this is my story



This is just my story. Two weeks ago we had the second once in a life time fire, to occur here this year. The fire ravaged an area 6,000 hectares, (a fifth of the size of the fires in California) from Fajao, to Sardal, a neighbouring village. It started on that Friday night and was over by the following Monday. Many of us foreigners, fed up of not being able to do anything went to assist in any way we could. Fortunately, during this fire, there was very little wind, and even though there had been a drought for months, the fire in our area was controllable. The fire fighters were able to stop the fire at fire breaks, and it was controlled.

Because of the location of the fire, the forest, on the sides of the mountains, it was almost impossible to access large areas of it. Other than the size of the area effected, and the access issues, there were real logistical problems because of lack of communication, not just for the foreigners, but even the Freguesia (village council) workers who were all trying to fight the fires as well. There’s little phone reception for whole sections of mountainside, and many of us are on pay as you go tariffs and ran out of credit. Only the bombeiro’s (the official fire fighters) had radio or CB type comms.

Access to water, was another huge issue, as there was hardly anywhere for the bombeiro firefighters to replenish supply, it became necessary for them to be supplied by locals carrying water in 1000 litre tanks on the back of 4wd pick ups to get water to the fire on the ground, but it was in this instance the water bombing planes that made the difference. Without them the fire would have done catastrophically more damage.

photo courtesy of Haico & Else

Saturday night was the worst night for that particular fire, as many of us watched helplessly as the fire poured down the mountain, and headed in our direction. Given the speed fire can move at, many people evacuated, we chose to stay. From what I could observe, it is, really only the foreigners who live in the forest, that are and were most at risk, and that’s most of the foreigners who live in this area.

There are a lot of reasons why the authorities here didn’t want help from us. Aside from issues of communication, misunderstanding language being top of it, they cannot be responsible, or accountable for our actions, in the event of injury or worse I’m sure it’d be a minefield.

By Sunday morning the worst of the fire had been quelled. A drive up a section of the mountain in front, and we could observe that above Sardal it was still smouldering. I phoned my friend Marko, who lived near there to check they were ok, and to see if they needed any assistance. They were ok and at that time didn’t need help. The fire hadn’t restarted.

Later that day, things changed, and he phoned for help, as the fire picked up. But by the time I got there the GNR police and and the fire fighters turned us away because of the danger and because they felt able to control the situation without assistance.

This situation repeated itself the following day. Fires reignited in the area, numerous foreigners went to assist, but by the time many of us got there there was little we could do. Either the fires were left to burn, because they were not accessible, or they were extinguished by the local fire brigade, and fire fighting planes.

That afternoon there was a meeting in which a number of foreigners agreed to patrol the areas that had burned,, for the next few days, to spot for reigniting fires.

The following weekend, Saturday night, around about 11.30 I got a phone call to take any diesel fuel I had up to the Ponte de Vigia area, as the freguesia truck, fighting the fires was running out of diesel. When I got there, the wind was whipping up, and fires were rekindling. By 1.30am the fires appeared to be out. Back home for a couple of hours of uneasy sleep.

The following morning, Sunday 15th October, although the patrols had been stopped, I took it upon myself to ride my dirt bike round the area, not convinced the fires would be out. By 12 midday, as I headed up past Enxudro, and out onto the ridge road that ran from Picota to Esculca, I started to see fires reignite. I rode to Ponte de Vigia where I hoped I’d have phone reception. When I got there I could see the truck of the guy who was manning the fire watch tower, I tried shouting to him about the fires, he couldn’t hear me above the sound of the wind (Ophelia had started). The door to the fire watch tower was locked, I turned to see what he was observing, a fire had broken out again in the same area as the night before. I phoned in a report and was told the Freguesia were on their way, and to get back in case they needed assistance.

On the way down, I got a phone call from my wife to meet her in he village, so I could take the truck, and she arranged to get a 1000 litre water container to stick on the back. I picked up the container, went back to the village, and filled it from the pump by the river. A guy I didn’t know, Sebastian, asked if I was going up to Luadas to help. I told him to get in and we headed off.

By the time we got up the mountain, to where I had left the fire, everything had changed, the wind howled, and the fire had spread. I stopped to ask the guys from the ICNF (forestry team) where the Freguesia team was, they had no idea. We headed down a track in the direction of the fire, only to be repelled by fire and smoke, and had to back up ASAP. I got another call from my wife telling me to head back down into the village of Luadas, where they needed us. We headed thru the village and toward Esculca, to be stopped on the road by one of the Freguesia guys, who told us to wait and their truck with the hose and pump would come down from the mountain when they needed more water.

The whole flank of the mountain east of Esculca was ablaze. Shortly after, 2 vehicles from the bombeiro’s arrived and headed into the blaze.

Everything seemed to be occurring so quickly. We were the first non Freguesia people up there other than a couple of guys from the village who had come to help. Within minutes guys from the Freguesia of Moura da Serra arrived, and Alfredo, the village mayor, ordered us all back up the mountain, from where we’d come.

The fire was raging.

The wind was unstoppable. I backed the truck in to support our council’s truck. I helped run the hose for the council, then had to move my truck so the Moura da Serra guys could get their truck in and run their hose out. Sebastian, Paul and Jean (other foreigners living here) were all trying to assist with the hoses to prevent the fire running down across the track, but it was hopeless, the fire towered above us, licked from trees on one side to the tops of trees on the other, a funnel of fire.

The guys from the ICNF were coming down the flank. 3 x 2 inch hoses to fight a leviathan of a fire. Then our council’s water ran out, and they couldn’t get the pump to run to pump from my truck.

Alfredo told me to go with the guys from the ICNF. I ran up the hill, and helped run their hose up the flank, a friend, Jose, was trying to hose the fire, he was in a t shirt, and getting burned by the heat from the fire only a couple of feet over from us. Jose came away, and I took over for a while. The guy from the ICNF started to set counter fires to try and run back into the fire to stop it from spreading, but to no avail. We were getting trapped and he called us out of the track and headed down. Everyone else had gone from that area, it was unstoppable.

This time, lack of water wasn’t the issue, or problems with communication, it was the mercurial nature of the hurricane winds, the shape of the mountains, luck, and nothing like adequate equipment or enough of it.

As I headed down the mountain to find my truck that had fortunately been moved, a new front opened up, beneath Picota, the tallest of the Acor mountain range, in the area of Relva Velha and Monte Frio. It was like it just spontaneously ignited. Then in a row, stretching for miles over the ridge, headed north the same thing appeared to occur, ignition after ignition. And then they joined up, one monsterous long line of fire. I turned to Alfredo and asked where to go now.? He looked out across the mountains and said its fucked, it’s all fucked. He told me to stay with the guys from the ICNF, in case they needed water.

By now it was all looking pretty hopeless. The fires were running unabated in our direction. As the guys from the ICNF tried to light counter fires, we watched as both the villages of Monte Frio and Relva Velha appeared to be engulfed in flames.

My wife, Sarah, phoned to find out what was going on, and whether she needed to evacuate. She had no car and was stranded. I can only imagine her fear. At that moment the fires were no nearer our house than they were the previous week, and although a danger they were still a few kilometres away, and there were some fire breaks where most of the eucalyptus had been clear cut.

My fear was that the fire would run down into the valley and spread westward with the wind, and run around the mountain infront of our house, and join up, trapping our house.

The fire above Luadas was running west, at that time, and had gone beyond Esculca and had got to the outskirts of Coja. We could see a huge smoke cloud rising over the ridge, from Texeira and Castanheira. They were ablaze again. Threatening us with being engulfed with fire from over the ridge, and trapping us.

photo courtesy of Haico & Else

The guys from the ICNF told us to stay put whilst they scouted the area to see what they could do. There was just 4 of us left on that bit of mountain, Hugo his dad, Sebastian, and me. Hugo continued to set counter fires in an effort to prevent the spread backward of the fire.

I realised, that in the fight against fires there is at times quiet, and a fair bit of standing around helpless, and it is an odd juxtaposition with the speed, ferocity and noise of the fire. On a personal level, with no training, or equipment you can do nothing. Against that wind, and in those tinder dry conditions, in retrospect, it was pointless even having been there.

Earlier, I had told Sarah she would have to make her own decisions as I may not be in a position to make them for her, that I may not be able to see her plight, or be able to communicate with her. When I finally got to speak to her on the phone, I told her to get out. She pleaded with me to come away from where we were, but like the fool I am I felt duty bound to stay, at least for as long as possible. It seemed to me that if we were there we could stop the fire from joining up with the one headed west, which would surely engulf our village, Benfeita and Luadas, killing everyone. That was my reasoning.

I asked her to phone someone to get her out. But for some reason she was unable to get thru to anyone else. I phoned our friend Jules and asked her if she would. I knew it was a big ask, as the fire from the Monte Frio range was circling round to join the fire from where I was. Despite the very present and real danger Jules risked her life to go and get Sarah.

I didn’t know Sarah was safe, until she messaged me that they had made it to the town of Tabua, via a place to top my phone up, so I could communicate with her. Some hours later.

We stayed on the mountainside for a while longer, the guys from the ICNF returned, and for a moment the bombeiro’s from coja, who just came to see what was happening where we were, then left. They said to keep light small counter fires, and work our way down the track.

There came a point where it was no longer viable to be on the mountainside, and the ICNF guys said they were going to Luadas, because that’s where they were from, as it looked like we had become surrounded by fire.

In the village of Luadas it was pretty chaotic, and full of people not knowing what to do, or even think. I spoke with a few people about what they were going to do, some planned on staying in Luadas, others going down to Benfeita to go into the church, the biggest building in the village, and probably the only one with some clear ground infront of it.

I thought about the history of the town I was from, how 2000 years ago a warrior queen hell bent on driving the Romans from Britain, set about destroying everything in her path. Colchester, the then Roman capital of Britain, was torched, and the fleeing Romans barricaded themselves in the temple, where the castle now stands, only to be burnt alive. I wasn’t planning on re-enacting that.

Seb asked one of the bombeiro’s what he thought was the best way out, there is no way out, came the reply. I thought differently.. I knew the tracks on the mountain like the back of my hand, mostly from dirt biking them. I thought, there was the smallest of chances to get out across the face of the mountain to the road below Picota.

Sarah pleaded with me by text to get out. I didn’t know if we could. The smoke from behind was closing the gap in the now night sky, and it looked like the fire may already be over the ridge headed our way. The fire that had headed to Coja, was now at the west of Luadas. And had joined up with the fire from Monte Frio, and had swept round the other way to Sardal. We were almost encircled. it was only a matter of minutes before they joined up, and eventually sweep down to Benfeita.

Seb asked me what I wanted to do. I said lets go. As there was nothing we could do there anymore. The situation looked hopeless there, and I thought our only chance was to drive the tracks to the road. I asked him what he wanted to do, he said he was with me. As we headed up the track we ran into a couple who had been observing until they saw the fire above Luadas begin to sweep round to Sardal, closing the circle. They thought us crazy to go that way. I thought them crazy to stay.

I reiterated my warning to Seb, anything goes wrong in the next few minutes it was all over for us. For a guy who didn’t know how risk taking I am he was very trusting.

I emptied out the water that was left in the tank in the back of the truck, nearly a tank full, that was the futility of what we had gone to do, like the charge of light brigade, into the valley of death.

I drove that truck as fast as it would go. The whole time trying to keep away from the fire bearing down on us on 3 sides. By my reckoning it probably took 15 minutes to get to the road, about 15 kms, maybe more. But, the longest drive of my life. We got to within a few meters of the road. A tree down across our way. I stopped the truck. Grabbed my axe, hacked the end off the tree. Not enough, there were posts hidden in the ground, preventing driving past. Had to cut more. Then another vehicle arrived, and helped haul the tree out the way. They asked where we were headed. I said left to Picota, where it’s already burned, he said, better to go to Arganil. I asked Seb where he wanted to go, he said Tabua, where his wife and family were. I said I’d take him, as Sarah was there too. We followed the guy round he mountain toward Arganil, on several occasions headed close by other fires.

When we got to Arganil, we got some water, and headed across to Tabua.

Just as we got into Tabua Seb spotted his car, and found his wife. She was so pleased to see him alive, and so grateful.

I searched all over tabua for Sarah before she spotted me.

We sat in an area of empty car parking behind Lidl and waited. We met some people who had evacuated from near Santa Comba Dao, and said the IP3 road was closed. there were fires almost all around us again, and I wondered at the sense of coming here. it seemed like we were in a frying pan/fire situation.

the fires around seemed to ebb and flow with the dark, but it was really just the wind and smoke that hid their proximity. after a while i asked jules what she thought her husband mick would do, stay and observe, she said. i thought the same, and we stayed until embers started to head our way.

we drove across Tabua to behind the DWR garage, the only wide open place i knew in Tabua. and we sat there thru the uneasy night. i couldn’t sleep, full of adrenalin and knowing this was a time to have your wits about you, as the saying goes.

dawn broke, and the fires had’t got any nearer, Sarah asked a fireman about our village, gone he said, they’re all gone. my heart sank. i feared all the people i knew there dead.

we went to get something to drink in a cafe, where all the other foreigners had gone, Sarah saw a neighbour of ours and asked him of our house. he said it was gone. she collapsed in my arms.

We headed back to Benfeita. everywhere from Pisao on, was a war zone. the closer we got, the more burnt out the area. it seemed the worst hit.

on the last road to the house, where there had been 30 meter trees the day before, were blackened stumps.

our house, which once stood proud, now a burned out wreck, just part of the chimney, and the back wall stood.

addendum:

what i have understood from this, so far, is that in a situation like this, and its fairly impossible to describe the enormoity of it if you didn’t experience it, is that you really have to be able to trust your own judgement, and not anyone else’s.  in situaions where your life is being constantly endangered you have to have sufficient common sense aswell as the ability to hold it together, and pull out the best questions you can, to give you a chance of finding some good answers, and a chance of survival. sometimes that may mean asking the opinion of others,  if nothing less than to check your reasoning isn’t crazy, but it is down to you, the individual to make the final call. it’s very easy to make a wrong one, and that’s where trusting your good judgement is reliant on having spent your life making judgement calls in difficult situations. if you want to live out here you need to be able to do this. the enormity of that fire disabled the ability to think or act rationally for many people. in that kind of situation you are dependant and others may also be dependant on your ability to think straight and act accordingly.

What it boils down to is ‘presence of mind’, without which nothing is possible, with it, all things………

Advertisements

stone floors

i wanted stone flags for the kitchen, as it was going to be a heavy trafficked area, that we wanted to be able to walk straight in from the farm with muddy boots. there wasn’t any york stone at the farm, however there were a number of large slabs of schist on various roofs of the previous buildings that made up the site. during the demolition process, 6 years ago, i had stacked the stone away with the intention of using it for that purpose.

pile

all that was required was cutting it into flags. i didn’t have a wet bed cutter, or a disc cutter with a water jet, so i had to suffer the dust of cutting it with the disc cutter dry. i won’t bore you with the hazards of that, but you can imagine. breathing difficulties for a while.

abreathing difficulties
i figured on using 5 or 6 sizes of flags to create a random type effect rather than a set pattern. and given the sizes i opted for it meant cutting about 120-130 flags.

astack a stone

i drew an approximation of how i thought i could lay them, and pretty much followed it.

aunderway

i’d offset the backing osb to give me enough room to bed them in and keep the same level across from the wooden floor that it joined. i uni-bonded the osb and stuck the flags down with tile adhesive, then grouted them

agrouted floor

the flags currently aren’t sealed, not sure there’s any point, it’s fairly water repellent.  thought they look pretty farm house kitchen worthy

afarm kitchen floor

afinished colours

wooden flooring

i cut a fair number of trees for flooring boards

felled trees

enough for 150 square meters of flooring, but, in the end, not all the wooden flooring came from the forest

trees on trailer

some of it came straight from the mill. by the time i’d milled the trees for flooring, and got the boards back, i had to sticker them for a while in the building to dry out. then thickness plane them, before laying them. fortunately, my friend dan, loaned me his record 151 floor clamps that are like the dreadnought battleships of the floor clamp world

flooring

clamps

they were probably made at the same time as dreadnoughts, or taken from the same kind of design and cast out of rendered down battleship iron. they are huge and more like the windings of lock gates than floor clamps, nothing stands in their way, and there is even a satisfying ratchet sound as you wind them up.

anyway, suffice to say, i cut the boards as full lengths to span the rooms, except for the loft where they would have to exceeded 8 meters

loft floor

not for how they were going to look, but because they were slightly random widths, in the general neighbourhood of 7″ ( 175mm), give or take. and i knew, as they weren’t tongue and groove, just butted up, that it would be easier to get them to marry if they were single lengths rather than multiple lengths.

40 kgs of flooring brads later, and the floors got nailed. then eventually, sanded and finished.

old elm floor boards (i wish)

windows

sometimes, it can take what seems like forever to write something, or do something for that mater, sometimes the words just don’t appear, and then sometimes they do, sometimes out of other people’s mouths, and about things other than what you were thinking about. sometimes they come out of the ether, and sometimes words just fit. and most of the time, kind of like windows, they need to be tailored to the thing they are there to describe the limits of.windas

i had written an essay on why i built the windows for our house, and how, but right now it doesn’t seem that relevant. suffice to say the whole design for them went through numerous changes like other parts of the house, and where i ended up, was wanting to use windows that worked sympathetically with the style and design of the building. i looked at a lot of different designs, and, eventually, either i realised something, or i understood that maybe there are reasons for window style and placement beyond aesthetics or utilitarian function. what i wanted to achieve with the choice of glazing design was the addition of grace and elegance, or the addition of more of it.

window1

the glazing needed, very much, to compliment the building, not detract from it, or undermine its aesthetic. in my opinion, to achieve either grace or elegance, you need to have a sense of form and an understanding of proportion and how they both relate.

looking at the size and shape of windows in the early colonial period of american architectural history, specifically the existing stone ender houses of rhode island (the overall design basis for what i’ve built) one thing becomes very apparent, the original windows were tiny.

image_preview

(Arnold House, Lincoln, Rhode Island, 1693)

more recent windows in the same and similar buildings are larger as glass became cheaper, and window tax repealed. windows become architectural features, more than portals thru which light and air were relayed. in designing a building i think the scaling and layout of windows is crucial. partly because of the way light plays inside the building as much as how openings shape the rest of the form.

pile

small windows seem to cause  or require a kind of participation in a way that a large sheet of glass doesn’t.  kind of, the difference between looking at a giant landscape painting or a miniature. it requires an effort to look at a view thru a window rather than no effort to be immersed into a landscape that exists only the other side of a huge glass wall.  it is also the difference between a place that is private and one that is public. out of each window in our house is a different view, a different story. its like the difference between living in a snug or living in a public library. whilst this is the land of light, its also the land of hiding away from it in the summer, when it is too bright.

the design i chose was a simple side hung casement with half a dozen lights (that’s pane’s to you), an ultra traditional window style, in keeping with the rhode island stone enders,

full house

that was easy to duplicate in numbers. the one thing i will say about the construction process is how imperative it was to try and maintain sequences of construction that allowed me to manufacture in batches.

rails

“batches? we don’t need no stinkin’ batches!” you may say, but i say repeating things accurately is a process you need to do in sequence, and if you have a lot to do its imperative you try and minimize the risk of error or discrepancy between same items.

painted

you have to be as systematic as you can be, and window construction is a good object lesson for this. stairs similarly. making windows needs to be about replicating a clearly defined idea. you could call it a plan. you could call it anything you like so long as you can reproduce it.

maybe in the future i will make the opportunity to manufacture my own glass panes, and reglaze the windows. what i wanted to achieve was what is known as a ‘lively’ look with the glazing, and not the flat dull and lifeless reflection of sheet rolled glass. in the preindustrial age when glass was blown and spun, and panes were much thinner, there was greater colour in the glass and more imperfections, bubbles and flecks, and as a result of age slumping, as glass is always in a partial liquid state. why i would like it glazed this way isn’t nostalgia, or a wish to recreate a historical piece, but because light refracts differently with blown glass, it creates a very different feeling inside and out the building, it imbues the building with something else. spirit.

a different kind of spirit level

canoe

To gauge by hand and eye is perhaps the pinnacle of craftsmanship. To reach a level of ability where you no longer have to measure everything with a rule, but can by your own good judgement achieve a sense of proportion and balance of harmony of the thing that you are crafting.

This is no easy feat. This is something that takes years of patience and skill and ability, and most of that ability is between the eye and the brain, and the soul. To know when something is right without having to check it.

It is a thing of feeling, of sensing, as much as seeing, skills that are hard to teach and even harder to acquire. They are mastery of a craft.

A peculiar thing begins to occur if and when you can reach this point. You can begin to apply it to other crafts, often without much knowledge of them, because it is not the hand work, but the eye work, and the soul work. It is the feeling of a thing in place, the hands will follow.

And it all comes from a place of knowing, knowing on a soul level when a thing is right. A thing you can feel right inside of you. This is not something you can understand from a book or video or podcast, it’s not even something you can acquire from a teacher, but it is something you can find if you look for it, and the place it resides is inside.

This is the spirit level of the soul, and the only way to it is through practice, a lot of practice.

super tenuous

i have always been into bikes, since i was a kid, even those times i haven’t owned one the feeling about them didn’t go away.

now i find myself without any money and desperate to have the kind of bike i have wanted for some time, but can’t afford.

what is it about bikes?
for me, its the freedom. freedom to think, freedom to feel, freedom to be.

in the world of fantasy bikes, this is what i would like

ktm-990-adventure-r-el-lado-salvaje_hd_7566

a ktm 990 adventure r.
my idea of the total adventure bike.
as of last year they stopped making them, however, there are numerous ones available second hand,  anywhere from £2700 on upto £10,000. now it doesn’t bother me how new it is, it just has to be in running condition. so anyone out there reading this, that has deep pockets, and an over abundance of charity, if you fancy buying me one, i wont stop you, i will be grateful as hell, and, very, very happy.

now back to reality. about six years ago, i was looking for a yamaha xtz750 super tenere, and a karate friend just happened to have one collecting dust in the back of his garage. well a couple a quid later and borrowing a friend’s bike trailer i had a very ratty 1990 version.

it wasn’t running, and i started by stripping down the carbs, and cleaning them, they were emulsified with petrol, and took some time. i made a few other repairs, and then ran out of time, as about 5 minutes later we moved out here to portugal, the bike was rolling but not running. for a moment i put it back together and got it running, but only when i bypassed the fuel pump, and dumped fuel directly into the carbs. the gaters that held the air box on had shrunk over the years and it just wouldn’t stay on.  it fired up and ran, even with the end can off, and sounded not unlike a ducati.

5 years later, and it had sat in one garage or another here, and nothing further had happened to it, as i couldn’t make the time to do anything, until about a month ago i had started watching a series of youtube videos on guys building cafe racers, and it occurred to me, why didn’t i build the all terrain weapon i was looking to ride?

a bit of research later, a visit to the super tenere net, etc and i found a list of recommended modifications to turn what was an adventure tourer bike of the 1990’s into a rallye raid ready tool.

so i started stripping the bike down.

s10 stripdown start

and this is what it looked like. a bit of a mess, though not possibly as bad as some that others have renovated.

s10 swining arm

s10  getting rid of stuff

and this is a pic of what i’d like it to look like when i’ve finished (this is the Yamaha team sonauto yze850)

xtz-12

or this

Yamaha-XTZ750-SuperTenere-199522

or this

s10

ok, you can stop laughing now.

the last one is my current favorite.

how i’m looking at it is, (and i don’t have any other option but to look at things this way) if you can make one thing, you can make another, build one thing, build another, its just processes, get your head around doing something and you can do it. since being here in portugal i’ve built a bunch of things and in ways that i had little knowledge or experience of, and with this, i have some experience, mostly its just bolting on, ‘there are only so many places where it can go’ (this may become my new mantra) its not re-machining, or fabricating particularly, other than a bit of bracing to be welded to the frame, and currently its not tearing apart the engine. now where’s that jet engine? bi-plane anyone? this whole endeavor is in the spirit of burt munro http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burt_Munro

its going to need a complete and thorough overhaul, with a lot of the original parts not going back on.

here is a list of the intended parts i would like to put on in place of the o.e.m parts. well other than the engine, which at the moment i am planning on re-using, as it hasn’t done a huge amount of miles, and is just more money i don’t have to outlay, even if the suggested tdm 850, or 900 engine replacement is more powerful, therefore sexier.

Budget upgrade

Stock TDM850 (MK1) engine, using stock carbs running stock Tci (Cdi).
Silicon SFS hoses. £47
K&N stack air filters.   £32 x2
K&N pre-charger air filter covers. £27 x2
Yamaha YZ/WR USD fork stanchions.
Renthal/ modified stock USD yokes, reinforced USD alloy stem.
GPR v4 steering damper and mount. £380
Renthal Fatbars fitted with TDM850 throttle grip & HD (longer) throttle cables. £80
Renthal Kevlar throttle grips. £10
Acerbis Rally Pro hand guards. £60
Stock brake and clutch perch/res.
Stock XTZ/TDM handlebar switches.
HD braided stainless clutch cable. £90
HD braided stainless brake line with plated fittings. £90
Hel hydraulic brake light switches (front and rear). £
WR 320 supermoto calliper mount and floating Braking disc. £130
Touratech IMO
ERTF gps mount
Touratech RB roadbook holder.
Rally dash mount, (short mount). £
Sentinel &
Gps antenna mount.
First Aid Kit.
Electric/air horn. £10
Hella optic headlight case (oem fit) with HID H4 bulb kit.
LED side light bulbs.
LED indicator units.
LED WR style brake light.
Mild Steel 38mm header tubes with ceramic coating.
Carbon Fibre Harpoon exhaust can. £200
One piece loom with AMP Sureseal electrical connectors.
Bosch electric fuel pump. £20
Odyssey Gel battery
Eaton MB self reset fuses.
Excel 21″ front rim built on stock YZ hub with HD stainless steel spokes.
Excel 18″ rear rim built on stock XTZ hub with HD stainless steel spokes.
Michelin HD tubes front and rear. £200
Michelin Desert Tyres front and rear. £120
Rim lock fitted to rear tyre.
1″ Extended stock swing arm. £50
Renthal steel sprockets and 530 chain. £130
Alloy chain guard.
Alloy chain catcher with nylon liner.
WP rear shock and spring. £440
WP USD springs.
Reinforced main frame.
Dual side stand mount.
Yz foot rests. (relocated back 2”) (wide rests available from someone on s10net £28)
Alloy bash guard. £100
Fibreglass enduro yz style rear mudguard.
Fibreglass enduro front low mudguard.
Fibreglass stock replacement side panels.
Fibreglass one piece rally front fairing.
Fibreglass fuel tank (without locking fuel cap).
Fibreglass extended seat base.   (see s10 net advertising section) possibly $425 for the full fairing kit
Map pocket seat cover.

the pricing is just a guide. this is the budget version, and again, if anyone wants to buy me some parts, hint hint, boy would i be grateful. and thank you in advance. in the rare case you do want to buy me something off the list, you’ll need to make sure its a compatible part, as bikes are hideously specific when it comes to replacements.

why do i want a bike that’s rallye raid capable? well for more years than i can remember it has been a collective dream of mine and some of my friends to do a trans-saharan trip, like to timbuktu and back. ever since we came across chris scott’s first book on desert biking back in the early 1990’s, http://deserttravels.wordpress.com/, shortly after the advent of the paris dakar rally.

even if it remains only a dream, and all i get to do is blast around the mountain tracks of portugal, that wouldn’t be so bad. the trails here are seemingly endless, and you could probably ride the length and breadth of the country without hitting tarmac, just following the mountain ranges, that would be one helluva experience, and a little less difficult to chew off.

part of the idea is about making something. there is a beauty in making your own, a beauty nothing shop bought can ever really match, because the thing you made has something of you in it.

back to the bike. having stripped it down, i’ve just got to get the engine out of the frame, whilst i locate someone who can bead or glass blast the frame and powder-coat it.

it was so heavily corroded, that whilst stripping it down, a number of bolts sheered off, including two of the header pipe bolts. these will have to be drilled out very carefully and the housings (threads) recut (tapped).

the idea behind building my own bike was largely financial. i couldn’t see any time in the foreseeable when i was going to have a wad of cash in my pocket that i could throw at a bike i wanted, however, i thought there was a greater possibility of being able, little by little, to acquire the parts, and bolt them on, no great outlay, and hopefully a complete bike for less than £2500 in parts. somebody described it as a diy ktm, which isn’t such a funny thing to say as ktm’s are made up of a lot of high end bolt on parts.

anyway, this is the start, and it fits with my mantra

buy less, make more.

board of the weather

the thing about vernacular architecture is it comes from within, it doesn’t come from a slide rule or a calculator, its a feeling thing, a feeling that only experience can give you, there are no shortcuts. its also building from a set of parameters, or needs that are often outside the kinds of dictates most modern housing is subject to. its the sort of feeling that suggests you’ve done it before. if i built a kind of house called a stone ender in rhode island in 1693,
(as below)

rhodeislandstoneendereleazerarnoldhouseca1687

i wish i’d remembered better how i’d done it before, maybe i could have remembered some things that might have eased the way, as i can’t say it was any easier this time, but then maybe it wasn’t supposed to be easy, maybe the very nature of the difficulty of building it (this current home) has imbued the house with something, spirit, something you don’t get from effortlessness.

although it goes against what i would generally advocate in terms of building, sometimes (there are moments, and the more you build the more capable you can become at this) when you have to dispense with your level and tape measure, and trust your instincts. principally here, i’m talking about scale and proportion, and to an extent a sensitivity toward different materials, how they go together, how they relate, as much as join. not everything is measurable, some things have to be gauged, and possibly the better  a builder you are the more you are likely to be able to just gauge things, and gauge them right. what i would consider good building practice is having the good sense to know when that is, when to put down your tools and just look at what you’re doing. long ago, an art teacher of mine recommended walking round the thing you were trying to draw, to see it from other points of view, and not get stuck only looking at it from one fixed position, and when you are making something 3 dimensionally, this advice could not be more useful. sometimes with building you need to walk away from the thing to see it in a broader context, not just how it sits in the landscape, and sometimes i should listen to my own advice.

after finishing framing and roofing, the next stage was to infill between the posts and beams. like always there were not only a bunch of choices, but a bunch of considerations, mostly about availability of materials and time, and generally this boiled down to trying to continue to build in a vernacular way. for me, this whole build has been about using the traditions i have learnt and grown up with and by employing the materials that surrounds us, timber and stone.

construction of weatherboard and dog

vernacular architecture begins out of the need to be somewhere and build a house. often the reason to be in that place is because of an activity like farming which is often place specific, which limits the kind of building and structures you can realistically construct. this area specificity inevitably governs the choices that you will have access to, to an extent how you can use them,  and your knowledge and background influences will decide how able you are to do anything.  vernacular architecture has to begin somewhere, even, i realised, if it begins with me.

weatherboarding

after rejecting the initial idea of miles of glazing, i considered hand splitting my own chestnut laths, and rendering over them in lime motar, but, the process of riving them out i found was even more time consuming than splitting shakes, and since i needed to cover something in the region of 200 sq meters worth it was going to amount to a monumental quantity of lath (thousands of linear meters), aside from nailing up (and countless thousands of nails). time, patience and my body all shouted no.

so i chose to clad part of the frame in stone, and part of it in timber weatherboard, in the same manner of vernacular buildings in rhode island, known as stone enders.
(as below)

StoneEnderTour008_zpsfcb4d713

i’m sure some will wonder why the hell i did it this way when it appears not tp relate to other existing buildings in this area, where was my sensitivity? and i would say it was more to the place and the environment, to the material choices.  those homes in rhode island, were built by men like me, from england, whose knowledge was carpentry and who had the benefit of some natural stone lying around, which required little or no shaping, and whose cost, unlike brick, was minimal.

inside back wall

it was people investing in their knowledge, ability, and tools, and making rather than buying materials, that created in that area at that time a crafted approach to that kind of architecture.  and although this isn’t the answer for everyone, it might be the answer for some.

side and rick2

since the 16th century, weatherboarding became a popular way of cladding the outside of timber-frame buildings, particularly in the south east of england, where there is also little or no natural stone to build with and where brick’s were an expensive commodity.  often on the face of the building most exposed to the worst of the weather, generally those faces south and west, were covered in boards, hence weatherboard. historically, either riven oak or elm boards were used untreated and left to weather grey, but,  by the 18th century and the increase in baltic trade, sawn pine became more widespread, as it was cheaper and easier to produce than riven hardwoods.

front4

i bought sawn pine boards (local, not baltic) and ran one side through the thickness planer, hand planed the leading edge, and nailed them over the breather membrane at 5 1/2″ gauge (allowing a 1 1/2″ head lap out of a 7″ board)

front colour

historically, protective finish varied from pine tar or coal tar, to lime wash with or without ox blood, then lead paint. in the end we elected to use a flax oil stain a blue grey colour as close to naturally weathered boards as we could get.

weatherboard

all of the stone for the cladding came from the pre-existing buildings i demolished. it was re cut by hand (with a brick trowel if you really want to know) and laid in a lime mix. the whole thing went up with only a level, and sometimes a string line, the process was slow enough not to need mixing in the mixer but just in the barrow. the calmness of this approach allows for more care and consideration, however on the other hand if you are paying someone else to do it you would question its economic viability.

chimeny 2

sometimes the answers we are looking for don’t lie waiting for us out there in the miasma of the future but lay in the past, they lay in our own traditions, and understandings, and sometimes we only have to look within to find those answers, and it is all the builders i have ever worked with and whose work i have observed that i have to thank for my understanding and knowledge.

front1