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BLOODY KANGAROOS DAY ONE
I?m delighted to report that over the years all of the above wishes have been granted to me but as they say be careful what you wish for. Of course in my perfect dream the world tour I was on was my own and the band I was hanging out with were my band and the groupies pounding the side of the bus were hoping to shag ME but as we know the fates have a weird way of messing with your dreams don?t they? I can reveal that I?ve found myself perusing the late-night roadside shopping possibilities with Staind; I?ve had a strange vehicular adventure with Lene Lovich; I?ve driven wildly across the country pursuing Peter Himmelman; I?ve collected laminates for Oasis and Ozzy, Guns N? Roses and The Corrs; I?ve soloed endlessly on stage with Billy Ray Cyrus?s band at soundcheck (oh the shame!), endured a twister (Billy Ray again), shot a gig in broad daylight at midnight with Toto north of the arctic circle, smuggled something through a border with Madness and even, on a dark and soggy night in Oklahoma, gone home with an eager young female - sadly she wasn?t attractive and it wasn?t very exciting but after selling T-shirts for six weeks on a tour with non-stop rain earning a measly $25 a night I was getting desperate and depressed - and that?s my excuse and I?m sticking with it! Which brings me to my recent adventures with the very talented and enormously decent Jason Mraz. Before we go any further a brief disclaimer: though there were shopping opportunities in the truck stops and long drives through the night there was a noticeable lack of sex anywhere - not in my bunk anyhow. OK, I admit it, there were some guitar solos but none over 16 bars and while we?re talking plank spanking the one Jason plays on Absolutely Zero (a bullet straight into the top three of my fave songs of the year chart) is bloody gorgeous. And so to the guilt. I was hanging with Mraz to shoot a live DVD which we all hope will be available sometime in the New Year. The plan was to do one show with the mobile truck and the multi-camera thing and then yours truly would dispense with the luxuries and, armed only with a spare pair of sox, a mini DV cam, a box of tapes and a pile of release forms, I would become invisible and document what it?s like to be the hottest man on the charts with a Z in his name as he traversed the Midwest and beguiled thousands with his whimsical wordplay, magical melodies and extraordinary voice. In advance we discussed how I would wake him up on the day of the gig, shoot him in his P-Js and follow him through all the exciting stuff that rockstars get to do on the road, i.e. talk to journalists on cell phones, sign autographs, have their picture taken endlessly with sycophantic well-wishers (that?s you and me everybody), do stupid radio station idents (OK one of them was funny), answer numerous questions about chickens and psychics, soundcheck and try and remember the words to the Throughout it all Jason was quite the gent, never held back, was always honest, very often funny and even lost his temper a few times. He was real. (I hope I?m not ruining for you all out there in Amazon.com land). He even made me really jealous a) because there were a lot of adoring babes who were obviously just besotted by him but more importantly because b) he?s a great musician and how dare he be THAT good a guitarist and songwriter after only 5 years. (Note to self: If I get my hands on a pair of pliers and Mraz is in the vicinity nobble a few fingers and then maybe I can catch up again...but what good would that do? - I?d only turn him into the new Django). Anyway, imagine my despair when Bill, Jason?s manager, forwarded an extract of Jason?s web diary to me. JM confided he was locked in the bathroom away from the glare of the camera (that?ll be me) writing his diary : ?I don?t need the room for any other reason than to sit and think, to meditate...on the other side of the door awaits thousands of ears and possibly millions of eyes.? He concludes, ?I wish this bathroom could remain locked all night.? And here?s the rub. This is what life on the road can be really like. While you?re locked in bedsit land it seems like such a dream - the riches and the babes, the guitar solos and the priceless magical laminates (real value - about a buck!) - but the guys on stage become isolated in their travelling world, nervous of those who attach themselves for a few days and always dreaming - despite the monstrous buzz of those two hours a night - of being in their own bed for a few nights and getting some different, clean clothes to wear. The road is surely a mystical place but there really is no There there. To really be on the road you must always be moving someplace else as if you?re searching for an end to a rainbow that remains constantly elusive. I?ve now been on so many tour buses that even their plush seats and tinted windows can?t disguise the feeling that it?s a kind of comfortable rolling prison with an annoyingly small moving Which brings me to one sentence from East Of Eden that has given me much hope in recent weeks: ?It occurs to me that evil must constantly respawn, while good, while virtue is immortal.? If you think you are a human being I beg you to read East Of Eden. It?s a wonderful tale, easy to read and full of life and frightening darkness. Though they are just characters on a page I think Samuel Hamilton and Adam Trask?s servant Lee are two of the most special souls I have ever come across. DAY TWO In Lyon we pile our seven pieces of luggage into our comfortable rental car and notice that the licence plate is DST something, something, something. As Andy has volunteered to support me on the upcoming hill-climbs of the Tour I christen the vehicle the Dick Support Truck which is probably a bit too egocentric for Andy?s tastes but no other appropriate 3 word phrases come to mind. We make our way south to Grenoble and then bear East along a long valley road. The hills quickly become steeper and within an hour we?re inside the Alps and searching for food again when we reach Bourg d?Oisans . In Bourg we find a cycle shop and my pulse rate increases when I see the special ?L?Alpe d?Huez Les 21 Virages? cycling jerseys on sale but I refuse to buy one until I?ve climbed the mountain which looms over us at the edge of town. Like an adventurer from a story of derring-do who?s travelled many thousands of miles to conquer a peak I feel a tingle in my spine as we drive towards the bottom of the mountain. L?Alpe d?Huez is one of the iconic mountain-top finishes of the Tour de France and all year I?ve dreamt about cycling to its peak like one of my heroes but first we decide to drive it in the DST. As we climb higher I giggle like a child: there on the tarmac are the painted names of my heroes: Armstrong, Jalabert, Virenque, Ullrich, Pantani. This is where the Tour is defined as the real men separate themselves from the boys: just four days ago 600,000 people crowded the 21 turns and the 13 kilometres of the slope to cheer on the riders. My disappointment at not being here (I had to delay the trip to shoot Nickelback in Vancouver) last weekend is forgotten as I marvel at the amazing views and I feel that some of the mystical glory of the tour is rubbing off on me already. DAY THREE As a sign of defiance, a finger to the cosmos, I have purposefully dressed in the Team Alessio cycling kit I was wearing when I was hit by that Ford Explorer in February and the trip seemed suddenly seemed in jeopardy: I?m going to make a statement on the hill today. I freewheel down from the heights of our mountain-side lodgings and meet the DST at the Supermarket at the bottom of L?Alpe where I stock up with water. It?s 1045 am when I pedal to the bottom of the mountain - there are no tantalising foothills or a gradual build up. The road just suddenly goes up...very up. About 100 metres after the climb has started my optimism and determination has evaporated. It?s suddenly clear my chutzpah is bigger than my oompah. I have yet to arrive at even one virage and I have only one gear left to change down to and 13km of the world?s most revered cycling route stretches ahead of me. This is Thursday and only last Sunday Lance and US Postal, after 100 miles of frantic Alpine pedalling, had stood on their pedals at this very spot and sped up - I am slowing down. Quite obviously I?m not going to make it.
I reach the spot where Lance famously looked back at Ullrich 2 summers ago and Whoosh! someone in a Kelme kit with shining, shaved, muscly legs slides past me up the hill. Obviously there is a rocket hidden somewhere in that bike frame because no human could possibly go up this hill that fast. Then the rocket?s teenage son goes past me too, sprightly and also in a Kelme kit. Of course! That?s it...apart from being too old I?m wearing the wrong cycling kit, no wonder I can?t make it! If only I?d gone for the green and white stripes instead of the fetching red, blue and white. I make it to turn 2 and get off very aware that the DST is waiting for me at turn 4. I sit in the shade and drink and finally remember that I?ve read somewhere that the worst part of l?Alpe is the first mile. That would explain everything. Two turns later the DST is waiting and Andy dispatches much good humour, encouragement and water. I don?t confide in him my deepest darkest secret that an alarming wash of realisation is coming over me: Pantani?s bottom to top time of 37 minutes 35 seconds is not going to get broken by me today.
There are dozens of cyclists of all ages and abilities on the hill and just like me they?ve come to conquer this hill - to put it in their quiver like an arrow of experience to be loaded at a time when evidence of determination and sheer pig-headedness needs to be proven. I press on buoyed by the endless list of painted cycling names and exhortations: Allez! Allez! Allez! At one point I see a phrase in German painted on the road: ?Ulle ist eine Madchen!? I think this means ?Ullrich is a girl.? If I was Jan that would just annoy me and make me want to pedal harder and show them what I?m made of. Though I would like some extra juice to keep me going I?m glad that Andy has no paint and has spared me the embarrassment of a gender-questioning slogan to get me up the hill. At last the ski-station is in sight, the tree line is way behind me and I feel a surge of adrenaline. I cycle into town like all the victorious cyclists before me arms aloft and full of relief. It?s 1.05pm. It?s taken me 2 hours and 20 minutes. Il Pirata can sleep safe in his bed tonight. In the afternoon we drive further up the valley to check out the Col du Galibier. 2 miles from the top I pull out the bike and puff my way to the summit. I call my cycling friend Bruce in LA from the top as I look across to Mont Blanc in the distance to share my euphoria. I?ve visited two of the hallowed passes of the Tour in one day - I?ve even cycled some of the route. Back in Bourg I go and purchase my 21 Virages L?Alpe d?Huez cycling kit - I feel I?ve earned it. DAY FOUR Back at our mountain-side digs Andy and I play our guitars in the garden as we watch with envy as the cook lies on his back and the sexy hotel waitress climbs on top of him in her bikini and wiggles and giggles - we pretend not to notice. The prize for our discretion? We?re asked to play an impromptu gig for some fat Germans and some English lager louts down by the swimming pool. DAY FIVE DAY SIX We?ve found a spot about 3 km before the end of the stage on a slight, left-hand bend. Even better it?s uphill - with the confidence of a seasoned bike-race watcher I tell Andy it?s perfect as the riders will be moving slower. ?Whatever you say,? he declares in a you?d-better-be-right tone of voice: he knows as well as I do this is the first time I?ve ever been to a bike race. The hours tick by. Across the road a French family have set up shop. Dad watches the race developing on a tiny battery operated TV while Mum heats up a tantalizing cup of coffee on the Gaz stove and serves a fine looking lunch to the members of her brood. An excitable young girl has crafted a small letter-sized poster and attached it to a stick. The poster has a picture of Lance, cut from a magazine, stuck to it and Lance?s picture is surrounded by shiny stick-on hearts and stars and some indecipherable French words of support. She leans the stick and its small poster against the barriers and steps back into the middle of the road to admire her craftsmanship. She decides to adjust it - a few centimetres to the left - and returns behind the barrier to eagerly await the arrival of her man. It?s a wonderfully simple and naive gesture - he?ll never read it, never see it even - but I love her for the care and time and effort she has put in to her tribute. And then I think of myself - a grown man whose dreamt all year of making his way 6,000 miles across the oceans to this very spot - a nondescript few metres of French roadside - for exactly the same reason. That young girl and me we?re both as daft as each other, lost in our dreamworlds and hoping Lance will give us a wave. Fat chance. The advance party arrives: ridiculously painted and rigged vehicles roll past blaring music with dancing girls and shiny, happy young men throwing freebies at us. We?re all instantly transformed into desperate swag junkies. Like Iraqi refugees fighting for bags of flour we scream, beg, yell and wave at the passing train jumping up and down with glee when we catch a bag of free Haribo Tour de France jelly babies or a Fiat key-chain. As we bag the swag we all know this means one thing. The Tour will be with us in the next hour. We?ve been here five hours. I?ve brought a book to read and some postcards to write but I?m so excited I haven?t done a thing except make one phone call and eat the ham baguette from the grumpy hotel manager in Comminges. Suddenly a chopper appears over the hills to our right, the Col de Peyresourde, and an extraordinary, excitable cheer goes up from the crowd. The Tour is coming! The Tour is coming! What had seemed to be a distant, featureless hill is transformed. We can see tiny coloured points moving down and across its slopes - there?s a road there! The frames of the upturned bikes on the support vehicles are just visible behind. Man, they?re moving fast. There?s more than one helicopter now. We can hear the cheers getting closer. Now we hear the motorcycles coming up the slope towards us. The tension is unbelievable, everyone is jumping: old men with berets; young Basques with flags; the French family, the young girl and her poster...me too. Suddenly someone flashes past. A real rider and another one. I think I see Virenque smiling. And then there?s Lance coming towards us... I?ve never been to a rock gig with more adulation, more devotion pouring from the spectators. It?s not just for Lance either it?s for everyone. But my eyes are fixed on Lance, he?s moving, he?s working hard. Like they say with accidents everything goes into incredible slow-motion for a brief second. He?s right there maybe 18 inches from me, tall in the saddle and the look on his face of pure determination and focus is unforgettable. He?s in a tunnel: he sees nothing and everything - he?s preoccupied, he wants to win. He?s gone. Another cheer, the peleton is approaching. Maybe they?re only a minute or less behind but their fight is different. There is no fire in their eyes, they seem exhausted. A few back markers slip by, weary, moving no faster, it seems, than I might (I wish) after the end of a long ride. And in five minutes it?s all over and we?re walking back to the DST. As we look across the lake I know that someone over there is lifting the trophy for winning the day?s stage. I assume that Lance is putting on another Yellow Jersey and I look into the sky and watch the circling helicopters and I know that Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen are discussing the results of the days ride. I can?t wait to get home to LA to see what they have to say and see if Andy and I have made it onto the world feed. Up ahead I see the girl with her stick and her poster holding her Dad?s hand as they walk away. She?s babbling along in French and he turns and smiles down at her as they re-live the afternoon. What a day it?s been.
Arreau looks like a Pyrenean border town from a WW2 movie which is a ludicrous description - rather like saying the Eiffel Tower reminds you of the Paris hotel in Las Vegas - but that?s what jumps into my mind. The narrow main road follows the river and the houses on either side show little sign of any late 20th century sophistication. Were it not for the bright colours and the jovial faces of the throngs of people the pedestrians could be a crowd of refugees - I find myself looking for armoured cars, tanks and Nazis. What is wrong with me? Three old men stop me in the main street and stare at my bike which is yellow and has tiny wheels because it folds into a suitcase. They are fascinated by it and ask me many questions which my school-boy French can only just grasp at. I must confess that my fragile cyclists ego is challenged by my new toy. Let?s be honest - the reason a grown man flies half way round the world to cycle enormously steep, paint splattered hills is purely for bragging rights. This person stupidly wants to somehow include himself in the peleton of great riders: Anquetil, Hinault, Mercx, Indurain...Dick! OK so that?s not going to work. So you don the requisite lycra clothing and, though I?m not overweight, I don?t really look as good in my 21 Virages outfit as Cipollini does in his custom designed world champions jersey. So - the only way you can buy yourself into the yes-I?m-a-real-cyclist club is through your bike - and here I am visiting the Tour and everyone is riding a Bianchi or something sexy and Italian and I?m on a yellow fold-up with baby wheels. My manhood is seriously compromised and I want to break out a sign which says TRAVELLING BIKE FITS INTO SUITCASE - I HAVE A REAL BIKE AT HOME...HONEST. Andy and I find a suitable spot on a bend a mile or two up the Col. I leave him to read and ride another 20 minutes up the hill which is a blast. The hill is easy and it?s lined with fans, a few of them even yell Allez! Allez! Allez! at me and I feel like Lance for a micro second. Half way up the Col I stop and admire the view. It?s a beautiful morning and I?ve got beyond the lower crowds and reached a peaceful spot. I marvel at the cute village nestled in a fold of the mountain just half a mile from the Tour and totally untouched by time. Another old man walks by admires the Bike Friday and wants his wife to take a picture of him with it...and without me! It seems old men are fascinated by it, younger ones give it a glance and kids despise it. I HAVE A REAL BIKE AT HOME...HONEST. Today we score loads more free gear but preserve our dignity by giving most of it to the cute teachers who stand close by and are distributing the booty to their class of thirty screaming kids from the local school who have the morning off to watch the race. Reasonably they seem much more excited about getting a large green plastic hand and a packet of jelly babies for free than they do about writing an essay entitled Aujourd?hui Le Tour arrivé en Arreau. Being three Cols from the end of today?s stage the passage of the Tour is less dramatic than yesterday?s finale. The breakaway consists of two riders and then the peleton sails smoothly past about three minutes later. I can see Lance in the middle surrounded by his domestiques and even though we?ve befriended a man from Bath who?s an Ullrich fan I yell: ?Get him Lance, go on, you can do it. Get him! Get him!? By the time we get back to our hotel and have turned on the race, the weather has closed in and I?m bent over in pain. As the phrase goes, ?It seems I?ve eaten something.? Clearly I will be spending much time in the toilet for the next few days. But the race has reached its crucial stage and the drama is unfolding thick and fast. Ullrich attacks. Lance let?s him go. Lance pulls him back. Lance attacks. Lance is pulled off his bike! Lance recovers just and then nobbles himself on the crossbar when his cleats come unhinged. Ullrich is waiting or is he? Hamilton holds everyone back. Lance recovers. Lance catches up. Lance attacks. Lance catches up with the remaining breakaway guy. Lance stands on his pedals and pedals and pedals. Lance wins! It?s an extraordinary day?s racing - even in French - and I forget about my bowel movements as Lance crosses the line. We listen to his post race interview and I?m totally bummed out. Apparently he seems to think the most crucial thing worth mentioning is the crash, Ullrich waiting and his decisive attack which left everyone panting in the mist. Has he forgotten already that vastly important shout at the bottom of Aspin? ?Get him!? I had shouted and quite obviously Lance had...and he never even made a reference to it. Perhaps it will be in the English interview on OLN when I get home. DAY EIGHT DAY NINE DAY TEN We?ve come to Provence so I can tackle the mighty Mont Ventoux. It doesn?t feature in this years tour but it?s reputation proceeds it. Whereas Alpe d?Huez is beautiful and Alpine and the Galibier is bleak and awesome Ventoux is just one huge, vast, lump that towers over the countryside topped by a horrid red and white communications tower that looks like it was designed by a failed Russian architect. I?m still weak. I can?t stomach the thought of riding today. We scout it in the car, buy some postcards at the summit, take some snaps and drive down to Boudoin for lunch. We buy English newspapers - Saddam?s sons have been killed in Iraq - their ugly, distorted, bloody images cover the front pages. I?ve assembled the bike again and been for a short ride in the hot afternoon sun. I?m not feeling optimistic. Tomorrow is our last day and it will be make or break time. The only two hills I really wanted to conquer during the trip were Alpe d?Huez and Ventoux. DAY ELEVEN
About eight miles of freewheeling down the mountain later it dawns on me that this is a really stupid and pretentious thing to have written. It sounds like I was thanking him for inspiring me to take vast quantities of speed...and then I left my name and address just in case the drug squad needed to get a hold of me. After lunch I?m feeling more sprightly. I wait till 4pm when the temperature is dropping at last into the low 90?s and set out from Boudoin to tackle the bottom 3/4 of the climb. OK so it?s cheating but if I can complete it I can truthfully say I climbed Ventoux. The first few k?s are relatively easy - the mountain?s peak looks deceptively low a way over my left shoulder. Then the road takes a sharp left and I enter the woods and the gates of hell. It?s hot, it?s winding, it?s unending and it?s really dull: none of the picturesque Alpine views or the wonderful vistas of the Pyrenees, just miles of scrubby little trees and endless discarded gel-packs at the roadside where other riders have cashed in their sugar chips in the hope for more energy. I thought I?d never make it to Le Chalet Reynard, where I?d started this morning, but when I finally staggered up the steps and begged the waiter not to close up and give me a coke the true nature of Ventoux had been revealed to me. After leaving the forest and then climbing the last exposed 6km through the wind I can easily understand why you could die cycling this mountain. One day I want to climb Alpe d?Huez without getting off the bike - I don?t care if I never see Ventoux in the flesh ever again. DAY TWELVE DAY THIRTEEN POST SCRIPT |
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EVERYBODY'S TALKIN' ABOUT BAGGISM I?ve done three videos like this in my life with varying degrees of success: Band Aid - ?Do They Know It?s Christmas?? Voice of LA ?Stand And Be Proud? and The Peace Choir ?Give Peace A Chance.? Band Aid was easily the most effective and arguably saved millions of lives from starvation in Africa in the mid 80?s (see Band Aid diary icon on your left). ?Stand And Be Proud? which was designed to show a united city in LA after the damaging riots was a stunning achievement for all those who took part and featured a multi ethnic choir and orchestra numbering 1500 people but did not reach its destined audience. Give Peace A Chance was last minute attempt to stop the Gulf War - and obviously no one took a blind bit of notice of that one! After some consideration I tried to imagine the effectiveness of a new bunch of solemn-faced pop-stars standing around a microphone begging Bush, Blair and any other belligerent allies they can convince not to drop a load of smart bombs on thousands of Iraqis half a world away and I tell you I can?t see it working - even worse I?m afraid it sends the wrong message. By chance I last night finished reading ?Ambushed? by Ian Stewart, an autobiographical account of a Canadian war journalist?s remarkable escape from death in the civil war in Sierra Leone, and today at lunch I read articles by famous war photographer Don McCullin and war reporter Maggie O?Kane in Rolling Stone. I read about war a lot. In the past 2 years I?ve read complete histories of the First and Second World War and the American Civil War. I?ve read two different books about the fight for Iwo Jima, and books about the Submarine campaign in the North Atlantic and the bombing campaign launched by the US Army Air Force on Germany. I have pored over photographic volumes of dead Vietnam War photographers and read and re-read Don McCullin?s ?Unreasonable Behaviour.? In words of one syllable one?s conclusion can only be: WAR SUCKS. I?ve never seen a bullet fired in anger but my father was a military pilot his whole working life as was his brother. I was born after the end of WW2 but vividly remember that the centre of every British city I visited as a child - Bradford, Bristol, Sheffield, Leeds, Birmingham, London, Coventry - was a pile of rubble awaiting the funds for rebuilding. As a child I also lived in Germany and saw the same destruction in the centre of Cologne. The phrase bomb-site was as common a part of my lexicography as building-site would be in yours. As a child I remember seeing a picture of my father wearing shorts holding his revolver outside his tent in Cyprus where he was stationed for 9 months during ?The Troubles? and fearing for his safe return. Later I too would live in Cyprus where I?d see bullet holes in walls and graffiti which was still painted with the words Enoka or Eosis - the acronyms for the warring factions. When I was twelve I visited Beirut and saw the city just months before it collapsed in bitter fighting and later watched the hotel where we'd stayed taking artillery fire on the 9 o'clock news. When I was 19 I visited Munich for the Olympics and stood in shock with other teenagers from all over Europe as I listened on German radio and heard the news about the death of the Israeli athletes. I have stayed in the Europa Hotel in Belfast which has its own entry in the Guinness Book of Records because it has been so frequently bombed. Last year I crawled through the frightening Chu-Chi tunnels outside Ho Chi Minh City and then in Spain was shown the bullet ridden walls where thousands upon thousands of innocent civilians were murdered in Barcelona during the Spanish Civil War. Throughout my entire youth whenever I took anything for granted, was shiftless, lazy, rude or unproductive my parents would tell me their experiences of their years surviving the Blitz. My parents both went to work in Germany after the war and would tell me endless stories of shortages and sacrifices - and they were on the side of the victors. My parents actively discouraged me from becoming interested in the armed services - they were for peace - but even so I remember my Mother once being berated by a German friend: ?Für sie, immer den Kreig!? ?For you, it?s always about the war.? For my parents the war was the all consuming drama of their lives by which everything else was measured. I bore you with this list of ?achievements? to say: ?I haven?t been in a war but I know a little of the damage that war can do.? And now we want to Blitz Bagdad. The official line is that a) it will be a clean surgical process; b) ?collateral damage? (i.e. death to innocent civilians) will be minimal and c) it will all be over fast. Well, a) the articles I read in Rolling Stone at lunch today suggest that what we think we know about the surgical brilliance of the Gulf War is not really the whole story and pictures of dead bodies whether Iraqi or American were rarely taken or allowed to be published; b) It seems likely that collateral damage will be bigger than we?d like to believe and c) I?d just like to remind us all of that most infamous of pre-war expressions: ?It will all be over by Christmas." If we go into Iraq we may indeed neutralize weapons of mass destruction (which if they exist may never be used - who can predict?) but we will also injure, mentally and physically, large numbers, I mean huge numbers, of people. If we are to do this then we the public need to be aware of what we are doing - let us be COMPLETELY aware of what we are doing. Lying through the press and hiding images from us of the terrible truth of what we are committing in the name of world peace will not cut it. If not we will be guilty through our innocence. If I am to be involved in some filmic thing at this stage of the pre-war hubbub I want it to be about the images of what war does. Tattooed teens singing about peace is great but it won?t do anything but wind people up. Let?s be brutal and be aware of the truth - let?s not nest and cosset ourselves and hide away in SUV-land and switch channels. Let?s see the blood for it will shock and scare and sadden us. I will not make a video of singers singing songs of peace for it?s own sake. Read all you can about war and never stop if only so you understand how horrifying it is. In the Donald McCullin book I mentioned he recounts his life as a war photographer, its reality, its addictiveness, its glamour and its brutality. But eventually you understand that trying to bring truth to the world damages a man who started out with the highest of intentions - to show the world that war will not work. As he recounts his life away from war in the final chapter of his book you become aware that he is a deeply sad man. This is how he finishes his book: ?My son Alexander sometimes stays with me, but mostly I?m alone in my house in Somerset. The ghosts in my filing cabinets sometimes seem to mock me - the ghosts of all those dead in all those wars, especially that little Biafran boy. Now, since that last head-on collision with life, there are also the ghosts of my loves. With this book perhaps they will be set free.? (Unreasonable Behaviour - Don McCullin). |
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US AND THEM And yet it seems that we are all in agreement that sending the lads in to put Sadaam in his place is not something we feel at all happy about. (Sorry, George, but this is the word on the street). And so, once again, I?m concerned about the way the great American public are being kept abreast of foreign viewpoints in this case with regards to our determined war-like stance. This is something that concerns me greatly as I have recently chosen to become an American citizen and have been duly accepted by the USA as a permanent resident, taxpayer and voter. (Thank-you by the way). In the hours after the 9-11 attacks I was bemused by the number of people I spoke to who said to me, ?Do people in the rest of the world really hate America that much?? And I laughed rather tragically and replied in a duh!-like tone of voice, ?Yes!? It was just another reminder how isolated the USA is from the way the rest of the world works and thinks and to be fair the problem is understandable in a country that is larger than some continents and essentially isolated geographically by two large oceans from direct contact with any other cultures. Yes there?s Canada and Mexico but the former feels American in many ways and the latter does pretty much what we ask it to. In California alone Los Angeles is about the same distance from San Francisco that Paris is from London. Israel is narrower than Los Angeles. Vietnam is about the same size or slightly smaller than New Mexico. When most of the time we?re consumed by talk of how different LA is from New York or how weird people from the South sound if we live in Chicago how are we expected to understand what is happening half a world away? After all we?re talking about the most powerful country in the world - one which has THREE time zones! How vast is America? Get out your Atlas and a ruler and try this on for size. America is so vast that if you took the 2,500 mile flight eastwards from LA to NYC and then travelled the same distance eastwards from London?s Heathrow airport you?d find yourself about fifty miles short of Bagdad and (in a straight line) you?d have flown across parts or all of France, Belgium, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Bulgaria, Turkey and Syria! Just think of the range of languages, cultures, creeds and attitudes that encompasses. Oh, yeah and the captain would have interrupted your in-flight entertainment to tell you you could see parts of Switzerland, Italy, Yugoslavia, Albania, Greece, Romania, Cyprus and the Lebanon on your way. If the Captain had messed up his flight plan a journey of the same distance would have taken you deep in to Greenland, 1,000 miles beyond Moscow, 250 miles short of Tehran, 120 miles beyond Jerusalem, deep into Nigeria or most of the way across Mauritania towards Senegal! At the beginning and end of our US coast to coast trip we would be able to watch the same TV shows, order the same food and dial the same phone numbers. On our trans-Europe/Asian schlep I think we all agree that (CNN, McDonald?s and your cell phone notwithstanding) things would be very different. However in both journeys one factor would be similar: the daily paper in Greenland, Iraq or Mauritania would all have editorials skewed towards their own perspectives and would be strangely intriguing and yet somehow alien to us. The same I think is true of America - on some days NYC and LA seem as different as Greenland and Mauritania politically and climatically so its no wonder that the rest of the world seems like an annoying diversion. Well, with CNN, McDonald?s and cell phones the world is getting much smaller very fast. We need to get a feel and an understanding of the way the rest of the world is thinking AND take notice of it. Did it have to take the Twin Towers for us to notice this? My fear is that it will take more than that. The isolationist policy that brought a President to power as Europe went to war in the late 30?s will no longer serve us and on this issue alone George W. has a point. Why do we need to wise up? At the very least so the rest of the world will take us (Americans) seriously. Last year in Toronto I overheard two Canadian crew members swapping a tale of a head-in-the-sand American producer who had journeyed the vast distance between the two countries from Chicago to Toronto! The American lady just loved it in Toronto and remarked: ?This place is so neat now, and so up to date with the USA - they even have Roots stores everywhere!? In case you?re still not getting the joke Roots is a long established, much-loved Canadian company (though the founder, I think, was an American). Which brings me back to the war (upcoming). Does anybody in the US have any idea how much some people in Europe are infuriated by the sabre rattling going on here? Joschka Fischer, Germany?s Foreign Minister, last week glared across a table at Donald Rumsfeld at a conference in Europe and told him: ?My generation learnt you must make a case and excuse me, I am not convinced.? Am I reading too much in to what he says if I feel that almost translates as: ?My parents were Nazis and you need to take a look in the mirror?? I?m just a bloke who makes videos and I don?t know what the answer is but how?s this for a solution? Here?s a quote from an English lady?s letter which recently appeared in my weekly English newspaper. Her name is Lesley Illingworth and here?s what she has to say: ?It would appear that UN weapons inspectors have not found any weapons of mass destruction. I note that nearly all of the inspectors are men. It recently struck me that, if my husband is anything to go by, they stand little chance of finding anything.? I?m willing to try anything to get out of a war. So, ladies...any volunteers? P.S. Yes I know that if I?m now a Yank I shouldn?t spell ?colour? like that but that?s kind of my point isn?t it? |
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SHAVED LEGS Yesterday I wound up in the hospital. While cycling I?d been driven into by a man in an SUV and, deprived of my balance, my shoulder and then the rest of me collided rather messily with a typical piece of LA tarmac travelling at approximately 20mph. Everyone who was there agrees on the result of the collision: SUV 1, cyclist 0. As I lay alone and bleeding in ER, stripped of my dignity and my rather eye-catching and fully matching Italian Alessio Wheels cycling kit, I wondered if my dream of scaling some Alpine passes, Jalabert style, would still be possible this coming summer. As the minutes ticked onwards and the aches and pains spread outwards I realised a more realistic assessment would be to focus on whether I would be able to bend over to put my underwear, socks and shorts back on when I was discharged. After the form-filling and the contract-signing the X-rays were finally taken and the bandages were applied. The good news was that no bones appeared to have been broken - the bad news was that I was covered with a substantial amount of U.S.B. Type VII gauze up and down the left side of my body held in place by some very efficient sticky tape. After making a phone call your rather subdued correspondent was picked up by itinerant friend in need, Brian, who had a good laugh at the image of a semi-naked rider shivvering and bandaged in a corner of the Waiting Room. So, 24 hours have passed and the pain continues but of course the dressings have to be changed - and so all that effective sticky tape has to be pulled off taking fistfuls of manly leg and arm hair with it. OUCH! Why do cyclists shave their legs? Not because it makes them faster (it doesn?t). Not because they all take part in cross-dressing competitions every night after a group sprint (maybe they do - perhaps this is cycling?s dirty little secret!) No. The reason cyclists shave their legs is so that it?s easier to clean the wounds and less painful to remove the dressings when they get into the sort of human being versus tarmac contre-temps which I experienced yesterday. Of course I?m not a professional cyclist. I don?t race across half of Europe at an average speed a small car would be proud to achieve. I don?t push myself up to 40 mph on the flat or touch 60mph on the downhills. But now I?ve had a good man-tarmac experience I?m wondering if perhaps the razor blade and the shaving gel are going to get a look at my limbs. So, if you see me wearing shorts and my legs look suspiciously hairless you?ll know I?ve finally taken the plunge and become a ?serious? cyclist. There again I might just have entered an amateur cross-dressing contest! |
I finished Steinbeck?s East Of Eden last night and I?ll confess I was inspired to re-read my favourite book for about the fifth time because I?d heard that Oprah had picked it for her book club. All I know about Oprah I've gleaned from the front pages of cheap magazines that I've gazed at while waiting in line at the 7-11 so I know very little about her but I agree with the O girl on this one - this is one mighty tome. 
On July 12th last year my friend Brian invited me to a soireé at his pad in the hills and there standing in the kitchen was Warren looking the picture of health with a big smile on his face. As the party raged on in the rest of the pad Warren and I stood by the refrigerator and renewed our acquaintance. It was a wonderful evening and I remember how broad and his infectious his smile was. At last it seemed as if my wish might come true and at the end of the evening we exchanged numbers and e-mail addresses.
If you like roaring guitars and have a hankering to listen to something that makes you want to get up and ROCK then you have to check out "Unclassified" by Robert Randolph & The Family Band. If you didn't know any better the CD cover might lead you down the 'just another rap act' avenue and then this unbelievable pedal steel guitar kicks in sounding like an Allman Brothers record got jammed into an MP3 playa along with an iPod full of Rufus, Stevie Wonder, Doobie Brothers, Graham Central Station, Carlos Santana, KC & The Sunshine Band and...well the list just gets longer. This is the new Juicy Lucy everybody! (If you know what I'm talking about we have to talk.) OK call me retro but I tell you everyone will be talking about this guy next week. This guy is the next Stevie Ray Vaughan - don't anyone let him near a helicopter. You read about it here first! 
Up ahead I see a rabbit - another cyclist - also struggling, labouring over his pedals. If I can just keep him in sight. I cash in my last remaining chip, my super-low, mountain-biking, yes-I?m-a-wuss granny-gear, and make it round the first bend and ride into the hot morning sun that waits beyond - maybe I can make it to Virage #2 without getting off.
L?Alpe d?Huez is not only tough and steep it?s astonishingly beautiful. Every turn reveals another amazing view. Every virage is beautifully maintained and bears the sign of a famous rider and the year they conquered these hallowed slopes. The road is wide and well maintained, a solid wall skirts the edge and stops you from worrying about falling off the edge. Even better there is no false peak - it?s very simple, when you reach the ski station you?ve made it.
I have no idea who?s with him, we haven?t been able to see the race for a few days, we don?t quite know what?s happening but I don?t care. It was all worth it for that one extraordinary moment.
We reached the tiny village of Saint-Pierre de Vassols in Provence late last night. Our guest house is exquisite and the sight that greets us at breakfast is like a picture from Conde Nast Traveler. A fig has been cut into neat eighths and displayed like the rays of the sun over a bed of grapes, strawberries and peaches. I want to take a picture not eat.
At the top I?m not sure what all the fuss was about. It was hard but nothing out of the ordinary. Andy takes the victory pix and I stop at the Tom Simpson memorial a mile below the summit to pay hommage. Tommy was the English rider who died here while trying to win the Tour in the 60?s - later it would be revealed he was also taking performance enhancing drugs. His body couldn?t take it and he collapsed. Famously he is reported to have said, as he lay dying, ?Put me back on my bike.? I?ve brought a Sharpie especially with me so, like others before me, I can write some greeting on one of the distinctive white pebbles that cover the top of the mountain and leave it by his memorial. I write: Tommy, thanks for the inspiration, Nigel Dick, Los Angeles.