Mutch's Diary
The Road's editor
Having made the biggest gaff since I started publishing MAG's official tome, I spent a while sitting in the corner with my dunce's hat on. Ten thousand apologies to those of you who have been following the Africa trip and been wondering why the first four pages of the last installment bore such a close resemblance to the first four in the previous one.
Anyone who can figure out exactly how I managed that when it was all proofed earns themselves a slightly rain-damaged copy of Motorcycles Forever. Explanations to theroad@mag-uk.org or PO Box 18519 London E11 4HF. If no-one fathoms it out then the prize goes to the most ludicrous or entertaining explanation.
Off to Birmingham Harley-Davidson for a book signing session. MAG member Gary Hill is unveiling his extraordinary Ultra Classic embellished with a catalogue of iconic images from America and Harley-Davidson's history. Gary is shipping it to the USA in an effort to take the custom tourer crown from the Honda Gold Wing afficionados who have worn it for the last six years. I sell a few books, sign up some MAG members and discover the joys of the Aston Expressway. Look out for Gary's bike in a future issue.
A tragedy takes me to Gloucestershire for the funeral of long-standing MAG stalwart and Gloucester MAG rep Donna Proctor who died as a result of a road accident in April. The turn out was fantastic, bearing witness to the high regard in which Donna was held. Many old faces appeared and as always one wished the acqaintences could have been renewed for a different reason. Thanks for all your work for MAG Donna. There are words about Donna on the Regional pages from those in Western Region MAG who knew her best.
On a happier note I made Yorkshire's Into The Valley rally which has moved to a new and rather splendid site on Sledmere House Estate near Driffield. It's perishing cold so the campfires are more than usually welcome and I piggyback one to cook the salmon fillet and baked potatoes I've brought with me - absolutely delicious ! I did forget the lemon though. Fish without lemon - oooh serious. I feel sure the hairy biker chefs would agree.
To my astonishment I run into Fergus late on Saturday evening and find him totally sober and making sense. What on earth is going on ? The explanation is that he is marshaling the event and has been sipping nothing stronger than tea, with a mug of drinking chocolate to round off the day. The sacrifices that some people make to ensure that MAG events run smoothly or even happen at all never fails to impress me. Then there are the others of course. As events boss Pete Walker pointed out at the AGC, "Mutch turns up at the scenes of disasters like last year's Farmyard flood, rolls up his sleeves and takes photographs."
Right Mr Walker, so called 'Crown Prince of Yorkshire,' I wish to make it clear that at this year's Into The Valley I spent a good three hours picking up litter and loading trucks; OK two hours, well not counting the half hour eating sandwiches and drinking tea and posing for photographs with a picker stick and - well it's the thought that counts.
I continue to value the use of the Raven helmet and visor which turns the potential misery of a cold weather ride into something quite enjoyable. Even my historic terror of rain is diminished though I still avoid leaning the bike more than two degrees on damp roads.
I ride down to Glastonbury along the A303 in search of good karma. My ex bearfriend Teddy has rented a farmhouse for a week but cannot enjoy it fully as her fangs are aching; she is in short, a bear with a sore head. I buy a CD of Arabic music, a packet of joss sticks and a quarter of dream tea. The object of this is to enhance my sense of calmness when presented with the multitude of dilemmas that publishing magazines throws up. My office now smells like a hippie commune but I think I feel a bit calmer; you can judge for yourself whether the tactics are working. If the content of this issue is totally different to that of the last then you may assume that my medication may be working.
Down to Dorset to see friends and take in the parades of a HOG rally and classic club gathering. As I ride past gorse covered open sections of the New Forest my nostrils detect the unmistakable smell of coconut oil which leads me to ponder the possibilities of genetic modification. Has anyone else noticed this ?
There are some impressive bikes on show but more impressive still is a brutish brown dog called Pink Floyd. Floyd is seven months in age and seven stone in weight which kind of makes you wonder how he'll look on his first birthday.
"Good afternoon" I began, a little nervously.
"Yes." said Floyd patiently.
"I was err wondering if I might take your picture." I asked
"I suppose so." said Floyd with tired resignation, yawning hugely before wiping the drool off his slavering jowls with a padded paw, half closing his eyes and tilting his head rakishly to eye me with sleepy nonchalence.
"How's this?" he asked in a tone of classy menace reminiscent of the Jungle Book's Sheer Khan.
"Fine." I replied, clicking the shutter and retreating at a deferential stoop before he decided it was time for dinner.
Ian 'Hound dog' Mutch
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