Day 21: Abbotsford BC - Fort Larrington

It is morning.  I cannot see the mountains, even though they across the border in USAnia.  This is because it is raining.

Again the Man with a Gun is a Nice Man with a Gun.  What is happening to border officials?  Have they had their heads stuffed full of insane management-speak nonsense about leveraging their core competencies in a customer-facing role or something?  Or what?  Imagine what might have happened if Hitler's Dad had been obliged to go on a customer awareness course...

Not enough "gas" to make it back to Sea-Tac.  Here is a handy "gas" station, which happily dispenses "gas" at a swipe of my card, without any of that tedious mucking about with "ZIP Codes".  This is important, so remember it.

Onto I-5 southbound.  The traffic is horrible, serving as a reminder never to go to Los Angeles.  I do not think I have time to divert to Redmond, there to destroy Microsith's global HQ, so instead continue south to Renton, for this.

You may, if you wish, curse his name every time you hear another mediocre heavy metal guitar solo, but to do so would be this: wrong.  This is a great improvement over the original Hendrix monument, in the African Savannah section of Seattle Zoo.  But it later made me feel very old, as the chap sitting next to me on the plane had with him a tasteful paper bag from Sub Pop Records.  Sub Pop's heyday was about twenty-five years ago.

Edit: This happened not long after arriving back in Blighty:

Well the night I was born
Lord I swear the moon turned a fire red

With still a couple of hours to kill until the motor-car is due to be returned to its owners of record I head further south past Tacoma, in search of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge.  The shiny new(er) ones which replaced the one which famously fell down in 1940, killing Tubby the cocker spaniel.  There is nowhere on either side from where the bridges may be photographed, in spite of driving round in circles for an age.  Also compasses do not work on the west side.  Of it.

BRIDGE!!1!

I gave up and told Emily to take me to the airport.  It is 38 miles away.  Up I-5.  I have a hour.  Eek.  Not too bad as things turned out, except for nearly being sideswiped by some confused helmet anxious to show how eco-friendly he was by heading straight for the HOV lane without the use of mirrors, indicators or brains.  But soft!  I must top up the motor-car, lest Budget's minions do it for me, at nine dollars per titchy USAnian gallon.  Here is a "gas" station.

Curses!  It wants a "ZIP Code".  I try what I have been informed is a Sneaky Canadian Trick, viz. enter the numerical part of my postcode followed by two zeroes.  This does not work.  Thank you, Mrs Krause and/or Dr Reichert.  The cashier's machine declines my credit card.  And my debit card.  Could this be because it is already tomorrow back in Blighty?  No, because it isn't.  I give him twenty dollars which, fortuitously, brims the tank very nicely.

Ms Budget does not bat an eyelid at 5400.5 miles on the clock.  And so to the airport.  Mr B Airways' Boeing has a little more space inside it than this:

Rutan Voyager with its phone-box-sized cabin

The queue for check-in is commendably short.  The half-hour delay of the plane's departure is, however, uncommendably arse.  The queue for security is a mile long and once through a sandwich and a cup of coffee is ten fucking dollars.  And if the stuff that is sold by the "Seattle's Best Coffee" franchise really is Seattle's best coffee then I put it to you, dear reader, that the place's reputation for caffeinated excellence is founded on a thick and squishy mulch of Lie.

On a whim I try my card at the duty-free shop.  It works.  This after changing my surplus Canadian notes at a ruinous rate, lest I can't buy fags.  Bah!

There is free wifi, but no smoking area.  Nothing to do but chew the carpet then...  There is a passenger on my flight going by the name of Larry Smith.  Does he play the drums, I wonder?  Driver has his foot down so we actually make That London on time.  I note, after unfolding my limbs, that the bus from LHR to Woking has more comfortable seats, and more legroom, than Mr Airways' 777 chiz.

You do not, unless you are perverse like Mr Middleton, want to hear about the M25 or Mr Sainsbury's House of Toothy Comestibles, so I shall draw the 2015 Automatic Diary to a close.  Thank you for reading.

Day 20: Squamish BC - Abbotsford BC

I'll get this done early while waiting for BA's Online Check-In wossname to scroll down to zero hour...  The reset of the day will only consist of repacking The Luggage anyway.

You will recall from some days back Figure 1, on the subject of weather forecasting in these parts.

Here is the weather forecast...

Note that while the tops of the mountains are visible, the bottom isn't.  Note also that the Nice Lady on the Anbaric Distascope was predicting up to 50 mm of rain in the neighbourhood today.  And note also that the Canadians have retained a fine sense of irony and hence refer to this part of BC as the "Sunshine Coast".  Also getting to Vancouver Island, and off it again, requires the additional complication of ferries, with the outlay and being at the mercy of timetables and so forth.

I turned left from the hotel and headed back into the mountains for a fine¹ morning of going back the way I came.  Fuel consumption was rather higher than the norm for this trip, because there are no junctions and hence Emily could be left on the floor rather than jumping into my lap all the time.  This Unit recommends BC-99 in either direction.

At Lillooet the sun came out again, though there was much baleful eyeing of the sky lest it change its mind.  Turn right here for Highway 12, which follows what is now the Fraser River in the general direction of south.

And the only sound you can hear is the snarling of chainsaws...

The Fraser is joined by the Thompson at Lytton, where there is much bridge action to be had.

BRIDGE!!1!²

I also found the bolt that used to hold together the dodgy ankle of Western Half-Devil Monster Face van Schaik:

And the creepy foot-fetishist who tried to follow me on Flickr last year can fuck right off.

Highway 12 peters out here as it runs into Highway 1.  This seems officially still to be part of the Trans-Canada Highway but anyone Trans-ing Canada with an ounce of sense in their head will take the freeway alternative between Hope and Kamloops, not least because it is about ninety minutes quicker.  Not that I care.

It takes me a while to notice that I came up the Fraser valley on September 6th, but I do eventually.  Isn't there a footbridge across the road at Hell's Gate?  Why, yes!  Yes, there is.  I stopped to snap a pic of it from a handy layby, and met Ursula and Farley:

Ursula is the one with glasses

The spooky thing is that I had already chatted at length with Ursula, and tickled Farley's ears, some 1200 km to the north-west, on September 8th.  She's been as far as Alaska Proper in her aged VW Camper but is now returning home to a place with a tongue-twisting native name, just north of Vancouver.  The ferries go to Vancouver Island from there, except the ones which go from somewhere else, obv.

It started to rain again, though when I popped out just now it had stopped. And But I could see the mountains.  Twenty-five minutes to go now, and if the network plays up at the crucial moment there will be Bad Swears...  But at least I have found out - albeit belatedly - how to make DJ Random on the iPod play through the car's USB port.

1. As in "enjoyable" rather than "sunny".

Day 19: Kamloops BC - Squamish BC

A day comparatively short on distance but long on jaw-dropping scenery.  And bridges.  Lots of bridges, oh yes.  This one was within a short distance of the night's resting place:

BRIDGE!!1!

and had nearby a chap originally from Hull, walking his dog.  He has, however, gone native to the extent of wanting to chat about everything.  At length.

Followed BC-97 west parallel to the Thompson River as far as Cache Creek, where the river goes south and the road north.  West of Kamloops the Thompson does this:

Kamloops Lake

I also go north for a bit before heading west again on BC-99, which disappears into the mountains in a pleasingly three-dimensional sort of way.

The horizontal line on the right, above the river, is a railway line, built by a madman.

About some of the way along BC-99, which ultimately goes to Vancouver, is Lillooet, which you reach across the intriguingly-named Bridge of the 23 Camels.

Camels not inclluded

It seems that some Victorian chump thought that bactrian camels might make excellent beasts of burden for the wilds of BRITISH Columbia so he imported a bunch from the distant steppes of, er, Arizona.  This was not a success as the rocky terrain was unkind to their little camelly feet while they also scared horses, cattle and, occasionally, people.  They were ultimately turned loose to fend for themselves but, unlike the dromedaries now thriving in the centre of Captain Cook's Mistake, they all died off by 1905.  Some authorities believe camel sightings may have helped fuel the stories of the Sasquatch, a.k.a. Bigfoot, in this part of the world.

There's also Stuffs like this:

and this:

and even this:

Logjam.  Canada.  Wednesday.

After a lot of This Sort of Thing it goes downhill quite rapidly, to the extent that Emily thinks tonight's lodgings are five meters below sea level which, I can assure you, they are not.  The reason for the downhill-ness is that we've crossed the coastal mountains.  Everything is a lot greener over here, because it rains.  A lot.  When I popped out earlier this evening I could see the tops of the mountains, but their middles were firmly wrapped in clouds, and it was raining with a determination clearly borne of long and intensive practice.

The rain may at least wash some of the desert muck off the motor-car andit did a sterling job of hiding the ski resort of Whistler.  Ski resorts are usually horrible when there's no SNO around but you can drive right through Whistler and scarcely even notice that you've done so which, in my book at least, qualifies as a Good Thing.

Bear with me a second

I would have thought the BEAR would have been holed up somewhere warm and dry rather than hanging around a parking lot sandwiched between a main road and a railway line, but who am I to fathom the ursine mind?

Decision time for tomorrow: cop the ferry to Vancouver Island or go back over the mountains to where it isn't raining?

Day 18: Omak WA - Kamloops BC

Today we follow many roads, many of which carry the number 97.  US-97 first up the Okanogan valley.  The Okanogan hav a very interesting history ect. ect. including the fact that north of the 49th parallel it is called the Okanagan.  And, er, OK, not that interesting.  It also smells of apples, or would if it was warm enough to have the roof down.  Which it isn't.  After not very many miles there is a big Sheds.  On the other side of the Sheds lies Canada.  In an appendix to the Sheds is the Man with a Gun.  Who in this case is a Lady with a Gun and very pleasant she is too.  Not like the grumpy sod at Abbotsford.

North of the border is much the same as south of it except that the apples give way to grapes and you cannot go more than half a mile without passing another winery.  I have never sampled Canadian wine and doubt that I ever will but given that the 49th parallel also passes smack through the middle of Karlsruhe there is no reason to exclude it from consideration on the grounds of being Too Far North.

US-97 does not have a visa to enter Canada, obv, but disguises this fact by turning into Highway 97.  North to Penticton and then up the west side of Okanagan Lake.  The lake is a bit like Loch Ness in that it is long and thin and has a monster in it.  No, really.  The monster is called "Ogopogo" and tales of Ogopogo date back to the 19th century or, put another way, suspiciously late.  I have a notion that the First Nations of the area may have made it up to take the deserved piss out of the white man.

Man attempting to catch Ogopogo to the vast indifference of his girlfriend

Halfway along the lake the road turns east and crosses this:

BRIDGE!!1!

The William R. Bennett Bridge (for it is he) actually floats, but feels a lot more solid than certain bridges which don't.  Yes, you, Royal Gorge bridge.  After passing through Kelowna Highway 97 takes fright and heads north up a parallel valley with only wanky small lakes in it.  You can turn back south at the top end of the lake and follow the shore back to West Kelowna if you feel so inclined.  I did.  They are very sensibly widening a single-lane stretch which has a vertical cliff on one side and an equally vertical drop into the lake on the other, which necessitates a lengthy wait.  I have had far worse things to look at while stuck in traffic than this:

It would appear they still transport trees by water hereabouts:

Logs.  Canada.  Tuesday.

No brawny check-shirted lumberjacks in evidence though, singing or otherwise.

Not far from here one is back on Highway 97.  Well, Highway 97C.  Travellers should note that if one is planning to travel roughly 90 kilometres along Highway 97C and one's motor-car says that it carries enough motor-spirit to travel 100 kilometres it should not be assumed that the available range will be greater than the remaining distance along Highway 97C.  Because there is a 1000 metre big mountain in the way.  Fortunately there motor-car recovered its composure to tell me I still had 2 km outstanding when I reached Merritt, being the first place along said road wherein motor-spirit might be obtained and no, it appears that I have not learned my lesson from last year.

From Merritt one can stooge straight up Highway 97 5 to Kamloops, or one can take the imaginatively named Highway 5A, which is not a dual cabbageway and has corners on it, and lakes and so forth.

Nicola Lake ["Who she?" - Ed.]

I thought I saw a monster in here but it turned out to be some kind of grebe or other duck-sized waterfowl chiz.  Highway 5A is mostly empty until it encounters Kamloops, which is not empty to the tune of over 80,000 people.  And has some bridges in it.

BRIDGE!!1!

I couldn't get all of it in without borrowing the boat which is just out of shot or else walking on the water.

Day 17: Bend OR - Omak WA

Robert Pirsig didn't like US-97 in Oregon, equating it with:

this hyped-up, fuck-you, supermodern, ego style of life that thinks it owns this country

I didn't like it much either, because it's busy and infested with roadwork and when you do finally find a clear piece of road suitable for overtaking the pack of Tractors Harleys which has been making life a misery for the past twenty miles some git comes along and starts resurfacing the road and makes you wait for twenty minutes.  In its favour, it has some wik mountains near it:

Mountain.  USAnia.  Monday.

It was a relief to get into Washington and onto I-82, but that didn't last because I-82 collides with I-90 and stops.  And I-90 is only marginally useful because it goes to all the wrong places, like Seattle, and Boston.  On the other hand both are pretty scenic as motorways go:

I-90 being Scenic near Vantage WA

Mount Rainier being Scenic from quite a long way away

Emily has, however, routed us off US-97 for a bit and a good thing too.  She sends us down the Grand Coulee, a rather attractive canyony valley type of gorge thing with small lakes.  In it.  Confusingly it is not dammed by the Grand Coulee Dam; rather the said dam blocks the Columbia River at its confluence with the Grand Coulee.

This bit of Washington smells strongly of apples, and at this time of year there are untold thousands of wooden boxes at the roadside awaiting this year's crop.  Signs forbid you to bring home-grown apples into the area for fear that apple maggots will jump out of your moving car and eat the trees before hitching a ride to the next orchard.  Possibly.  In contrast, northern Oregon smells of curry powder¹.

I-90 crossing of Columbia River

The Columbia River is big news around here and gets crossed by loads of lovely bridges; however the clots responsible for such things have declined to create parking facilities for those who want to stop and point at them.  Sorry, Crinkles.

Anyway I have had pizza, and et the last of the stroopwafels, and tomorrow I am going back to Canada, so I am happy again.

1. Trufax!

Day 16: Battle Mountain NV - Bend OR

I could quite cheerfully have remained abed this morning until Nice Lady Maria had me bodily thrown out of the Super 8, or at least charged me for another night.  A lot of people had already gone by the time I surfaced and most of the rest were shambling around with bags and boxes and the sort of thousand-yard stares one normally associates with an Audax control in a draughty church hall at two in the morning.  Not us though, because our table at the awards bash drank nothing stronger than water all night, boring old gits that we are.  My grate frend Mr Woolrich had not been spotted by the time I left.  The car park of the Big Chief motel, home to large parties of PSOs, was also suspiciously quiet and the Scousers' truck was still parked outside the Civic Center...

I-80 west of Battle Mountain is going up in the world.  I'm sure there wasn't a "gas" station at Valmy the last time I came this way.  North up US-95 from Winnemucca.  The roads are mostly dead straight and afford ample opportunity for dozing off even though today was the first of the trip on which I'd had the top down from the off.  I stopped at a rest area, because you can't smoke in a moving convertible without at the very least setting your eyebrows on fire.

Monument.  USAnia.  Sunday.

The above commemorates five volunteer firefighters killed utterly to DETH fighting a wildfire near here in 1939.  A Nice Man told me that a heatwave was expected in the west for the forthcoming week.  This news made me happy.

As you can see from the above the scenery round here is very little different from the rest of Nevada, and it doesn't change much when you cross into Oregon.  The wet bit of Oregon, with the trees and Bigfoot, is on the other side of the mountains, y'see.  This bit differs mainly in slapping a 55 mph speed limit, which everyone ignores, onto a road that had a 70 a mile away.  Also in Oregon you are marginally more likely to see a tree.

Fed the motor-car at Burns, where I spent a night in 2008.  The next morning Hertz'  idiot Sat-Nav tried to send me and a car with a ground clearance lower than an adder's armpit, down a logging road with ruts that might stop a Jeep without too much difficulty.  I shall stick to the paved road today, I think.

And so to Bend.  I am paying a small fortune for this room, because I was seduced by the words "whirlpool" and "tub" in the description, and I have just spent an age in it and have mostly stopped aching.  The place is an order of magnitude less poncy than Chateau Jasper at a similar price, but the room is actually a suite with two tellies, a sofa and an armchair, a decent kitchenette and a four person dining table.  All for meeeeeee!

However, Burns is still a bit third world in that, while it has whirlpool baths anna big branch of Target anna Volvo dealership, the nearest branch of Pizza Hut is seventeen miles away.  Hence by the time of publication this photo

Nom nom nom

may not be accurate in its depiction of how few stroopwafels I have et today.

Day 15: Battle Mountain NV

This morning was just as chilly as yesterday and with a more capricious wind blowing around the ankles of the masses. No legal winds at all for the riders who ran on the full course, Dave and Ken in the AR1 and Thomas and Alan in Vortex.  Slightly better for the short course runners.  Sherry finally completed a run, albeit in Vortex as Bluenose is quite badly banged up after the cavalier treatment it's had lately.  As is Velox V - they found that the front part of the fairing would no longer fit into place and have reluctantly decided not to take any further part in the event.  It's not been a vintage year for the HPT youngsters.

HPT Delft/Amsterdam, with the damage artfully hidden

A better year for Team Kowalik as Genna stormed through at 40.7 mph.  But with illegal wind.  Some jibbling with the timetable saw her able to do another run, this time in legal wind, for 37.29 mph and a new record for the 11-and-under age group, in spite of having been lifted out of the bike a few minutes earlier.

"I want coffee and I want it NOW"

Mark has managed to get his car fixed.  Then he let Sherri drive it!  Here, Sherri and Joyce prepare to re-enact the finale of "Thelma And Louise":

Sherry with a "y" also got a second run in after a misaligned sensor meant no time for her first; a legal 51.44.  Liz has had her wheels balanced by the indefatigable Barclay Henry, but it didn't make a whole bunch of difference to her speed.  She needs some lace trim:

Then back to town for the debrief, photo-op and arrest of serial Bad Man Dr T Reichert of Toronto.

Sergeant Aten adds to his impressive arrest record

Released early for good behaviour

Noes!!1!  It's the Western Half-Devil Monster Face again!

World+Dog: L-R: Velox V, Eta, Seiran, Red Lightning, Cygnus Chronos, Bluenose, Vortex, PulsaR, Micro-Moby, Beagle, CO2, Beluga, Velox XS, ARION1, Eivie 4.2

One more set of runs to go.  Weather good.  And I have a free hat!  Updates when time permits.

Not only do I have a free hat and a free pen but also not one but TWO packets of stroopwafels.  It would appear that Team Cygnus smuggled about 8 kg of the yummy biscuity snacky beauties into USAnia, presumably without declaring them.  From which it may be deduced that I am back from the evening runs and the awards bash.  I have way too many pictures to caption and upload tonight so you'll have to make do with the Executive Summary for now.

• Todd edged his world record out to 86.65 mph.
• Damjan finally got his long-sought-after 80 mph hat before totalling the bike in what was apparently a very spectacular wreck in the deceleration zone.  Flat rear tyre, I subsequently learned.

  

  Tail not supposed to be at that jaunty angle...

• Dave took the BRITISH record off Ken with a 70.60 mph run.
• Ken promptly took it back with 75.04.
• Andrea took the Italian record to 72.19
• Sherry got a run on the full course and didn't crash.
• Teagan got a 65.57 and one of the biggest cheers of the week.
• Jan-Marcel went over at the launch again tonight, albeit only once.  Frans, your country needs you!

I aten't uploaded any pictures yet coz it's late and I'm tired and any Scousers carousing under my window will be met with the pointy end of Chris the Broom Handle and, optionally, a bucket of cold water.  Though this is unlikely as they're in a different motel.  There shall be pictures and more Stuffs tomorrow night and now I'm going to have a nice cup of tea and maybe a stroopwafel or two before going to Bedfordshire.

Not really that much to add; since the event started having these new-fangled modern-type morning runs everyone is too knackered to do much more than fitful party-type activity.  But here are some extracts from the Rogues' Gallery.

Jan-Marcel attempt to bribe Sergeant Aten with stroopwafels.  Western Half-Devil Monster Face van Schaik gets in on the act.

Did you ever see a more sorry-looking bunch of crims in your life?  Citations are issued for lane discipline violations (i.e. crashing), speeding or, in some cases, both.  Todd, Jan-Marcel, Andrea, Damjan, Ken, Sherry, Robert, Lieske, Dave

Almost all the riders - Adam Kyte had already had to leave.
Back: Lieske Yntema, Jan-Marcel van Dijken, Calvin Moes, Allan Pettit, Sherry Shi, Ellen van Vugt, Todd Reichert, Damjan Zabovnik, Teagan Patterson, Tom Amick, Thomas Ulph, Ken Buckley, Dave Collins
Front: Jun Nogami, Genna Kowalik, Ceci Kowalik, Robert Braam, Liz McTernan, Larry Lem, Andrea Gallo, Natasha Morrison, Florian Kowalik

The event awards Hats to those who have a legal run faster than 50 mph, in 5 mph increments.  This year's crop:

Todd (85), Tom (60), Thomas (50), Damjan (80), Robert (60), Sherry (55), Lieske (55), Allan (55), Teagan (65), Larry (65), Dave (70), Andrea (70), Ken (70)

Note how drab Todd's 85 mph Hat looks - as though it had been left on the dashboard of Al'n'Alice's minivan since the idea was first mooted.  Use your Junior Pocket Microscope (Model 3a) to spot the contrast with the old-skool hot-rodder's dream that is the 80 mph variety.  Or click the picture to embiggen it.

Day 14: Battle Mountain NV

At last we have proper Battle Mountain weather.  Wall to wall blue skies and temperatures down almost to freezing.  The motor-car said 4 degrees on the way out to the course and that was later than usual, because bad Mr Larrington overslept.  I expect my railway isn't that good either.

The Scousers are back on the road after a tanker of midnight oil was shipped in from the coast; the bike doesn't look too bad but they had to do a lot of work on its internal organs.  Dave did a 62, a cautious Ken backed off with the increasing wind and only clocked 45.  Neither rider wants to deck the machine again if there's any chance of a run in really good conditions.

Both Bluenose and Velox V had further issues, with the luckless Sherry Shi still unable to complete a run in Bluenose.  Lieske did a 56 but Robert went off the road just by Badger Ranch Road.  Both the bikes are OK, as is Sherry; Robert has some scrapes and a stiff neck.

On the short course Professor Nogami just missed the coveted 50 mph hat after a 49 and some change in CO2 - he won't run again as he's ceding priority to Ellen and Florian, both of whom have set trike world records this week.

Barclay Henry and John Pocock were up until stupid o'clock confecting a correx tail-cone and undertray for Liz McTernan's unfaired machine.  They also banged her tyre pressures up to 160 psi, which Liz doesn't have the power to do herself.  She ran twice over the short course with both runs around 24 mph.  Ceci Kowalik's 30.88 in the Micro-Moby is a new mark for the 12-14 age group; keen sibling rivalry will no doubt spur on younger sister Genna tomorrow.

At the debrief we are advised to be careful when lifting signs from their roadside resting places as Something might have been sleeping under them.  "Like Barclay?" I ask.  He has been camping out in the desert for most of the week, though did borrow Team Cygnus' floor for the storms on Monday.  In the meantime, here are some penguins.  Everybody likes penguins.

Yay!  Pengs!!1!

Now this afternoon I could have gone and watched the drag races but didn't, instead going for a potter up Mount Lewis, which is almost, but not quite, 3000 metres high.  This diversion means that the motor-car needs feeding again, as it's currently showing three miles to empty chiz.  Here, especially for Dr Larrington, is a radar dome to make up for the ones that aren't at Fylingdales any more.

There's SNO up there too!

SNO.  USAnia.  Friday.

Back down to earth for the evening sessions.  Once again I was driving for Team Cygnus so didn't get to see much as we were up at the start all evening.  Accosted by a footsore Mark Mueller, who needed to fetch some stuff from his car, at the time abandoned three miles up a dirt road after a bit of over-enthusiastic hooning saw the MX5 in a ditch with half the number of functional tyres it had this morning.  He managed to borrow a car off the Scousers.  Ben Scouser was worried that he'd never see it again.  This is a first.

We were in the third heat, which was somewhat delayed due to communication issues about the road closure and sweep cars and officials in the chase cars and all sorts of other Bad Stuffs, woo!  The sun had by then dropped behind the mountains; when this happens the temperature plummets as well as making it very hard for the catchers to see the approaching bikes.  Speeds were solid but not brilliant and neither Damjan nor Jan-Marcel was able to claim the coveted 80 mph hat.  Jan-Marcel's start was almost a repeat of last night's debacle but he got going after three falls, two submissions and a KO for another 76 mph run.

Erika and Jan-Marcel watch the Aerovelo boys getting their knees dirty

Previously on "Battle Mountain", Andrea pushed the Italian national record out to 70.16 mph which, chiz curses, is higher than Ken's BRITISH mark set earlier this week.  Ken pulled up the AR1 halfway down the course for reasons unknown to the Author; the team pulled off a mid-course catch.  There was a rumour that Tom had stacked the Beagle, but it turned out to be one of the bike's support stands jumping out of the back of Larry's truck.  This was alarming, not least for Teagan, running next down the road.  She recovered from a shaky launch (including the first-ever instance of a Steve Nash launch resulting in a horizontal bike) and clocked over 62 mph in spite of starting in a totally wrong gear and with the chain not running round one of the derailleur pulley like wot it orter.  In retrospect it was probably wise of Sjaak and Jan-Marcel not to march up to Steve and demand a public apology for his comments on Cygnus' Thursday performance.  And here is the tube directing air from the NACA duct on top of the Beagle.

Yes, that is a section of pipe lagging

Up until Thursday it was made from a paper cup half-inched from the Super 8.

In heat one Dave did a respectable 64.47 mph but, as we have now come to expect, this was eclipsed by that pesky Reichert fellow, who powered Eta through the 200 at a scarcely believable 139.21 km/h, or 86.50 mph in honest Queen-respecting units.

Trefor Evans launches Todd Reichert into history.  Again.

Team Cygnus meets the Top Man
L-R: Sjaak, Western Half-Devil Monster Face van Schaik, Jan-Marcel, Todd, Erika

The weather forecast for tomorrow is for further improvements and the design speed for Eta is 140 km/h.  We shall see.

Readers might like to be aware that, depending on the duration and location of the post-event celebrations, the publication of tomorrow's Automatic Diary may be delayed.  I will try to get something up in the afternoon but don't count on anything about the evening and the hat-awarding in time for Sunday breakfast.  Also I have to decide where to go on Sunday.