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Guess what guys! I leapt onto the bike on Sunday to make the most of my brief two hours of freedom and... battery flat! I should say, 'new battery flat'. Flat as a pancake - not even enough juice in it to light the digital screen. Fortunately, I had the old battery on maintenance charge so all I had to do was a quick change and get off. Noisy business though, because I couldn't switch off the alarm. As soon as the terminals came off she blasted her song right across the neighbourhood. It took about two minutes of fumbling to get the old (new) battery out and the new (original) batter back in. If you ever needed proof of the pointlessness of alarms that was it. Despite all the screetching, not a single person took a blind bit of notice.

I am very suspicious of the alarm. I reckon it has been causing the short that drains the battery. For months it has been behaving erratically, but since it didn't seem to be causing any serious problem I just left it - didn't have the time to do anything about it. Perhaps I should have taken it more seriously.

When I have a spare moment I'll ring Datatool and see what they have to say about it. In the meantime: "Oh god! MORE problems!!!!"

Well, Mr. SV-Wolf....here is something to take your mind off your problems for a moment.

Since you asked what it is like in Vancouver at the moment, here are a few pictures taken between 11:00pm last night (the snow in my little yard) and mid afternoon today.

I was in various parts of the city so you will see some scenes from Kitsilano Beach looking toward the North Shore Mountains (the local ski hills in winter and hiking hills in summer) and then from higher up for another look at the city with the mountians behind. If you look closely you will see some anorexic snowmen in the schoolyard. We get so little snow anymore, that at the first sign of it, school kids get out and build those runty Frosty's.
The flowers are from someone's yard today.
It started off at minus one when I left for work, but by afternoon it was feeling quite tropical.

If you click on a picture it will stop the strip from moving and enlarge the thumbnail size into viewable size.

blues2cruise wrote:If you click on a picture it will stop the strip from moving and enlarge the thumbnail size into viewable size.

Yo, Blues... tried the link but it took me to a "Please Log In" page.

OK. Try this.

http://w22.photobucket.com/widgets/dyna ... now%20Day/

blues2cruise wrote: We get so little snow anymore,

To my imagination that sounds comparable to someone saying there's no longer any sand in the Sahara.

Looks great, though. Just a bit more dramatic than my sleeply little market town. But we've got crocuses coming up in the garden too now. I always take this as the first real sign of spring. Yes!!!!! Februray is a very dreary month here in Southern England. This year, I'm particularly glad it's over. Had a good ride on the bike yesterday, but bitterly cold. Came home with bright purple hands. Pain!!!!

If there continues to be such tremendous wind stirring up sand storms, there may not be any sand left in the Sahara. haha

What I mean by we get so little snow is that we only get 2 or 3 days of snow. With the global warming trend, we get more rain in the winter than days gone by.
We get frosty mornings and black ice on the roads sometimes, but it is mostly just wet. Cold and wet.

This is gonna be a long, long winter. I feel it in me bones. Crocuses and daffodils were late coming out this year. Bikers were even later. All this bitter weather has kept most of us off the roads. And those that had started to appear seem to have been driven back into their garages by this continuing cold weather. I did start to see a few more bikes on the road at the end of February, but since the second week in March the roads seem to have been reconquered by cagers. Shame!

On a long night ride home from Lincolnshire last weekend I stopped off at a service station to go for a wee as a matter of some urgency. (Bear with me: there is a point to this). Like every other night that week it was cold enough to freeze the nuts off a polar bear and by the time I was half way home I was throbbing from head to foot. No-matter how familiar winter wind chill has become (I ride all year round) I never get used to it. I parked the bike and calculated whether I could make it across the carpark to the Macdonald's loo. Half way across, I passed a Big Hairy Biker and his missus standing drinking tea beside their Harley. (All the cagers were safely inside the toasty hot fast food bar).
"Chilly one, tonight!" I said (trying to disguise the fact that I was so cold I could hardly speak).
"Sorts the men out from the boys!" rumbled Big Hairy Biker, philosophically. I managed a grunt (probably all that was required or expected of me) and carried on into the building.

Yes, I own up. I did allow myself the momentary pleasure of being hailed as a member of that exclusive club of 'real men' (or macho masochists - take your pick). It doesn't happen very often. When you weigh in at ten and a half stone (147 lbs), don't drink alcohol very often and have no interest in football such compliments (dubious thought they may be) don't come your way too often. So, you have to relish them up when they do.

But on this issue of going to the loo: does anyone have the same problem as I do with 'racing leathers?' - the ones with elasticated panels across the front of the crotch. Until I bought my current leathers, I'd never had trousers with elastic panels before and, in my wide-eyed innocence, I was completely unaware of their physiological significance.

Occasionally, in cold, windy or wet weather you will find me cruising along at an easy-going speed. The SV1000 does not have an extreme riding position, so when I'm cruising comfortably I sit semi-upright in the saddle with my elbows only slightly bent. In this position my crotch is pressed (lightly) against the tank. In cold, windy or wet weather though, I'm more likely to be putting on a bit of speed to get home just that little bit sooner. And that means I have to slide my bum back to tuck in a little.

But there's the problem. As soon as I slide my crotch away from the protection of the tank all that cold, windy or wet weather comes whistling through the elastic gusset into my crotch. The inevitable outcome is that instead of getting me home more quickly, riding hard and tucking in delays my arrival because of all the loo breaks I have to take. I've never seen a track racer take a loo break, so I'd like to know how they manage this feature of their gear.

Maybe it's my age.

The couple of days up in Lincolnshire were well spent, slobbing out with Phil, an old friend of mine, and his wife, Sharon. Sharon is a silversmith by training and makes her living selling her craftwork on market stalls as far south as Cambridge where I pop in and visit her sometimes. As the cold wind leaks in around her market stall just as uncomfortably as it does into my leathers, biker and craft worker had something in common to moan about.

Phil and Sharon live in an old cottage in a tiny village that nestles in a fold of the Leicestershire/Lincolnshire hills. It's a beautiful place, so peaceful and quiet that the silence of the night is deafening. Not that I heard anything that could deafen me during last week's visit as, during the preceding evening, with only a little encouragement, Phil got me thoroughly and disgracefully pissed on a seemingly endless supply of larger. It occured to me afterwards that I hadn't been in a state like that since the bastrd got me rat-arsed one evening thirty years ago when we were at university together.

Di stayed in the local hospice last week for respite care. It is a great place. It is an institution, of course, and has some of the downsides of an institution, but the staff are so caring and helpful that the guilt I felt about leaving her there was manageable.

I'd planned to go away on the bike for a week once she was admitted. It was to be my first break in months. I'd thought of riding down to the south coast and the West Country, and then just hanging around in some of my favourite areas. I'd expected that when she came back home, I'd be reporting on an amazing journey all around this beautiful part of the country. But it didn't happen. Apart from my trip to see Phil in Lincolnshire, I spent the rest of the time at home. As soon as I was alone, all I wanted to do was sleep. I slept through all the nights and the following mornings and got up in the late-afternoons. By the time I was focused and awake, it was usually dark.

Di is back home now. She probably does not have much longer to live. She finds eating so tiring and she chokes on food so uncomfortably and so often that she is making no great effort to get nourishment into her any more. She is losing muscle mass fast and is beginning to look like someone newly released from a party concentration camp. This is the worst thing to happen so far.

But we are back in our own home again now. We were told it would take three months to rebuild the kitchen and bathroom and it took five. It looks great, though and we are glad to be back. There is so much more space and it is very comfortable. But there is part of me that wants my grubby little bathroom back and my narrow little kitchen. It isn't actually my 'home' anymore - not the one I'm used to. Altering the kitchen has changed the character of the whole house - and it's not just the house. Since Di's illness began everything about my life has changed, my house, my work, my relationships and the way I think. It's going to take years to come to terms with all this.

Maybe you could get some heated underwear?

blues2cruise wrote:Maybe you could get some heated underwear?

Hey! let's not get too personal here, blues.

I consider this to be a serious issue - one that needs airing in a responsible public forum like the TMW boards. Do you have any idea how many irritable and cross legged bikers there may be out there as a resut of this design fault?

As delicate a subjet as it may be, I considered it my public duty to raise the issue.

Mind you, heated underpants sound interesting (quite apart from any practical value they might have on a bike.)

I haven't ridden for several days now. I've just mooched around the house, feeling wretched. I've had no energy to do anything apart from drag myself through the routine grind of looking after the two of us. Di has now deliberately cut her food intake down to a minimum. This isn't just exhaustion - you should see the sheer effort she now has to make just to eat - but deliberate policy. Her daughter is coming over to visit her from Ireland at Easter. After Di's seen her she intends to stop eating altogether.

I can't bear this.

She told me of her intention one morning earlier in the week. I'm not sure when exactly; I've lost track of time. I remember, it was just after I'd dressed her. It had taken ages, much longer than usual. About a week ago, she suddenly became much worse. Her voice is now almost down to a whisper. It is so slurred and quiet, it's almost impossible to understand anything she says. To communicate she has to use an e-gram (a letter frame). This is a device which enabes her to spell out words with her eye movements letter by letter. But, like everything else, this is very tiring for her, so she can only manage a few short sentences at a time.

I'd known for months of her intention, but when the time came I was wholly unprepared for it. She told me that as she was no longer able to communicate effectively, she had no wish to prolong her life. She also said: "I'm not brave. I need you to help me." I nearly choked. I told her that I wasn't sure I was brave either. Since then I've been an emotional wreck. In the next few weeks I am going to need all the courage and support I can get.

Looking after a dying person, day by day, is one thing. presiding over her death and helping her hasten it is another.

I've thought about this scenario a lot in recent months. I've talked about it to friends. I've said: "At least she will be in control, which will make it a lot easier." I've said: "She's very strong willed and very clear about what she wants." I've said: "The choice is hers. I will support her in anything she wants to do".

Philosophy is a wonderful thing when it's cnducted from the comfort of an old armchair and in front of a cosy log fire and with the rain rattling down on the window panes. The stark, sickening reality is different. Helping someone out of the world when you desperately want to keep them in it is a gut churning experience. I feel as weak as a kitten a lot of the time. What can I do? It's her call. It has to be. We're all alone at the end and probably throughout our lives as well.

For her to make a good and peaceful end she doesn't need to be worrying unnecessarily about me and the way I feel. She needs to free herself from attachements, so I mustn't cling on to her, but on the other hand I can't hide my grief at letting her go. How am I going to manage this thing? I don't know. There is no road map, there are no landmarks or milestones. I'm clueless about the when and how.

Life has been a rollercoaster recently. Only three weeks ago, she started writing again. First she wrote a series of poems to her children and her foster daughter and to me. She dictated them to a friend. They are all in sealed envelopes to be opened after her death. She then carried on writing: poems mainly, some deeply felt, some funny and touching, all of them very good, some of the best she has ever written. I was overjoyed at first. I had been so deeply afraid that her life would just gradually fade away so that, at the end, the person I knew would be just a ghost, a memory and my final recollection would be of an empty shell.

Through her writing, it seemed that she had built a dam across the failing course of her life energy. Behind its barrier wall she had built up a wide headwater, a means by which her personality became clearly discernible again. She seemed to live with all the fullness that I had become accustomed to in the twenty years of our life together. A friend had said: "it's a victory over the disease." She replied, typically, "No, it's a gift of the disease."

I'm prejudiced of course, but I've always known that I married a remarkable woman. That is ever more clear to me now. The staff at the hospice where she attends regularly for respite care told me that they could not ever remember anyone who had coped with MND with such spirit. She has endured everything that this awful disease has thrown at her over the last year and a half without a hint of self-pity, resentment or regret. And by that, I don't just mean that she has adopted a spirit of stoic resignation. There is nothing artificial or long-suffering about her attitude. She has continued to live through these final months cheerfully and even happily. A couple of weeks ago, I asked her how she was. She replied. "Well, I've learned so much from this disease. For the first time in my life I've learned how to receive love - fully. I'm so happy."

Where I'm going to find the same strength, I don't know.