Riding in Rishikesh

Brothers,

I crack a coconut on the altar of the Great Rishi’s and Sages who have kept custody of this sacred document, and anoint the lotus blossoms of their Divinity.

As some of you may be aware, I spent much of this summer communing with high energies in the Himalayan foothills taking retreat in the sacred city of Rishikesh on the banks of the Mother Ganga (Ganges to the unannointed).

It was a time of deep introspection and cascading enlightenment as I pondered my true nature and my place amongst the cosmic records that make up the vast volumes of the celestial library we call the Universe.

Mother Ganga gives succor to us all. Firm yet fair; unyielding yet tender; nurturing yet demanding. And so she has proven to be on this occasion:

My last act of reverence before departing Rishikesh found me knee deep in the Sacred River, bathing my impure mind and body in the cleansing largesse of Her watery bosom. Dowsing my chakras in Her holy liquid bounty, I prayed to be merged with Her so that I may return to the Maia of my decadent and shallow existence in the West, and somehow imbue any vestiges of Her deep wisdom that She would allow for the upliftment of that Gomorrah of the North - Warrawee.

“Mother Ganga – Bless me and give me strength to return to the West, landing on the East, before getting a cab to the North, before looking back to the South and reminding myself what an ordinary place Melbourne really is…..” I entreated in divine supplication.

“Mahatma Bullet, So Be It!” I heard an inner voice whisper. 

Confirmation. Enlightenment would be mine……………or so I thought.

I gave thanks and waded to the water’s edge and stepping from the ambrosia of Mother Ganga’s milk onto the surety of sacred Rishikesh rocky shore. It was at this very time that I felt a twinge in my lower left leg. I paid it little mind, assuming that I’d tweaked my left calf – and being a hard man of the North who looks to the South and reminds himself what and ordinary place Melbourne really is, thought nothing more of it.

The return journey to Sydney (Sodom) and subsequently the Gomorrah of the North was like travelling to a parallel Universe as I drifted in and out of consciousness; from the frightening images of  heavily armed Delhi security forces to the fierce look in the eyes of the Australian customs fruit inspectors – “Got anything to declare, Sir?” “Ah, no……” “Righto, through you go” – everything was a duty free blur of stapled shut plastic bags and simple currency conversions.

After nearly four weeks off the bike, day one of the return was a lung busting reminder of the earthly limitations of my gross form. Thanks to Great God Ganesh Chippo who took me to the mountain, down the other side, back up again to really rub it in, down the other side, and then up once more for good measure.  

Maxolon was able to calm the uncontrollable movements that my inner environment had experienced during my time of purification on the sub-continent; but could do nothing to stop the organ shut down I experienced after my first ride home that day. Indeed more than my resolve passed through the eye of the needle that evening – in fact, so did my lunch.

Om Great God Ganesh Chippo.

It was at the end of this week that Mother Ganga came to me in her turbulent fierceness. From nowhere it seems, my left calf turned as black as a demons tongue and I began to limp with a beggar’s gait. I could barely walk, I most certainly could not ride.

“Why Great Mother!” I wailed, “Help me understand, Oh Ganga,”

Again came the whisper, “Meditate upon your impurity. Burn the Karma from previous lives. Allow your old self which no longer serves you to melt as the Himalayan thaw that floods my tributaries. Only then will you be free.”

“But how…….how!?!” I recoiled.

“A Yogi awaits you. Seek him out. His wisdom will heal you.”

So, friends, my search has been long and painful (mainly due the limp) and I have spent much time in deep contemplation under the instruction of Yogi Adrian of the temple of North Sydney Physiotherapy (an ancient healing modality of Swedish Yogi’s). 

I have received many healing insights from Yogi including the many doses of the Rub of Wisdom and the Tug of the Sacred Purse Strings. Yogi Adrian is a powerful healer and even more powerful generator of revenue.  The cave of in which live my doubt is now closed to me and the wounded calf has now paid its Karmic debt – and I the physio debt.

I am about to emerge chrysalis-like, purified, cleansed, golden.  

Namaste

Mahatma Bullet (The Golden One).

Translation: I pulled my calf and have been getting physio. Back in a day or two.

Rhodes Rhitual – The Day of Gathering.

Clansmen,

I would like to acknowledge the traditional owners of this email and thank them for allowing us to commune in this sacred place.

Today is a special day, one that has occurred rarely throughout the millennia and, as such, must not pass unacknowledged……..

For today is the Day of Gathering. 

For it is written that the Day of the Gathering is the Time of the Quickening, when all of the Heroes of the Clans meet, cast off the yokes of their mortal bodies, and transcend this world, metamorphosing to embodiments of their highest potential – Easy Riders. 

The Riders of the Highlands of the North assembled at the place where the Old Ones foretold this very morning. They were ready, faces chiseled as hard as their reputations; loins tense and taut with the importance (not impotence) of this day. Great men of Wisdom and Deed from all the Clans of the North converging to fulfill the promise of their Ancestry and bloodline.

Bullet McSporrin arrived with the sun at his back to be greeted by many a merry “Och Aye!” from members of the Highland Brethren including SatNav McLean, BT McTavish and Derek McDerek. Spirits were high at the prospect of the morning ritual of feasting, wassailing and visual pheasant plucking – not the least was the hearty favour being poured upon the bonny maiden Justine McBride.

The mood quickly turned at the arrival of Drastic MacBeth, Overlord and Chieftain of the North’s most feared Clan. 

“Brothers, our time has come. We ride.”

“But we are not all here, MacBeth,” protested Young Robbie “Contador” McCain, “Where is the Prince of the Pymble Clan; Phantom the Bruce?”

“His is an awesome undertaking,” replied MacBeth, “I have read in the runes that he is to go before and prepare the way for the Quickening. He will meet us in the place of the Standing Stones – The Turra Bowlo. Will you accompany us?”

Robbie McCain shuffled uncomfortably, “Noble Drastic, my wife is heavy with our third child and is fearful of bringing the bairn in the world without a father. She is calling me to be at her side during this time.”

“Three bairns…………..? Ah, McCain, you’ve done it again!” Came the call of the Clansmen. And off they went.

Pouring out the North, the Clansmen rampaged toward the West, strengthening their forces as they went; they were joined by The Laird of Warrawee – Fergus the Mighty, Chippo of Aberdeen Angus and  Bucky McBagel. Leading the charge was MacBeth with Derek McDerek nipping at his heels like a cranky border collie.

On a distant range, the melancholy moan to “Speed Bonny Boat” could be heard, singing the Clansmen to their Spiritual home – The Standing Stones of Turra Bowlo.

Suddenly there was a hissing noise that sounded like air being squeezed out of those sad pipes; Derek McDerek ground to a halt as his ride could no longer proceed – flat tyre. Drastic MacBeth forged on in blind resolve.

“Flat tyre, Drastic!” cried Bullet, “We must wait! We are Highlanders! We cannot leave him lest he perish!

“There can be only one, McSporrin! That is the Way of the Quickening!”

Drastic MacBeth was not sighted again until after much pillaging, looting, hooting and tooting he was found at Bullet McCafe, idling time in the company of Half a Haggis, Phil McCavity and Andy……….McDaid (eh?).  

Arrival of the Clans quickly brought talk of The Quickening, and it was agreed that they would push North to The Standing Stones of the Turra Bowlo  at the earliest time possible; there to drink ale, gorge on red meat, tatties and neeps; and “fling” naked around the Standing Stones in honour of the Day of Gathering.

This is what it is to be Easy Riders…………………………….. well, maybe not the “flinging” naked bit.

Rhodes Rhampage

Rhodes: The final frontier….

These are the voyages of the Starship, Easy Rider
Its weekly mission;

• To explore strange new routes
• To seek out new coffee stops and new species of fauna
• To boldly commute where no cyclist has commuted before.

Star Date 151010.

Six Alliance members assembled for Federation briefings in the Kisso Constellation:

• Commander Spock Phanto
• First Officer Yuri SatNav
• Ships Engineer “Scotty” Chippo
• Ships Doctor “Bones” Bullet
• Lieutenant TFS Sulu
• Ensign Richard “Lynskey” Uhura

Transmissions had been intercepted that the Rhomulans were planning a raid on the Bullet System (Federation member) looting, pillaging and generally absconding in a strategic play to secure viewing rights to the wealth of resources on display during the celestial event known as the Aurora Fauna Occulus. The raiding party was headed by non-other than the Evil Rhomulan Warlord - Half Khan, ably abetted by the Dastardly Commander Beebs.

The point of attack was said to be out of the Marshmallow Nebuli.

In the absence of The Captain (on extended furlough) Commander Spock Phantom took the helm;

“Gentlemen, the logical course of action would be to reach the Bullet System before the Rhomulans, commandeer the strategic positions, use the element of surprise to gain the advantage, and negotiate a peaceful treaty.”

Bones Bullet retorted, “And just how do you plan to do that, Pin Ears? The Marshmallow Nebuli is far and away the most direct route. They’ll be there parsecs before us.”

Satnav concurred adding, “Ve vill be a long vay behind and wery much slower, according to ze co-ordinets, Keptin….. excuse me, Kommenda.”

“Then we haven’t a moment to lose,” replied Spock Phantom, “Mr Chippo, prepare for the jump to hyperspace, set thrust to a warp factor of 8.”

“Hoots, toots, och aye the noo, Commander! She’s only just had a service and the new Dilithium Crahnkset  hasne  bin ron in, but I’ll do ma’ best .“ replied Scotty Chippo.

Strapping themselves in for an intergalactic adventure against impossible odds Spock gave the command, “Jump to Hyperspace!”

Bones grumbled, “Of all hair-brained, pin headed, Vulcan ideas……. I wish the Captain was here.”

As the Universe dissolved into an algorithmic equation, the space time continuum prolapsed creating a vortex of pulsating energy that hurtled the Easy Rider through space at mind bending speeds. The Meadowbank Miasma became a vapour of perception, the Concordia Belt slipped seamlessly through view and the Five Dock Black Hole remained just that. 

Before you could say “I seem to having a problem with my lifestyle” the Easy Rider was traversing the Lilyfield Asteroid belt. Spock looked at his Parsecometer. 

“Mr Chippo, we can still make it. Can you go any faster….”

“She’s givin me all she’s gort, Comander. Ah canna do eny more. If ah doo shill break ento pieces” cried the desperate Chief Engineer.

“Then divert all power from the shields and re-direct to the main engines! Do it now!”

“Ah dornt know if it’ll werk and it’ll leave us vulnerable to the Rhomulans. Half Khan taekes nor prisoners!” Chippo protested in his thickest Scottish brogue.

“That’s an order, Mr Chippo!”

“You’ll kill us all you Logic obsessed Pixie!” Bones Bullet howled.

“We’re almost there. Set water bottles to stun, let’s not start an intergalactic incident unless they squirt first.”

The Easy Rider arrived at the Bullet System ahead of the Rhomulans traversing the Western Galaxy in an incredible 60 parsecs to secure the prime viewing positions for occurrence of the Aurora Fauna Occulus.

Half Kahn was indignant in defeat, “Curse you Spock, I will have my revenge. Make mine a latte.”

All’s well, order restored to the Universe.

Rhodes Rhesponse - Media Approved

**Media Release - Clearance Approved**

Due to certain recent events, accusations have been made centring on two core issues. I refer to reports by Mr SatNav yesterday via email which clearly state:

    1.“Bullet may have to re-spray his Astana coloured Trek for fear of guilt by association,” and 2.“- his escalation in form in his 7 months of riding has been quite remarkable.....”

Whilst loathe to dignify such spurious claims that verge on outrageous at best and libellous at worst,  with any sort of response;  I am compelled to protect my reputation which has been called into question; the damage from which  I may never recover.

To the first point:

There can be no question that I gain an advantage from riding such an attractive two-wheeled steed as this. However, it does not so much enhance my riding performance as diminish that of the peloton.

I empathise with you as ponder the delicate interplay of pastel colours, the clean lines and divine decals, the subtle Euro styling – let’s face it, it’s downright hot! I too would be spellbound by such a sight, my legs too would go to jelly, and my impetus to drive onwards would desert me. I don’t blame you; you’re only human, after all.

I can only apologise for that which Providence has deigned to bless me in ample abundance….. it’s a burden, but one I carry with appropriate martyrdom.

To the second point:

I admit that recent tests have returned higher than normal levels of clenbuterol in my system. This is merely a coincidence with my more famous and almost as handsome counterpart. Though uncommon, there is recorded evidence that increased levels of clenbuterol can result from ingesting meat such as beef; the animal being fed the substance in order to reduce fat and create a leaner product.

Independent analysts and medical specialist have been poring over my case in recent hours and have identified the source of this uncommon occurrence in my body chemistry. They have searched, investigated, drilled down, eliminated through process and derived the only possible explanation that can be supported by science – bagels.

We have identified an EWOTY stop in previous weeks where one of the Comrades entreated the group to partake of his bagel in his absence for fear that the establishment would no longer support his dependence – nay, addiction – to the said pastry. I in my naivety agreed and consumed the item, unaware of the calamitous ramifications of this simple action. I never knew that a bagel was made from beef – but there you go. 

The person who made this request I will not name (Mr Bucky), as it is not in my nature to slur a colleague – even when subterfuge and conspiracy have been at play - unlike Mr SatNav, who has seen a target and taken a pot shot with little regard to outcomes and long term effects.

I will continue to work to clear my name, commute with my heart on my sleeve, pee into a jar on demand and never, ever, ever, eat another bagel.

I have nothing to hide, but will not be taking questions.