag test. Put the food in a paper bag and if the grease in the food hasn’t made the paper bag transparent in 15 minutes it’s not fit for consumption. In five days on the road I consumed more Mc Breakfasts’ than I had in the previous five years.
Keeping in mind all the signs telling me to stop every two hours I happen upon golden arches in Seymour just about 10 o’clock. The 130i comes standard with the M-Sport pack in Australia which, among other things, includes the excellent BMW sports seats with width adjustment and electric lumbar support. The firm suspension oscillates between kidney jolting on country B roads and a gift from heaven on smooth twisty bits, a compromise I am happy with. The firm suspension is accentuated by the run flat tyres fitted for which I have nothing but contempt. More, much more on run flats in a later blog.

On the 110kph zones in sixth gear the engine is turning over at about 2,700rpm. With the new generation light weight magnesium alloy 6 cylinder engine the on board computer give a reading of about 6.5 litres per 100kms in ‘instant mode’ on flat ground. This equates to a touring range of well over 500kms on the open road and has the potential to severely limit my ability gorge myself on truck stop fare.
Having left home with a full tank my first fuel stop was Narrandera in southern NSW.
Like so much of Australia this is well and truly drought country. City folk like me mightn’t notice the sea of brown, it’s actually blond really, in the height of spring but you can’t help but notice every roadside dam has but a few inches of mud in the bottom if anything at all.

It was onwards to Dubbo for the first overnight stop of the trip. Despite the drought it is a beautiful drive through heart of farming country. The large towns like West Wylong have the same beautiful character of the smaller towns with cool names like Bundaburrah or Daroobalgie. Forbes is a nice place but...


...lots of Bogans. I really wanted to go and see if there was actually a Bogan Gate Shopping Centre because that would be just fantastic (images of Kate & Kim come flooding) but this was the longest day on the road so I pushed on. Heading from Forbes to Parkes the radio telescope from the movie ‘The Dish’ that played such an important roll in the first moon landing was clearly visible from the highway. Facing the road with the elevation slightly down so as to show passers by the whole face of the dish it seemed to have a quite dignity as I drove past at dusk; like it knew it place in history but didn’t want to brag. It was dark well before I made Dubbo which afforded the opportunity to test out the fog lamps and Bi-Xenon headlamps. In the city passengers and people exterior to the car comment on how ‘white’ the Xenon light is. Out in the country the fog lights add quite a bit angle which is good for wildlife spotting and the bi-xenon high beam is something to behold only comparable to a bank of driving lights you might see on trucks out here. It really does light up the world in front of you but in a noticeably concentrated beam where conventional high beam seems to spread out more making it less effective.

Leaving Dubbo about 8am I head off towards another place with a great name, Coonabarabran, through the country music capital Tamworth onto Armidale where I turn off towards the second night stop in Coffs Harbour. Heading east the green starts to come back through a clutch of national parks starting at Woolomombi continuing all the way to the coast.
It’s through some of these roads that m-sport suspension pack, the 18” M alloys, rear wheel drive and the 50/50 weight balance come into their own. To achieve the balance they have gone to the detail of putting the battery where the spare wheel would be pretty much directly over the diff.
Whilst the traffic was light the closer I got to the coast the thicker the caravans and motor homes became. With 195kw and 290Nm available in a relatively small car means the bowling brigade and their caravans could be easily dispatched without bothering the gearbox if you please. However I remember a journalist writing that every motoring enthusiast should drive through a tunnel in third gear in an M3 with the windows down. I am not fooling myself the 130i is no M3 but with a short exhaust due to the size of the car it does have a nice note especially when DTC has been activated for the sharper throttle response to ensure a big ‘blip’ for the downshift. Generally while coming up behind and ensuring a safe overtaking distance would necessitate a change from 6th to 5th gear. Then it’s just pick your spot; big blip 5th to 3rd, indicate, accelerate and enjoy the sound. Let’s face it that’s why you buy a 130 over a 120 or 118, or at least that’s why I did. Within seconds the sun chasers are well in the distance and you find yourself applying the brakes while slipping it in 4th from a safe 6500 change as you’re hitting 140+. This is certainly where the efficiency of the dual VANOS II variable cams system comes to light. My previous car had 285Kw and 520Nm, numbers very similar to an E46 M5, yet the 130i would be beaten but not be embarrassed by it in 3rd gear roll ons. In a recent comparison between the 130i, RX-8, and 350z the 130i did very well in roll on with the more powerful 350z and the RX-8 was back there somewhere and that’s simply down to engine efficiency and good gearing.

Day 2 wasn’t overly long so a scenic route into Coffs seemed appropriate. Stopping for a break a plague pointed out this is point where the flora turns from bushland to rain forest. It is amazing the little tit bits of information you find at these rest areas and I doubt I would have noticed the changes had I not read the sign. There was about 30kms of solid 25, 35 and 45 corners dropping down in Coffs Harbour which is a great way to end a day on road and any misgivings about the firm ride become implausible.
I was booked in to a place right on the coast about 7kms north of Coffs by about 4.30 in the afternoon. After 2 solid days of driving a combination of the brillo seats, dual climate control, fully adjustable multi function m-sport steering wheel and i-pod connection plus my enthusiasm for well deserved holiday saw me fresh as daisy. I took lovely stroll along the beach and had a nice big stretch to wake up some of the muscles that had been immobile for a while. Returning to the room there were colourful lizards crossing my path, frogs a crocking, birds a tweeting, 22 degrees at 6pm and pretty easy to see why some of the ‘beautiful people’ choose to reside here. It was when I got back to my room I had the realisation that I was in holiday mode. Normally the sound of crickets at night would see me awake and annoyed until I feel asleep dreaming of ways to annihilate every cricket on the planet. Yet here I found the cacophony of wildlife at first tolerable, then even soothing.

Being from the South I wasn’t aware the difference in the sunrise o’er East. An early night and this massive red thing that looked just like the sun just a hell of lot bigger and brighter had me up and out of Coffs by about half 7; Mc Breakfast here we come.
I only had a couple of hundred kays from Coffs to Surfers as I had planned the driving days to get shorter so as to get there chipper. I stopped at Byron Bay for several hours having a good walk around the beach before taking the long route to Tweed Heads where I stopped to pick up the things you don’t need much in Melbourne; sunblock, lip balm, board shorts etc.
It was here I first realised the difference in pace and attitude. Everyone was happy and no one was in a hurry. I found myself zipping through the traffic to keep up to the speed limit were locals were happy to coast along 10kph below it. I was getting annoyed at someone blocking up a round about locals were adjusting their radio, hair, makeup, and / or nuts. Just out of Tweed Heads I drove through a residential development called Salt. Stunk of money; very nice architecturally designed, large houses built on sand. It was amazing you have this beautiful, unique large home and right next door there is a vacant block that is pure white sand. Would love to know what sort of engineering goes into to seating those homes, after 10 years you could find yourself a block away from where you built with the sifting of the sands. Beautiful though and the amount that had obviously gone to building some of these places I’m sure they have thought how to ensure they don’t float down the road.
I cruised into my home for the next 5 days at Broadbeach and the car was exactly as it had left Melbourne bar bugs and dirt from 3 states.


Oh Yeah; then there was 4 days of this; Yee har.

So I’ve had a request for a story

The following is a dramatisation of a fictitious event that may or may not have occurred to anyone or no-one that definitely does not resemble the author or any facsimile thereof be it flora or fauna, animal or mineral. Actually it could have been one of the dudes on Mount Rushmore, strike mineral. Really that’s just silly, thousands of tonnes of stone would never be able to work the clu-huh-hutch.

So there wasn’t this fellow that didn’t live in fictitious town of Marmelaide and never owned a black Suzuki RGV 250 motorcycle. They weren’t a road going version of 250cc Grand Prix motor cycle and the non existent chap never road it like it was the last lap of the final race that would win him a world championship. As this is a figment of no-one in particulars imagination no doubt he would have been a multi-discipline, many times world champion, super model, kidopaedic surgeon, peace treaty meditating, sensitive, new age, law abiding type of mother fucker; as it where.

Had he and or she been a real being then he or she or it may or may not have told the following tale. Yet as he and or she or it (not excluding heterogeneous or cross sexual individuals nor refer to them as ‘it’ and where an alien species currently referred to as ‘it’ due to our non discovery of said species takes offence to said ‘it’ then ‘it’ will be replaced with the appropriate language once aforementioned species is subsequently discovered assuming they don’t eat our brains) doesn’t and never did exist therefore the text below is merely a figment of your imagination. If you don’t like it you need to have a good hard look at yourself!

Was one of those days. I’d knocked off worked early on a beautiful Friday afternoon. I was chipper as hell, the sun was shining bright making the bitumen warm – sticky, the air was cool therefore for dense, containing more oxygen – more burn.

Turning right past after the golf club heading towards beach adjacent to the airport there was two clear lanes as far as the eye could see. There was just enough road to hit about 190 in sixth using the right hand lane to get a wider entry into the long left hander onto Tipley’s Hall Road, this is fiction remember. Knocking it down 2 gears I put her in at about 160, my right leg was at right angles across the pathetic millimetres of foam that substituted for a seat with the ball of that foot pushing down hard on the outside foot peg that was reaching for the sun for that nano-fraction of extra grip.

I remember thinking ‘I could have tipped in a bit quicker’ and was quickly looking for the next cog. Having just changed down my left, inside, foot was above the gear change and I needed to get that foot around and under the gear lever to click up. No clutch, that changes the centre of balance twice (once clutch in, one clutch out) which you want to avoid if possible at that combination of speed and lean. No clutch moves the weight once and fast. Moving my foot out and around the gear shift my black Jordan 9’s copped a bit of a grind on sanding belt bitumen below.

Mid way through the long, safe corner I look around to see if I need to throttle off for traffic and there is no one to be seen on the road I am entering, Dufus the God of Stupidity is shining on me today! I give it the berries and start to stand the bike up for the exit while tucking in. I’ve got my bulky dri-rider on with a nap sack so if I’m going to get v-max I need to be aero slick. The thing is wound hard to the stops but in the certain corners on those certain days you just keep winding and winding hoping there is more. 6^th gear, flat change, no clutch, little over rev but I'm changing on the rev limiter anyway so it only drop about 1,700 of the available 12,500 revs. Chin of my helmet vibrating on the fuel tank, stay down, stay down, v-max; that’s nice! Head up, hold the bars tight with a proud chest or get blown off the back, never ceases to amaze me what a good brake I am dropping 40ks in no time just by sitting up in the wind.

Funs over, I prop my left hand on the hip crack my visor a few mil’ and enjoy the cold air invading the hot helmet as I slow to the speed limit. Check mirrors, shouldn’t be anyone for miles, no one could keep up – what the FU.... Cop on motorbike behind me – flying!

I hope to hell there’s some serious shit is going down ahead of me somewhere. He’s slowing, probably doesn’t want pass at too high a speed; denial is a beautiful thing. He is motioning me to pull over, probably just wants to, maybe he just; nup I’m fucked. The real race is now on, my heart and sphincter are trying to set new world marks in contractions per second and my brain is flooded with enough electricity to power a small town. I seem to be somehow vibrating like an bung fridge as I dismount, de-helmet and lay my jacket over my bike to show I had no guns, drugs, frozen human heads etc; he seemed to be a tad apprehensive! I greet the officer with the only thing I have; youthful bravado.

“What you running from” he asked straight up. “Nothing”, I smile, “beautiful day, didn’t see you, thought I give it a squirt. How long have you been behind me?” “Been trying to keep up since you turned off from the golf club. You didn’t see me and bolt?” He hadn't moved his right hand from 3 inches above his gun at that point? I finally convinced him I was just an idiot, as opposed to a criminal idiot on the run and the officer relaxed a great deal, I didn’t.

My only saving grace was we were both bikers. I asked a million questions not caring for the answers just to keeping him talking. He was on a brand new BMW patrol cycle with the screen that raised and lowered dependant on speed and all the cool police bike garb which we dwelled on for a time. I dropped in reference to race tracks and some good racers I knew at the time. Pointed out I had the ducks nuts, ultra soft tyres off a 600 supersport race bike and discussed why I choose a Kevin Schwantz helmet when there was Gardner on the outer, Doohan starting to win lots, and Dazza Beattie riding well, yada, blah, yada, blah. I was so far up his arse he was getting indigestion, give this man some Mylanta for crying out load.

After spit shining his shoes and felating the exhaust pipe of his BMW it got down to. “So, how fast were you going?” “I’m, I ahh, I reckon, probably about... not sure what do you think?” “Well my bike was flat out at 205 and you were pulling away from me.” “Really?” shitfuk! Then he went into a bit of ‘If I were an old sergeant that had never ridden a motorbike he would drag your sorry arse to gaol for endangering life and you wouldn’t drive or ride any thing more than a push bike for many years....’ Well if he’s telling me what someone else would do then he aint gonna do it, woo hoo I’m not going to gaol, I start to sing it my head. Meanwhile I am filtering his hot engine oil through my teeth, bowing my head in shame, and enquiring as to if he’s short on any organs I could offer all the time in my head I’m not goin to jay ole, I’m not goin to jay ole, I’ll be no ones Bee itch, I’ll be no ones Bee itch, then finally the end game.

“I booking you for 99 in an 80 zone, don’t do it again the next bloke won’t be so kind” He wrote the ticket and smiled knowingly at the shaking hand that reached out to grab the ticket; almost desperately.

What a ridiculous story that could not have possibly happened to anyone ever, never, ever.