Buenos Aires, down to Ushuaia then up to Alaska, all in 9 weeks, March to May 2010. Bonkers. This is the story of the trip. It’s more ‘bog’ than ‘blog’ I’m afraid but I hope it can give an idea of the trip. This one was quite difficult for many reasons. I’m sure you’ll see so I won’t pre-empt your thought patterns by telling you yet. A long way to go and not enought time to do it in really. Did we make it? Ready? Here we go….
Tick, tock, tick, tock.. Self destruct, armed, ready, steady, go.I bought a little cheap laptop out with me on this trip that I was going to use. I was going to stick my hand into the velvet bag of words in my skull and lay them in order on the screen. Turns out my thoughts are happier to run at the speed of ink so I’ll let the words fall from my head, down my arm and onto the page instead. Putting words to paper is dangerous though. An open book is…well..an open book. One of my two faces will write this account while the other outward facing one will filter my thoughts and present only those deemed acceptable by the audience at the time.
Back to the front. It’s quite a big group of riders – 20 bikes and a few pillions and crew. There is bound to be a complete cross section of people amongst them, there always is. [Hang on a minute, I just have to get something off my chest. I’m in a hostel in Buenos Aires. I’m sitting at a big table in the kitchen. It’s lunchtime and the freaks are out. Travellers. Fucking big stupid dreadlocks but never been anywhere near Jamaica. Speaking with Australian voice inflection, assaulting my ears as he tries to chat up a sleepy blonde. Jesus. “Do me a favour mate” I ask him. “Here is a big scary knife, jump onto it will you please”. One less oxygen thief in the world. Face 2 wipes the blade of blood and I’m back in the game.]
So we all turn up at the airport and the willy waving begins. The 11th commandment dictates that motorcyclists take part in this ritual whenever they meet for the first time. I’m never going to win one of those. Perhaps if there were a weener waving contest I might stand a chance. Whos going to be fastest/first/biggest/best? Who’s got the newest shiniest gadgets? Face 1 plays the game while face 2 starts the categorization process. I’m bad. I know it. I’m the current ‘quickest to judge’ world champion. No second chances. No reviews. No shit. It’s the same with everything I encounter. Sometimes a touch is enough. Drag a finger along a button in a shop and its like reading a barcode. Bleep, crap, move on. Cars, bikes, holidays, cutlery, food, TV, audio all assessed and categorized immediately. I look at people and I like to think I can read their characteristics like words in a stock ticker running through their veins. I try not to look at mine. I’m not sure I’d like what I see.
This time I’m going to give it some time, maybe an hour. Let them talk a bit at least. Much later I decide I need not have bothered. There are a lot of genuinely nice people here, people I’ll definately find engaging rather than enraging. There are some ‘pawns’ too. Characterless souls whose veins run clear. People just to fill in the gaps in the scenery. A few are showing me words that immediately classify them as TBD (To Be Deleted). We’ll not mix well. Water and oil. Everyone wants to be friends though which is good. Face 1 says “sounds good to me”. Face 2 says “we’ll wait and see”.
So off we go. Each of us is carrying enough hand baggage to fill 3 overhead lockers. We’re flying AlItalia. What we all expected was a crew of swarthy lithe hostesses that would be putting on acrobatic displays in the aisles. What we got was a couple of hair collectors that are proudly displaying crops of body fur that would take the combined efforts of a combine harvester, a strimmer and a big flame thrower to remove. Waxing wouldn’t touch this, strictly industrial methods are the only way. Through Rome and 13 1/2 hours to Buenos Aires. The air crew seem to work about 1 hour in 10. Food is dispensed in special frisbee trays that they can throw from one spot. Whilst I’m eating a hostess manages to fly by and into my fork arm at high speed sending a machine gun trail of chicken gravy along my trousers and the seat in front. You get up over night for a drink. A BA crew would get up from their seat and get you a fresh cold drink. No problem, smiles and platitudes, then ask you if you wanted anything else. At Alitalia they just point to a tray with a few warm bottles and wave their hands as if you are a distraction from the the fresco nudes they are painting of their heavy, hairy, rubenesque colleague sprawled out on the galley floor.
Into Buenos Aires we go. Big sprawling city. Hot, humid and raining. On to the hostel. Nice place, recently refurbished I think. Like a lot of the places I go though it would be better without the people. I’m sure they’re not all the same but some of these flippin youffs really get my goat. A traveller is someone who cut a lifeline and flock off. This lot all have laptops, IPhones, credit cards. Thick, almost visible umbilical cords leading back to the bank/womb at home. They seem to wander about all day staring at screens and pressing buttons, trying to look dirty but smelling clean. Trying to look rough but oozing moisturisers and gels. Maybe I’m just old but the future of the world looks bleak from here. Maybe I’m just a grumpy old man and I’m jealous. I’d love to press life’s reset button and go back to that age.
Outside, Argentina looks nice. Buenos Aires is a busy place, lots of people on foot. Americanas Flabbyarseicus maximus wobblyarse doesn’t seem to have made it down this far yet. I wander about for a few hours and I’m surprised at the lack of corporate America presence. No Starbucks every 3rd shop and I’ve not even seen a McDonalds yet. I’m sure they’re here somewhere but not jumping out at every turn like we’re used to. It’s refreshing. It’s very very hot and sticky though and I just want to get going.
Customs are dicking about and they won’t be releasing the bikes until at least Monday. Bollocks. I’m not at all happy, none of us are, but it’s just not going to happen any sooner. 4 days to kill in Buenos Aires then. Sounds great. Feels not so great. It’s not what I came for.
Another day in paradise. I hate waiting. I abhor waiting. I detest and loath waiting. My blood pressure rises until my veins stand proud of my skin. My heartbeat sending a pulse through them like a bloody tsunami building and building. My muscles tense, my temper shortens and the swearing worsens quickly reaching stratospheric levels. My temples begin to ache and my head feels like an air line has been pressed into my ear and left on. I reach a state when murder seems a sensible option and I don’t pick up a knife for fear of inserting into some skin…. Anyway, I’ve been waiting for 3 days now and it shows no sign of abating. The problem seems to be the Argentinian customs. It seems it is a Argentinian custom to operate a strict priority scheme when dealing with imported items. It appears our bikes are at the bottom of a very very very long list. Anything, absolutely anything else takes priority. Moustache maintenance , pencil sharpening, walking round in circles, clipping fingernails, anything. When there is absolutely nothing else to do, when all their facial hair is neatly lined up and brushed, when they’ve discussed last nights dinner with their mate, when they’ve exhausted their ‘blue or black in’ debate, WHEN HELL FUCKING FREEZES OVER, then we might get our bikes out. In normal circumstances the process might take a couple of hours. So far we’ve been waiting 4 long, hot and fucking frustrating days.
Waiting. My feelings on waiting have gone beyond words now. They’re a fist imprint on a door, a hole kicked in the wall, a strange bleeding scar I didn’t have yesterday. I buzz with a charge that sparks out whenever I get within 10 feet of a metal object. I’m so charged that I’m probably showing up as a blip on some confused NASAR engineers radar screen somewhere. I NEED to get moving, and soon.
Today, Sunday, it rained. Not the “I’m just pissing around” rain, more the “look what I can do when I’m angry” kind. Boca Juniors were playing River Plate this afternoon, the grudge match to beat all others. The game was called off at half time because of the rain with the score Football 0 Weather 1. The hostel we’re in has become precinct 13 too. This sort of thing often happens. Day 1 you come in and all is fine but after a few days the scum drums beat out that there is money in the area and the lowlife arrive. Today two of the riders got a gun waved at them 100 yards from the hostel, then another got chased by another 3 men before he jumped into a taxi to escape. One of the others got his phone lifted from his pocket. The other night a girl in the hostel got a bag thrown over her head (insert your own joke here) and two people went through her pockets. Welcome to Argentina. It has to be said though that the people are generally very very friendly and helpful. It’s just the ones with the guns and the hoods…
“Wait for me”. I’ve got enough trouble waiting for myself. Take a taxi to the the time wasters. Sure enough, it’s a Monday morning and they’re sat at their desks but I’m finding it extremely hard to detect any movement. It’s like watching dry paint dry. Absolutely nothing seems to be happening. We’ve got some fix it bloke but he only seems to be able to fix it so we can wait. There are 20 of us here, each has to sign two forms – that’s it. You don’t have to speak to anyone, read anything, pay, just sign your signature twice. 2 hours later and we’re finished. I’ve an awful feeling that I heard Jim Won’t fix it bloke say “manyana, no” to someone. Oh dear. Forget slamming doors, screaming and shouting. Think “Englishman held over Buenos Aires moustache massacre. Old bloke, 40 something is being held in an Argentinian jail tonight after going on the rampage with a blunt razor in a customs office”. Cue picture of hollow eyed maniacal stare holding up a police identification board, then footage of men running around holding their hands over top lips that haven’t seen the light of day since they were 12. I’ve had more than enough of waiting, in fact I’ve had more than more than enough. Tomorrow we have been promised our bikes. Keep a keen eye on CNN.
Wait.. 10… we’re going at 2…3…4.. no, we’re still going to go, honest. They say the bikes are cleared.. 4:30.. no, come at 5.. The taxi can’t find the place. I think the driver has nicked this cab, I think he’s really a dentist, from Armenia. 5:45 we enter the port. The port shuts at 6..allegedly, yea right, I feel a bullshit moment coming on. Queue no. 1. Bribe request no. 1. “$1000 please” … bugger off mate. Take your ugly face and put in a bowl of warm concrete then breath in, do us all a favour. “tomorrow is a public holiday so you won’t get the bikes till Friday”. You know, it’s almost like they planned it. A price is negotiated and we make our way down to the hanger and get the bikes off the pallets. Bit of messing about for an hour and we’re led out to the main gate. We’re 10 yards from freedom, I can smell it. Wait for an hour…. 8 o’clock comes. “Oh, please bring the bikes round with us”. We’re led back through to way off in the back of the port again. “Please park your bike here”.
I park my bike next to a big lorry with an arm coming out of the side. “This is our new XRay machine and we want to test it out on your bikes”. Yes mate, no problem. 8:30 – we’ve got all the time in the world, only a hundred miles to do, go ahead, be my fucking guest. This isn’t an XRay machine, its a flippin time machine and it’s been set to slow motion. 11:30, yep, 11:30 and they stop XRaying the bikes. I apparently had cocaine capsules (sockets in my tool set), someone had a block of crack (an ECU), someone else had a false tank (no..it’s just somewhere else….they do that you know, twat) Professionals, consummate professionals. Time wasting could not be in better hands. So.. 11:30back at the gate. More waiting. “I just need to do some more paperwork”. 12:30am “The clerks want some more money as they are working late” But they work here all night you stupid ball headed purveyor of poo and lies.. “or you don’t get the bikes till Friday”. $2000 total. Bargain, total bargain. After one more small bribe to the police who are waiting outside the gates, ready to throw a baton shaped spanner in the works, we’re out the gates and free at 1:30am. Petrol.. 2:30am.. Off to the hotel. It’s only a little way away… 2 little hours away. 4:30am and we get to the hotel. The town is still humming though. It’s totally surreal. It’s like it’s the middle of the day, only dark. Small kids are playing on the street, people sat outside drinking in cafes, clubs pumping out heavy music keeping the people awake. Head hits pillow, pillow bounces to the beat until 6:30 when the locals finally give up and go to bed.
Up at 7:45. 600 miles to do today.
Autopilot on, hours pass, petrol is burnt. 10pm we get to the hotel. Thats pretty well all I remember.. except the roadblocks. Roadblocks. Stop and search. ‘All luggage open?’ ‘Yes. I know it takes 10 minutes to unload and repack. I know it’s impossible for you to have purchased anything at all since the last roadblock just round the last bend. I know I’ll open the pannier, pretend I have XRay vision and and the scent glands of a cocker spaniel in order to search the contents without touching anything. Yes I know it’s 10pm and you’ve been on the road 14 hours,now do it” “Don’t worry about it mate, patience is my middle name, waiting is my game”. Seriously, I’m thinking of starting a company offering ‘waiting holidays’ for those who like to queue. I’d make a flippin fortune. I’m really excited about it, I’m really really excited. In fact I just can’t wait…
The hotel is fully booked it seems. Every bed appears to be occupied, by fleas. TBH I’m just not bothered. I’m so wankered I just don’t care. I ask Mr and Mrs flea to budge over and I slip in beside them and slip into a coma. They spend all night feasting on my knees and scalp.. which is nice.
OK, some kind rider gets the defibrillator going and jump starts me out of my sleep/coma. I get out of bed and leave Mr and Mrs Flea to sleep off their overnight feast. 7:30 is a watery coffee and a croissant or ‘half moon’ (in Spanish of course) as they call them. OK, we’re going at 8:30. 800km today. No..wait.. Someone didn’t make it to the hotel last night and they’re 260km back up the road. Plans are changing, see, they just changed again… and again. Now we’re going to to 450km instead, or should we do 500? Hold up… wait.. maybe.. Chaos and it’s only the 2nd day. We get away eventually at 11. My patience is wearing thinner than gold leaf and I’m so pissed off I can barely talk. I need to be alone and possibly to have my lips sewn together. I seem to be carrying an invisible pillion. I think his name is Mr Sod and his word is law. If it can go wrong then Mr Sod ensures the jam is facing down.
At least the traffic is thinning and I’m begining to get the feeling that we’re finally on our way. The roads down to Ushuaia are unfortunately straight and the scenery is non existent here. Flat plains with the occasional hillock thrown in. Yesterday it was lots and lots of cows waiting to fill the steak restaurants and agriculture to fill the rest of the plates but today it’s much more barren as we track down close to the coast. Where the people start to thin out, then the wildlife takes over. Lots of big soaring birds sit on the wind and watch. Deer like creatures stand in groups on the dried out mud flats. The pretty stuff is all a long way west of here and hopefully we’ll see it on the way back up but for now just to be moving is good. Today we ended up in the Welsh enclave of Trelew. Weird stuff indeed. Lots of pavement cafes serving high tea, scones and all. Dragon flags everywhere, welsh language signs. Very very strange indeed. I don’t want to carry my little netbook anymore – it’s dead weight. I try to give it to a kid on the street by his mum probably told him what strangers who offer him sweets really want to do to him. Christ know what he things I want in exchange for a netbook but he buggers off quick styley. I leave it in the hotel for a maid to pick up but some muppet finds in at gives it back to me again later. I’ll give it to Mr Sod I think.
Short day today, only 400km. Out and onto the plains again. It’s like the earth is a big play doh ball that’s been dropped on the floor and we’re riding across the flat bit. ‘ladies and gentlemen, if you’d like to look out of the left window you can see absolutely sod all as far as the eye can see, and if you look out of the right window…’. I’m sure you get the picture. Flatness on a HUGE scale. This is where the flat earth society hold their yearly conferences. Flat, scrub, a few odd sheep and horses. Some alpaca/pushme-pullyou lookalikes. Not much else at all….except for the wind. For the past few days there has been a crosswind but today it’s really really cross. We ride along 10 degrees to the vertical all day. Going round left hand bends is the most disconcerting feeling. You lean to the right but go left. Watching other riders it looks more like a tacking boat than a bike, you seem to have to steer with the rear wheel.
Tonight we’re at Comodoro Rivadavia on the coast. It has a real feeling of isolation about it, like everyone is related. We can’t find the hotel, someone has obviously hidden it. We sit at a junction and watch a road accident. There are no ‘give way’ signs or white lines anywhere and the roads are very dangerous. God only knows how they apportion blame in accidents. I watched one bloke run straight into another bloke and I have absolutely no idea whose fault it was, I’m not sure they did either.
Eventually find the hotel hidden under a rock. Pleasant place. Basic but friendly. My bike is pissing oil from somewhere and every time I stop it stands and drips little beads of black sweat like a metallic athlete after a race. I take off the bash plate and tighten its nuts, that would stop me sweating for sure so I’m hoping it will have the same effect. Also I made a bit of a major logistical lockup & I left an essential part of my panniers at home. Result is, melted pants. Now these pants have been tested in full combat conditions and they can take some heat but they have not been placed close to an exhaust before and they’ve melted together with a few other non essentials like clothes, battery chargers and camera cables – bugger. Totally my own stupid fault. We’ve parked the bikes in a building that is undergoing building work and there a few of the workers milling about. One of the other riders kindly organises the sparky to knock up a replacement exhaust diversion pipe to replace the one sitting 8000 miles away in my garage. He gets a piece of pipe, cuts it down to size, bends the end to slip over the exhaust then welds on a bracket so I can attach it to the pannier rail and jobs a goodun. ‘The price senior?’ ‘£5’ Lovely jubbly. Looks hard as nails too – result.
Out before dark this morning, we’ve got a long way to go. We try to find our way out the town using someones satnav, or ‘shatnav’ as it turned out to be. Maybe my mate asked it to direct us to the local rubbish dump, up several unmade dirt street and into the bowel end of town but I seriously doubt it. Eventually we go manual, ask for directions and find our way out. Wind is up again and the road is very bad. Someone more used to rolling pastry than roads seems to have been let loose here. They’re all over the place. The landscape has gone lunar today too, very very barren. After a while mother nature decides she needs to get her breath back and we’re treated to a few hours of calm. The land starts to get more bumpy and interesting, they even throw in a few big fast corners too, which is nice.
They seem to have an aversion to corners round here, they are busy bashing the tops off the hills to make the road as straight as possible from horizon to horizon. The scenery changes for a while with bright pink earth poking through the scrub. Lots and lots of these Lama/Camel/Cheryl Cole crossbreeds about today too. Big hairy feckers, often all over the road. I wouldn’t want to hit one, I reckon it would hit me right back. Eagles and tiny stunted ostriches. Wild sheep and horses. Not much else with a heartbeat round here.
We keep having long off road diversions where they’re fixing the road (and taking out the corners usually!). There is going to be a lot of this on this trip and it’s way out of my comfort zone, in fact it’s right in my ‘shart zone’. I always have a turd torpedo loaded and ready to fire at the first sign of trouble, didn’t trigger it today though thank God. Later in the day mother nature has obviously finished breathing in and she starts to breath out again. Up comes the wind again. Overtaking trucks turns us into biker dolphins as we dive into the bow wave. Come along side, aim for the drivers door then duck in and go. Riding in these high winds feels like the bike is riding on a tightrope. It bucks and weaves and wobbles from side to side but thankfully keeps moving forward. Petrol is flippin expensive here too, nearly the same as home so big miles means big expense. I’m constantly looking for present for the family at home. Ladies are easy to buy for but all I can find for my son is knives, guns or girls, perfect.
Ushuaia is the target today, the southernmost city on earth. We’ve got to go into and out of Chile then back into Argentina to get there. Mother nature is clearly not only cross today, she’s also bitter. It’s blowing a hard and bitterly cold wind as we head down to the first border/job creation point. 5000 bits of paper and 30 gallons of ink later and we’re in Chile. At least they have both sets of officials in one building here for a change. This piece of Chile is just a spur that cuts through Argentina to the east coast. The light is so strange here at this time in the morning, almost unnatural. As we’ve come south humanity has become thinner and thinner on the ground but this area seems even more sparsely populated. A few brightly coloured houses cling to the land near the border but then you’re alone with the road for long periods. All that runs through here is a strip of concrete road…well.. so far. Get the ferry across the Magellan straights and hold tight to the bikes as we ride the impressive swell for 20 minutes Few more km, a small community then concrete turns to piste, 100km of very loose gravel covered piste. Unlike other rough roads I’ve ridden this is like the M1. Lorries and coaches by the dozen ply this road to supply the southern Argentinian population and it seems they’re all ex rally drivers by the looks of it. After overtaking a load of lorries and coaches and nearly painting my pants I pick a coach and decide to follow it. He’s a maniac, drifting it around and hanging the rear out round corners. Pretty impressive stuff really but it does mean I’m constantly getting pebble dashed and driving in a cloud of dust. He’s doing 60-70mph most of the time so I put my brain in my panniers and hold station for a while.
You know that feeling when you’re walking downhill and you slip. You’re sliding and only just keeping your balance and you’re only just a fraction of a second away from and ‘arse meets ground’ moment. Well that’s what I feel like for the next 30 minutes. The more you do the more you get used to the feeling of instability, like learning to skate I guess. Towards the end I overtake the coach, breath fresh air and begin to enjoy it. I come to a big bend and feel the bike drift as I open the throttle. I’m getting the hang of this I think – that is until I stop a few miles later at the customs. I’ve got a puncture and my tyre is flat. It must have been flat for a while and it looks quite unwell, I just couldn’t feel it in all the deep loose gravel. I bung a plug in the hole and pump it up – result, it holds. Go through a few more border posts and here we are, in the land of fire, ‘Tierra de Fuego’. This whole area is strewn with Malvinas references. Last night’s stop was home to the airbase used to fight the Falklands war. Later we go through Rio Grande and there are memorials everywhere. It’s odd to think how times change in the space of just a few years.
The people here seem to have a touch of the Med about them too. Not only do they obviously speak spanish but they also seem to come out en mass in the evening to promenade. The difference is that it’s freezing cold and blowing a gale, but they still have their picnics besides campfires and enjoy the evening in the great outdoors. I’m guessing that a large part of the year this place is too flippin cold to venture out in at all so they make the best of it when the sun is out. As I leave Rio Grande the bike starts to vibrate. I ride with my fingers in my ears, my eyes closed, humming ‘la la la I can’t hear you’ as I pretend it’s not happening. Must be some dodgy tarmac or something, maybe its the wind, maybe the bike is tired, possibly, hopefully. At 80 it it feels awful and at low speed it feels like it’s on ice as it’s moving about underneath me. Something is knackered but I can’t see what in the evening light so I decide to ride on. I ride at 90 to see if it will go away but I just end up with pins and needles in my fingers.
We’re into the mountains in the dusk. BIG scenery, snow capped peaks, lakes, big fast open bends. The bike is flecked, I’m convinced. I’m already mentally phoning home and telling them to put the kettle on. Bollocks, bollocks and double bollocks. I slow to 70 and let everyone go, it just feels to dangerous and it’s getting worse. Even at 10mph it feels buggered, POOOOOOOOOO. Depression mode ON, tears and tantrums ON, kicking seven bells of shit out the bike ON. Get to the hotel and get off the bike, take a look under the streetlights. Take a look at the front wheel again, can’t see anything wrong, look at the rear, run my finger round the tyre.. what’s this? This doesn’t feel right at all. The sidewalls of the rear tyre have gone from round to octagonal, the tyre is all out of shape and it’s fucked. There are bulges absolutely everywhere and I’ve never seen anything like it. Its been getting worse all the time since I came into Argentina 200 miles ago. I must have driven on the flat for miles without noticing, just thinking the sliding was due to the gravel, I wasn’t hanging about either. I’ve wrecked the sidewalls completely. I’m glad I only rode on it at 90mph, 91 would have been really dangerous.
Still, I’ve got a spare rear tyre on the bike and I can sort it out tomorrow. Perhaps Mr Sod has decided to get off my bike and ride with someone else, HORAH!
The hotel we’re at today has a room at the top that’s surrounded by windows, like a rooftop conservatory and at breakfast the sun bangs it’s fist on it’s alarm clock and begins the struggle to get up. As it climbs over the mountains it throws rays across the city picking out corrugated iron roofs and church spires. This place is only 600 miles from Antarctica so it’s pretty cold. Lots of boats do trips to see the wildlife and they sit and purr in the harbour trying to get some heat into their bones surrounded by the morning mist. This place feels a lot like the Alaskan towns and I like the atmosphere. I go to get my tyre changed, I’m expecting a wait…I’m shocked though. the bloke is like a whir and fits it quicker than a quick fit fitter. He looks at the carcass and whistles and smiles. I look and think maybe Mr Sod made room for Lady Luck yesterday, she can ride pillion anytime. The tyre has big gashes in the sidewall where it’s obviously been ridden on the rim, I don’t reckon it would have lasted much longer so I count myself very lucky. Pay the bloke £5 and the bike feels 100% again, a huge relief and a smile on my face. We have a day off here today so have a wander round to fill some time. The main street is a tourist trap full of overpriced stuff for keeping warm but the rest of the place is lovely.
Later we all trek down to the national park for a picture by the end of the world sign we’ve all been aiming for. 20km more dirt roads, nearly there, last corner, this is it, there it is, here we go…. STOOOOOOOOOOPPPPP. Some park ranger bloke jumps out and stops us taking our bikes to the sign. It’s like the motorcyclist equivalent of coitus interrupts, so near yet so far from our goal. We all have to park 100 yards away and cry quietly. Apparently, according to a new rule he’s just made up on the spot, as we’re part of an organised (perhaps he has a different understanding of the word organised than we do) tour then we should have paid extra to come in the park and he is going to fine us. He is, he really is, I just can’t believe it. I’m not having that, I’m just not. One phone call to Lady Margaret Of The Falklands and 5 SAS blokes on standby appear from the bushes and hang the bloke by the balls with razor wire from the nearest tree. Thanks Mags, big up yourself. Once the bloke os out the way I take my bike for the shot we’ve all been waiting for then shoot off before the screams and blood puddle attract too much attentionNext Page