Replicant. 5/30/2008
I can understand fan-dom. I have a few fans myself. And I have seen first hand how far fanaticism can go, in support of your favourite sports star, or team, or actor. But this one made me pause and think. Almost everyone in the world knows of Valentino Rossi. Multiple world champion, the man who’s riding skills are now legendary. And also a favourite with his fans. Rossi has a huge fan base, not just amongst the motorcycle enthusiasts.
This of course has lead to lots of riders wanting to emulate their hero. AGV makes a Rossi replica lid which sells for not far short of US$800. Rossi replica leathers from Dainese? Yours for US$3000. Yamaha certainly issues a Rossi edition of their street bikes, especially when he wins a world championship. But something I saw this morning in a forum I frequent takes the cake.
A bike was advertised for sale today, and it was certainly well done. Beautiful paintwork, all the right stickers in the right places. Done up to look like a replica of the ‘07 M1 that Rossi races in the MotoGP. I looked at the pictures and thought, wow, this guy really put a lot of time, effort and money into making this replica. Then I read the blurb accompanying the pictures of the bike, and I had to laugh out loud.
What’s wrong with the picture above? Can you spot it? You’d have to be really well versed with modern sportbike design and models. In case you can’t see it, here’s another picture.
The sharp eyed amongst you might have noticed that certain components and proportions don’t quite fall into place. I am not distracting from the amount of work the owner has put into making this “replica”. I admire the effort he’s put in. Just that there is one fairly serious problem with it. Can’t spot it yet?
Here’s a picture of the rider, wearing the obligatory Rossi replica leathers, and replica helmet.
Beautifully turned out replica of Yamaha’s M1 in Rossi livery. There’s only one problem. That bike started life as a Kawasaki ZXR750-H.
Golden Jubilee. 5/29/2008
It’s been 50 years. Who would have thought. A plane designed at the beginning of the Cold War, had its first flight in 1958, and was soon to see sterling service in Vietnam and the Middle East, is now celebrating its golden jubilee this week. The F-4 Phantom II is still in active service with various countries around the world.
Pop-up dog. 5/27/2008
I was driving home late on Saturday night, on the wrong side of oh-dark-thirty. It was cool outside, so I had the windows down on the truck, cruising along. I came up to the toll plaza, slowed down and paid the toll. As I pulled away from the toll booth, I saw a police road block at the exit of the toll plaza. I slowly moved along, and joined the line of cars queuing up to get past the block. I pulled up and came to a halt when the cop waved his torchlight, flagging me down.
The truck comes with bench seats, and this particular night, the front bench seat was occupied. With my dog. Well, I wouldn’t use the word dog. She’s a big dog, and the best way to describe her would be in the words of my father, who said, when he first saw her, “what is that? a wolf?” Suffice it to say that she has a rather mean and slightly serial killer-ish way of looking at the world. The usual expression she has on her face is, “I could tear out your liver now and eat it, but I’m not hungry so I won’t bother.” If you think I’m kidding, a couple of weeks ago she tried to tear out the throat of my other dog. She almost succeeded too, resulting in the other dog needing lots of stitches and spending a few days in the infirmary, and a humongous vet bill.
So I come to a stop, and wait, looking at the cop coming up to the passenger side door, across from me. He shines his torchlight into the truck, and is about to ask for my license when the wolf, very suddenly, sits up and pops her face right into the beam of the torchlight. The cop sees this big wolf like dog pop into his face like a jack-in-the-box, and utters a scream, dropping his torchlight. My dog looks at him a little quizzically, wondering how much effort it would take to jump through the window and rip his overweight throat out.
Behind the cop were his buddies, and when he screamed, they looked over and start walking over quickly, in case something was wrong. Well, there was something wrong. The cop was overweight for his uniform, for one thing, and we were certainly in imminent danger of being blinded in case the buttons decided to pop off his dress shirt. As they came up to the truck, the dog uttered a low growl, and then a bark. Something in that growl must have tripped a switch, probably the one that says that once, a long time ago, humans were not at the top of the food chain. That growl signified dinner time, and not for the humans.
The cops froze. They took a step back in unison, and one of them waved me on, hurriedly. I nodded my head, and engaged the gears. I drove off, with the dog looking out the window at the 3 cops. I may have been my imagination, but I think she was salivating a little.
Oh, and remember that torchlight the cop dropped on the ground in shock?
As I drove off, I heard the sound of crunching plastic as one of the truck’s tyres rolled over it.
Harlow? Wrong numbah? 5/11/2008
I was at home when the phone rang. The house phone that is. It’s a number that only 1 person knows. Well, actually, 2 other organisations know my home number. The phone company, and the pizza place up the road. However, the number is only known to 1 individual. And it rang this evening, so I picked the phone up, expecting to find a familiar voice on the other side of the line.
I said, “Hello?”
And was rather surprised to have a female voice going, in surprise, “WHAT? WHO IS THIS?”
I then replied, “well, it’s me, and this is an unlisted number, so I guess you must have missdialed.”
The voice on the other side then says (very rudely, I might add), “WHO IS THAT? WHO ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU DOING THERE? WHAT NUMBER IS THIS?”
I replied, in a civil tone, “I think you may have dialled a wrong number.”
I then got this screeching harridan from hell screaming down the phone at me, “WHO ARE YOU? WHAT ARE YOU DOING THERE? WHAT IS YOUR NAME?”
I kept my cool, somewhat, and replied, this time in a rather clipped tone, saying that whomsoever she wanted to speak to was obviously not there, and this was a private number, unlisted, and she must have dialled a wrong number.
She then said, “What is your number?”
I replied, “Fuck off. No way in hell I’m going to tell you that. Thank you. Have a nice day.”
And put the phone down.
I walked away from the phone, picked up my book, sat down, and resumed reading.
At the same time reflecting that one of these days, I really should make the effort to remember exactly what my house phone number is.
Girl Friday. 5/9/2008
There have been repeated requests for the return of the Girl Friday. I considered this, and broached the subject with a Girl Friday, to which she had only this to say to fan requests for her comeback.
Down at street level. 5/6/2008
Saw this down at street level early this morning under the palm trees. Wonder if Irondad was paying a visit without letting me know.
Thirty dollar turpitude. 5/5/2008
How would you price a skill? How much of a value would you place for the services of the person who unclogs your drain, or cuts your hair, or rewires a short circuit? How much would you pay the man who fixes your bike?
I’ve not kept up with mechanic’s rates in various countries, but I know my various overseas readers will enlighten me soon enough. Over here, mechanics are cheap, comparatively. Labour rates tend to be calculated as a percentage of the parts cost, as opposed to an hour rate, which is the norm in other countries where I’ve ridden. Some mechanics are really expensive, even locally, but they justify their cost based on their shop set-up, diagnostic and engineering skills, and so on. Others, especially those who work for the official dealer or distributor, have their rates dictated by the bean counters in HQ.
So, I ask the question again, what would you pay?
I am asking this because of something that cropped up over the weekend, and made some waves in a local bike forum I occassionally drop in on. A young rider, who joined the forum some time last year, and proceeded to annoy everyone by asking questions like “Am I too short to get my knee down?”, “How do I use my tyres to the limit?” and “How do I leave black lines when I’m cornering?”, posted a comment about a bike shop where many, many canyon strafers send their bikes for repairs and service.
He brought a bike in, an FZR1000, complaining of a noise coming from the dash which, in his words, sounded like “crickets flirting”. This needed the upper fairing taken off, and clocks disassembled. And this evening I confirmed with the mechanic that he had to do this twice, after checking the first time, and finding the sound wasn’t entirely gone, to his satisfaction. The fix? A shot of spray grease into the innards of the speedometer, to stop the gears from chattering, and a little tightening of the retainer bushings on the various shafts.
The price for this work? RM30, which is about US$10.
And this kid had the temerity to say that this was expensive, and asked for a discount. To add insult to injury, after the discount was given, he then had the cheek to say that he didn’t have any money on him, and could he come back later? The shop owner almost blew a gasket at this, and said he could feel free to call someone to bring him the money.