Moto GP And Its Wheely Brave Men

Once you've gotten over this post's terrible attempt at replicating a typical British tabloid's headline pun, you might be surprised to see that it is also about 2 wheeled machinery rather than my usual waffle around cars. But after watching the weekend's US Moto GP at Laguna Seca, I couldn't help but form a gigantic cloud of opinions around the men that hammer around international racing tracks on high speed motorcycles. I couldn't help but find myself on Autotrader late that night, scrolling through listings of Kawasaki Ninjas and Honda Fireblades in an attempt to one day experience something similar to what these riders, no, heroes, experience when they risk life and limb in order to win.

The US GP, a race barely half the length of what I'm used to watching Formula 1 drivers deal with, was fantastic. The weather was calm, bike reliability was good and there were few incidents, so from a distance the race might seem a little uneventful. But look a little closer and you'll see that not only was the race full of drama, but also heroic determination and some good old, hairy chested bravery. Funnily enough though, much of that bravery came from probably the least hairy chested, baby faced rider called Marc Marquez. You may have heard of him, he won a couple of junior level world championships before landing a ride in the 2013 Moto GP season, and he's something of a star.

Marquez is a rookie, yet in his maiden Moto GP season he has not only rewritten the record books by being the youngest pole sitter and race winner in history, but also by fearlessly racing wheel to wheel with the Championship's most successful rider, Valentino Rossi. You may have also heard of him, he's the guy who had to leave his native Italy in order to just go to the shops without being mobbed by hundreds of fanatical fans. Marquez seems unphased by Rossi's legend like status within the Motorcycling community, as he not only passed Rossi into Laguna Seca's daunting corkscrew, but he did it around the outside. In the football world this could be attributed to nutmegging a world class striker, or a sort of near KO against a boxing heavyweight. Marquez then raced on towards the race's pole sitter, Stefan Bradl, who is also a rookie to the premier motorcycling championship, and defiantly took the lead. His move into the final corner was slightly less dramatic, but equally as impressive as his rear wheel slid left to right under heavy braking. Having never ridden a proper motorcycle, let alone on slick tyres at racing speeds, I was overly impressed and in absolute awe at this youngster's talent.

But my amazement didn't end there. As the riders crossed the line and entered the pits, the coverage panned to Dani Pedrosa and double world champ, Jorge Lorenzo as they clambered off their bikes, expressing emotions of pain and relief. These men had both recently had huge offs resulting in injury, with Lorenzo for example having only just undergone surgery on his shoulder days before the race. Most people are bed ridden, or at least allowed a week or 2 off after undergoing what is a fairly severe surgery, but Lorenzo hopped onto his motorcycle and raced for over half an hour around what is a very dangerous and physical track. And he managed to do this with the world's very best, even finishing 6th, behind the other badly injured racer of Pedrosa. I'm so used to seeing top level footballers exacerbating injuries on the pitch, and even Formula 1 drivers mention fear of injury whilst they clamber into comparably safe cockpits. Yet Pedrosa and Lorenzo chose to ride despite risks of further injury, in order to keep their championship hopes alive. No matter what sport you love or how much you might hate motor racing, you have to have respect for men like these.

And finally, and probably most importantly, all of these riders, even the ones who rarely make TV coverage or the news headlines, are all heroes of sorts. Because they are racing the world's fastest motorcycles, around some of the world's most challenging circuits, in a sport where riders still die. The memory of Marco Simoncelli's death is still very fresh within the Moto GP community, with less than 2 years having passed since his fatal Malaysian GP accident. Just one year before that Shoya Tomizawa had died aged 19 in the Moto2 class, showing just how dangerous Motorcycle racing still is. Formula 1 racers are risking life and limb each time they step into the car, but there is no doubt risk is even higher when you're clinging onto a high powered, two wheeled bike with little more than a few millimetres of leather separating your skin from a high speed tarmac sanding. I have no shame in saying it, even as a long-term F1 fan who once hoped to race in cars. Moto GP riders, are wheely wheely brave.

Sorry..

Can TVR Save Us From The Computers?

We often talk about progress, about development and improvements in the car industry as new models are frequently released, each offering more technology and fewer CO2s than the last. But the mainstream car market seems so focused on computerising cars and simplifying driving, that it's almost forgotten about the real drivers amongst us. Either that or it doesn't care, focusing on the masses rather than the purists. 

Examples of this can be seen across the industry, with semi automatic gearboxes removing the need for that prehistoric stick poking through the chassis floor, electronic steering removing any real sense of feel from our hands, and engine noises playing through our speakers to 'add' to the sounds of ever duller engine notes. That's all fine in a car that's used to carry junior and his sister to school, but what about cars that are supposed to be used for driving, for fun? 

In comparison to their predecessors, this new breed of sports cars and hot hatches all have an element of involvement removed from them. Even though they might be quicker, cleaner and more efficient, I don't really want any of them.

What I want is to step back into time, to a time when cars were still in touch with their raw, highly engaging ancestors. Of course most car makers won't do that, with ever increasing global issues revolving around emissions and fuel. But I have found a solution, a way of experiencing that old school flavour and all involving drive modern cars have lost. The solution is, buy a TVR.

There are several reasons why you shouldn't buy one of course, but they're all rubbish and unimportant reasons. If you buy a TVR, a 5.0 litre V8 Griffith for example, you will not only experience immense neck snatching power, but also the brutal roar of the almighty lord himself each time you squeeze the throttle. That's pretty great value for money.

In the early 90s, semi automatics were a brand spanking new technology reserved only for cars like Nigel Mansell's Williams F1 racer. So TVR had only one option, to hand full responsibility of this violently powerful V8's gearing to you, the driver. With no computer to protect the gearbox, and no GPS to predict the gears for the road ahead (a feature enjoyed by today's Rolls Royce Wraith) as the driver, you are the brain, you are the tamer of this beast. Too heavy a right foot and you'll spin all 340 horses through the rear wheels, in turn sending you toward the nearest object and probably a fiery death. But what a way to go.

That's what I want, not the flaming death of course, but full control over my vehicle. I don't care how efficient and how precise today's electronics are, if I'm not in control of that vehicle, I'm not really driving it. I'm merely influencing it, as the computers still have the upper hand. It's for this reason cars like the Nissan GTR impress me, but don't excite me.

So as you can imagine I'm glad to report that TVR, the long troubled British car maker, are back. And the latest news suggests we should be greeted, or should I say violently exposed to, 2 new models, supposedly both keeping with the TVR philosophy we'd enjoyed before the company ceased production in 2006.

I really hope new owner Les Edgar honours this promise, ignoring pressure from our European neighbours to tame the horses. Forget the electronics Les, stick a proper old school gear lever in there and 500 horses to go with it. Be the savior of driving, the manufacturer for the purists. Make something scary. Pretty please.

The MG B: A Proper Drive

Dad's only gone and bought himself an MG B. He loved the F, but thought it was "too reliable." Strange reason to sell a car, but my dad is a member of the MG Owners Club, a club of petrolheads who love to tinker with their machinery. The F worked so well, it started each and every time without complaint. Ludicrous; where's the fun in that?

Now dad has to nurse the B into life. Even with a turn of choke and a prod of the throttle there's no guarantee it'll start first time. The car shakes into life, literally, the whole body rattles as the engine first turns over, and then it isn't entirely happy ticking over until warm. That's a bit of a contrast to the F already and we haven't even moved yet.

Of course the differences don't stop there. The most obvious and immediate difference, is the massive cruise ship sized steering wheel. Squeezing my thighs under it, it seems as though all '63 B drivers must have either been severely malnourished, or super models (is there a difference?) But you soon realise the usefulness of such a circumference, because the lack of any power assisted steering means turning the wheels at low speed is something of a right old effort.

The giant steering wheel

Once rolling the B actually does ride very well. It's soft, so taking corners can feel slightly like the earth is rotating beneath you. But this obviously means that despite half a century passing since it was bolted together, the B soaks up bumps and potholes without complaint.

One thing that is fantastic about this car and an example of where modern cars have regressed, is throttle response. The smallest nudge of the pedal immediately transfers to a gush of revs and rasping exhaust note. The response is instant and right there on the tip of the pedal, creating a very connected feel to those twin carburettors.

It's not the fastest thing on the road however, in fact I think most of today's 1.2 hatches could give it a run for its money, but it's more than usable. Although the 4 speed gearbox creates a real challenge for a young driver like myself. Having only driven synchro gearboxes, the hard clicks between gears and slightly offset layout of the B's box takes some getting used to. But once you understand first can only be selected when at an absolute standstill, and that the box doesn't like to be rushed, it's a very satisfying feeling sliding through the gears.

It's been 50 years since this car was 'bolted together'

Perhaps an even bigger challenge however, are the brakes. They're not assisted, meaning stopping requires very solid pressure on the pedal. Even pulling up to a steady halt requires a firm but delicate application, with feel that bears little resemblance to the 'softer' pedals on modern cars. It takes some getting used to, but of course if those miniskirt wearing models could do it, so can I.

There is one thing that I particularly love about this car, that could make me proud to own a B for my very own; no matter what pulls up next to you at the lights, people love the B. Maybe it's the period Primrose yellow colour, maybe it's the wire wheels or even the fact that I'm not your usual B driver, but people smile, turn their heads and admire this car. It's a lovely feeling knowing you're behind the wheel of something just a little bit special. I'll be honest, I couldn't help but glance over at shop windows to catch a reflection as I rolled down a busy high street.

Simple mechanics, classic lines

The MG B provides an entirely different driving experience to what I come across in my daily drive, and has really opened my eyes as to what driving is. Yes it's much slower, but still somehow more rewarding. It's as though the challenge the B creates to just drive, brings you closer to it. It needs you to work with it, rather than just prod pedals and spin the wheel. It requires nursing, delicacy and accuracy, and as a result creates a much more involving drive. 

No wonder why I hear stories of how car owners of the past cared more for their cars than today's owners do. Back in the day, you really had to bond with this sort of car to be able to live with it. Nowadays we jump in our cars and go, without a second thought. Perhaps that's why many of us treat them with so much less respect; just look at the abundance of kerbed wheels and door dinging that takes place at your local Tesco car park. Today, cars are just tools to the majority, but in the 60s cars like the B were much more a part of us, demonstrating character and personality every time we sat behind the wheel. It's true cars have progressed so that driving has become little harder than walking, but I think it could be argued that this very progress, has also been a significant factor to their downfall.

So I say long live cars like the B, they're a permanent reminder of the past, and of how involving driving really once was.

Name In Print: My First Published Article

Today being the 1st of June meant it was the day of the latest issue of 'Enjoying MG' to fall through my letterbox. My dad, being an avid MG fan and soon to be '63 MG B owner, receives a copy of the mag each month. But one thing makes this months issue a little different from the rest, it features a contribution from myself.

Tearing open the plastic wrapping and opening the pages to my article was a very proud moment. This article represents more than just a small contribution to a long standing magazine to me, it is actually my first properly published article to feature in a proper magazine. Plus I love the thought of people across the globe reading my words and (hopefully) agreeing with what I have to say. This was a very exciting time for me indeed, but just the beginning of many more I hope.

And if you get to read it, I hope you enjoy it. It really was a joy to write, not least because I got to drive dad's MG F properly (thankfully he still doesn't know exactly how proper that was...)

One Off The Bucket List: Spa Francorchamps Track Laps

Last weekend was pretty amazing for me. Not only did I get to watch some of the world's finest classic racing machinery pound around Spa at the Spa Classic, but I also got to drive around the legendary circuit myself in my dad's little MG F VVC.

Now my dad is normally quite a macho, lager drinking lad who tells stories of getting drunk and punching men in his youth. But on these fairly steady laps, he was a pretty nervous passenger who is very thankful that the GoPro didn't pick up his screams for me to "Brake! Brake!"

Although the laps were far from flat out, the chance to drive up Eau Rouge and around La Source hairpin was truly a dream come true. I can only hope one day I will return, perhaps in my 182, to challenge this famous circuit at far more adrenaline pumping speeds.

Anyway, here are a couple of pictures from my weekend, followed by some footage from my track laps.

A 1987 Argo JM19C races towards La Source

Mechanics frantically try and fix a misfire on a '79 Lola T 298 BMW

Spa-Classic Endurance cars line up in the pits ahead of their race

An Alfa Romeo 1750 GTV approaches the grid

A battle scarred '65 Bizzarrini 5300 GT

A '79 BMW M1 faces Eau Rouge in the paddock

Our MG F on one of Belgium's many beautiful country roads

And finally our onboard track footage:

Driving On The Continent: A Deafening Game Of High Speed Dodgeball

Daft Punk's new album 'Random Access Memories' is good, really good. I like it, and as far as I can tell so do most others in the UK. But if I thought we were enjoying their single 'Get Lucky' a little too much, I now know that their native France's obsession of the album is at a whole other level. Travelling through the country for just over 2 hours, I must have heard the song more than thrice on the radio. This was added to the fact it was playing in the service station we stopped at, as well as the headphones of a Frenchie we sat next to on the ferry crossing the Channel.

Anyone born with a soft, squishy organ between the walls of their skull, would surely be driven insane by this repetitive, ongoing brown nosing of 'Random Access Memories'. The Belgians seemed to agree with this, as they sat inches from the bumpers of cars in front. Initially this tailgating angered me, but then a moment of realisation helped me to sympathise with them. I came to the conclusion that they were only trying to hustle their way across France as quickly as possible, in order to escape this showering of high pitched Froggery and return to their hilly land of chocolate and very tight shorts.

There was a flaw to this Belgian driving style on the continent however; it did have a tendency to increase the odds of you suffering complete and catastrophic suspension failure. Driving inches off the bumper of the leading car removed any chance of seeing upcoming obstacles on the road. This was something we learned the hard way, but how were we to know that driving along European motorways was like playing dodgeball, except the balls are potholes and they're flying at you at 80mph? Playing suspension dodgeball with your vision shielded by the French Zafira you're now tailgating, was largely impossible. And it wasn't helped as we fought temptation to drive towards the trees as 'Get Lucky' was played yet again on French radio.

But even with all this, I still enjoyed my drive through France, the weather was lovely. Although next time I'm there I'll be packing the iPod, and I might need to get myself a 4x4 too, if I want to reduce the chances of losing a wheel.

Welcome To The Jungle (Or Is It My Local Gym?)

Picture this wonderful scene of nature. The male peacock flaunts its large, coloured feathers by spreading and jiggling them in the direction of a potential female mate. The female may receive offers from several males, with her selecting the largest and most dominant to engage in some bird hanky panky. Now take this image, but replace the feathers with muscles, the jiggling with weight lifting, and the peacocks with humans. Now let me welcome you, to my local gym.

My local gym shares many qualities with other gyms, it has a pool and treadmills and this delicate touch of BO, which you can enjoy beside the cross trainers where McDonald's addicts frantically try and burn off that last Big Mac. But skip to the weights section and the scene changes drastically. The dirty scent of testosterone hangs in the air and sound of creaking muscles fill your ears. You're in the jungle buddy.

These muscle addicts prepare themselves for the impending battle for females, by assessing each and every aspect of their well groomed bodies. It seems they are very finicky in their detail, as they stare at each muscle several times throughout the course of their session; supposedly this is to ensure no preparation is missed, as well as to simply see how hot they look.

As the males wrestle mass to draw attention, females observe from the safe distance of treadmills. Skilled in their observational techniques, a mere tilt of the head is needed to provide enough sight of those protein filled muscles. Once a male has been selected, the dancing ritual begins as they circle each other (at a distance) separated by the weights bench, rowing machine and leg trainer.

Unlike our feathered friends however, the ritual doesn't finish here. The male has one more asset in which the female chooses to base her decision. The asset is his metal, his choice of car. 

The alpha-males possess large volumes of metal, in the form of Range Rovers, Volvo XC90s and BMW X5s. These males often succeed instantly in drawing in female mates, even if their mating dance was not quite strongest. It is once these most attractive males have departed the battleground, that the Audi, BMW and Mercedes saloon and hatchback owners are able to flaunt their slightly smaller metal and receive their slightly less attractive female prize.

The remaining 'unsymmetricals' are unfortunately the ones who face the lowest chance of finding a mate, with these including the pool of males that arrive in 8 year old Mondeos or squeaking Puntos. Surprisingly though, at the very bottom of this pile lay perhaps some of the most physically fit males, but playing havoc with their mating display is their choice of metal...a bicycle.

It's true cars are more than just a source of transport, and more than just a toy. They are a direct extension (or reduction) of the male trouser department, providing females with insight into how expensive the wine on their first date could be. A 2013 Range Rover Sport means the finest bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. A 1999 Peugeot 206 on the other hand, most likely leads to Le Shiraz de Asda.

So what's my viewpoint of this jungle like mating ritual? And where do I fit in? Well I've always been a man of quality not quantity, but that's not to say I wear XS boxers. My car of choice deceives females by seemingly slotting into the lowest bracket, but performing much closer to those in far more alpha regions of the mating chain. The same can be said for myself, with my lack of bulging biceps shortening my chances of females fainting in my presence, but my inner alpha giving me the personality of a lion. That's right, I might seem unsymmetrical, but I'm a dominant male deep down. A peacock who needs not to flaunt and jiggle his feathers. 

Having said that though, I wonder why I never make it past the first date then..