Sunday 10 May 2009

'Nip and tuck' : Three days of 7.



Good, it's Friday, it's not rained and the met check is showing yellow things and bright symbols. 

Bodes well for the end of a week at work and thoughts turn to more important numbers, well, just one : 7

So, reports sent, the VPN umbilical to corporate puppetry is severed and the lid is slammed on that energy drain, at least until the world does a couple of revs and I spin up a few thousand revs more, courtesy of Messrs Colin Chapman and Henry Ford.

Clear evening out there too, 9pm, I'm not out downing some 'sociables' and the current Miss Carrots is out endurance karting with clients (?! Where's my wild card ticket for that ?!).

Mmm...Wonder if any of the Sunrise 7 crew are up for a NightBlat. I know one who'll not even need asking.



RS 15 and normal RV? Red light on, green light on: go! The weekend begins.

And so the two man X-flow formation fired it's way south , the usual roads and a few made up bits delivered us through the Sussex evening to Brighton sea front some 80 scalp twitching miles later. Notwithstanding a brief altercation with what we think was an eco-mentalist at the traffic lights, who was stared down by Bob of the B's best Taliban melting glare, we landed at the Market Tavern for a burger and tea.  BST 23.30.



... and so to the main event, the NightBlat (v) home! 00.30 and the roads should be clearer by now, the route down having suffered the constipation of Friday night drivers.Who's out on the roads at 10 at night on a Friday? 
Really tho', who? 
Friday, after a week at work, you want to be where you're going to by then surely? And, if you're coming back from somewhere, you've clearly had a bad evening or come down with something, to be on the road at 10pm. Even if you've been to the cinema it would have had to start at 6 so as to be finished and get you to the middle of Sussex for this hour in your : Metro, Yaris , Micra etc... in which case, you must go and make some friends. So, the stage is set for the run home. Cool, crisp and eighty miles to go ... like other things, it's the anticipation that's half the joy.

Up over the downs via the cartoon switchback towards Hurstpierpoint, the sharp left bend before the open stretch to Henfield and the sudden '30', which extinguishes the frantic action of a few hundred yards earlier.

Typical sleeping Sussex 'no-where land' village that never actually wakes up. 
A no-name supermarket in perspex green signage , lit but rarely open. 
Some other shops, that once sold stuff, that won't do in the morning or the next. 
A fox standing in the road is the principal town dweller tonight... and probably tomorrow.
30 it is though, in case we wake the dead.

A mini roundabout with the new paved 'halo' thing around it, I'll use the paving and halve the circumference, but thanks for the choice. The modern 'build by numbers' estate, that is the now statutory issue appending every small village, reflects blankly in the sodium vapour lamp haze... national speed limit, the black diagonal, the escape sign.

And here it is, tap tap of the baton on the lectern: the 30 minute un-interrupted flow of choreographed moves responding to the changing score that the road, finally, after all it's promises, allows you to perform. It's a lead solo with no audience, selfish me time, now time, in time. 
A flash of overrun flame, white and yellow, lights the hedgerows, a display of pops and bangs accompany the indulgence and, ahead, the reflected light of occasional wildlife eyes slink back into the anonymity of night.
In the mirror: the flare of narrow 7-spaced headlights a few bends back and the driver is doped in another solo. Two separate performances, to an audience of self, continues on, unseen, across country into the night. 

BST 1.30

B of the B peels away to make the best of the rest of his way home... I turn north and the reality of over familiar roads dulls the 'edge' of less well known territory off manor.. The NightBlat begins it's energy wind down. Lean off the mixture , pull down the hat, come back down the revs. 
Just as well: a parked police car in a layby near North Chapel, steamed up windows, chips, perhaps... or new found love on the beat?

BST 02.00 Engine off, nice warm tyres, cold ears and hot smells in the garage.(Perhaps like in that police car?)

Alarm set for 8am... more to come,but, for now, the BlatGland rests. 


Saturday: History on Wheels Museum, Eton Wick.



Up and out to re-establish formation with the Ball and a (Lite)blat to Eton where, somewhere behind a row of houses, is a peculiarly interesting collection of cars and memorabilia from the 2nd world war period. Organised by the Reading and Hampshire 7's (ReHab),  the guided tour for 30 offered up, in detail, the rivet's arse story of  every exhibit in the converted riding school.The horses had long since turned to glue in a voluntary act of selflessness, we wished a similar escape as the sun shone outside and the moths ate more of the manikin's serge battle dress faster than the anecdote was ever going to conclude!

Gruber's little tank from Allo' Allo' lives here now: one of the highlights, along with a bicycle from 1912 with a two speed shaft drive,front and rear suspension and wooden lightweight rims.Now that was a piece of work.... as was the tested patience as Glenn Miller, on loop, did the thing over and over and over.No drip tray in sight was deep enough to self harm into.

An escape party was organised as I had plans for Thursday.

A LiteBlat home.Traffic and blood sugar levels preclude engaging the enemy at anything above decent manners... that 'between shift' clunk is becoming more noticeable. A  sloppy power-on oversteer drift around a roundabout confirmed the 'A' frame bush wear. 


So, the rest of the afternoon plan: trim the hedge, replace bushes and prepare the 7 to RS15 for a Sunrise Blat 'cos the forecast is good and everyman must do his duty!

Sunday BST 05.15 

Scramble! All clear above and behind? All out!   

Excellent, tucked up in bed one minute, out on a Sunrise Blat the next. The instant jolt into action when there's an empty road ahead and a clear empty sky above is not hard... roll call 0615 normal RV ... deja vu? To right too.

We're three up and a Westie joins us to make four at the RV this morning, Anton brings another X-flow to the squadron that still only features one of the 'k' series variants. However, Ian does offer a stable de-dion camera platform and the 'six speed light fly wheel gear change wrist action' of a floor trader...so the modern engine error is forgiven. 

Wonder if there's a correlation between engine type and a 'use' pattern... there's many more K's out there than X-flows. So why the pre-dominance of the much simpler and heavier Ford powered cars in this small group seeking the best of driving opportunities for their cars?

We complete the 5 craft formation with CB Bob at Lasham who had a lie in this morning. This was duly noted in the records by Andy from Coastal Command (Worthing) who again was on the road by 5.15 to report for 6.15! 




The sun is up, the roads (reasonably) clear, little could be wrong with the world as the Lasham bends and the road to Alton blend the cocktail that tarmac, 7's and sunshine makes.

Flicking through the long early summer shadows in cool temperatures soon dispatches the ribbon of road that is our winding way to Goodwood race track,our venue for breakfast at the Aero club.Breakfast has become our outward objective in driving somewhere for these early excursions and, as time has progressed, we are beginning to form a collection of eateries that suit the 'breakfast hunter' . Night blats have orientated around a snack stop it seems too... the Sunrise Seven BlatGrub Guide will clearly need to be published soon!

And arrival at Goodwood reminded us that this venue's eatery doesn't open until 9am on a Sunday... Core blatting time is defined as viable anytime up until 8.30am, that is the tipping point before car booters, cyclists and horse people coagulate the roadstream to an extent where you might as well be on a bike, towing a horse box heading for a boot sale.This is when breakfast really does become a good alternative to succumbing to that level of road use. And anyway, we've been up since 5.30 and it's 8 o'clock, so time for blatgrub.

Some snaps taken to prove we'd been there... (like a reconnaissance mission or something? No, just 'cos they always look good at Goodwood.)




Sunday 8am

Delia's Diner for breakfast then, Hayling Island, red on, green on,GO! The groan of disappointed stomachs is drowned by the majority roar of weber breath and something that's particular to K series induction sound, that isn't a roar really. Either way, the infield tunnel at Goodwood plays the sound back just nicely!

A big plate of the essentials with the steaming mug as a support act were the stars of Delia's stage. The wookie on a rope guarded the front door and the bearded dungaree clad family maintained their seat in the stalls as per previous visits , but the food led the audience in chorus.

Second cups of coffee were ordered upon the arrival of an SV R300, who was drawn to the stage by the 'breakfast of 7's' decorating the pavement outside. And then there were six 7's.

It was then that recon spotted what appeared to be another of the bearded dungarees on chauffeur duties. CBB identified him as clearly to be Santa doing his summer temp job in the next best thing to a sleigh!


It's still only 9.00 and the free pass is good for a few more hours and, so, the lure of the road has us reversing the previous Hayling Blat route back across the downs to the A32 and the glorious run up the Meon valley. 

Lesson one: outside core blat-time : avoid all known biker's routes.
Lesson two: don't follow bikes to show them how good the 7 is. Especially when they're showing you how fast their bike can go... in a 30 limit! 
Lesson three: Try to limit the clutch of NIPs to one or two every few years. Not two in one morning!



The argument and debate runs wild on this matter, the tactics used by current enforcement is effective, but somehow below the belt. Up a hill out of the village with the national speed limit post in sight invites the resumption of pace... out of sight behind a side turning hedgerow lurks a motorcycle and tripod. Pointing up hill and away from the village he's reeling off  tickets like rides at the fair.With barely time to 're-load' between snaps it's like shooting at paratroopers,but without the rules of engagement of the Geneva convention.

Subsequently, we have a man down who received two separate direct hits in the morning, a later one from an ice cream van completed the pair, and reduced capabilities in meeting future mission objectives will mean he is assigned light duties. Unlucky. We've cleared the things from his locker and his family have been informed.

We learnt of even more non-conventional tactics employed by the 'paratoop shooters' from fellow commiserators at Loomies Cafe, where the need for sweet tea had us amongst the 2 wheelers. There are resource funds being spent that cost more than moat cleaning and duck islands it would seem. Soft target? Easy revenue.

Nip and Tucked up.

So, ended the three day run and not on a good note really. 
Highs and lows and all that, but a sharp reminder that there is a limit to everything we're involved with... which is a shame, the  sense of freedom and opportunity for self expression is harder to find these days and remains one of the key ingredients of the Sunrise Sevens and our simple pleasures.We remain 'Questio Liberum Via' in all senses. 

Check the met for yellow things and bright symbols. RS60.


(In memory of the loss of one man's exuberance and loyalty to his wingman until the end.May the rest of us continue to be lucky b**tards.)






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