rafael pyton

Big bomb. Big badabing badaboom.

In the greatest sport of them all, MOTOCROSS, something out of the utterly extraordinary has just happened: *Stefan Everts will come to the USA to race the 2007 AMA Nationals.* I’ll go so far as to write ‘exclamation marks‘, instead of using the typographic character.

Well, you were supposed to gasp and scream NOO WAAAY like you can’t believe it, but I forgive you for not having a clue about anything important whatsoever. However, for those of us who leave earth for twenty meters at a time before we land WFO, this is equal to seeing Muhammad fight Abraham in Las Vegas.

Everts, with a whopping 10 notches on his revolver, retired last year after winning his tenth and final world championship title. But he never raced the American motocross series, which - believe it or not - ranks higher than a world title.
See, this is what happens when a racer retires - first they reminisc, then they start to think. Soon, they wonder if they should have, or could have. And it eats away until it burns a hole… peekaboo.

I admire his guts, because in the US he will meet James ‘Bubba’ Stewart, aka faster than you and you and you and you and.. get the picture? No one has more speed in their body than Bubba. Everytime I see him ride, I rub my eyes in disbelief. “So, it is possible to do that on a motorcycle?”, I often express to no one, potato chips falling out of my mouth.
Come to think of it, I spill my beer when Everts is riding, too - but they are like day and night, and I am not talking about the color of their skin. Whereas Everts rides tiptoes, with the grace of Kelly, Bubba Stewart storms like he is being whipped by something with horns.
Oh, that inner sign of sensory overload will blink all huge and bright this summer…

The 2007 AMA Motocross Championship starts on May, 20th, and any which way you look at it, a batch of Battle Royale is brewing. Sure, Bubba will win or die, but this is one for the history books. And I plan on being there when they write it.

See this fist? It belongs to me, and it is hitting the sky so hard it’s brusing angel ribs.

Once again, I’ve found a film worthy of the letter B. The other week I danced up and down the streets underneath a Purple Rain, but today I’m rip-roaring and snip-snorting like I just dipped my dick in the gas tank of a Harley Davidson, and the devil is playing with matches.

“Yippie yi ohhhhh yippie yi yaaaaay ghoooost riders in the sky”

Reason; I saw the movie Ghost Rider. And it is probably the best B-film ever. Like, eveeer. Or, for the moment, this month, ever, whateveeer. The point is that it is so good it makes A-films seem like trivial pursuit… yet, Ghost Rider is still resolutely a B-film.

This is the hardest category of them all. Imagine; how do you make a movie that is both laugh-enabling and laugh-able? How do you make a movie that goes overboard, but not too overboard? It has to be just so - but not so-so.
Really, it is nearly impossible to get it right - but Ghost Rider gets it like Leo Getz. Geddit? Hell, I got this flick - it burned its way down to the core of the impulses that make me shout OH YEAH and ENCORE.

Ghost Rider is originally the fictional anti-hero in the Marvel Comics universe. It adds up to soul-selling, Mephisto, Johnny Blaze, demons and flaming skulls, but most of all, there are huge amounts of hellfire and motorcycle action!
And, let’s face it… if Oxford was to ask me to write a description for the word ‘cool‘ in a next-edition dictionary, you could very soon establish for yourself that ‘cool‘ means nothing less than huge amounts of hellfire and motorcycle action!

“Yippie yi ohhhhh yippie yi yaaaaay ghoooost riders in the sky”

I’ve used the moniker of Ghost Rider [with good reason] for several years now - why, one of the categories on this very blog goes by that name, for example - without knowing about the Marvel characters, but now I know, and there shall be no looking back.
One of these days, I will not be too astonished when I notice that the power of hellfire rests in the palm of my hand. I will just say “Oh?”. Then I will sling a leg over my Harley, rev it red, burn rubber and never return.

But you will know me by the trail of fire.

Music, a quick word. Say, what does the ghost rider listen to? Glad you asked; Ghost Riders In The Sky by the one and only and above and beyond, Johnny Cash.
Oh, I ORDER you to ‘find’ this song right now - it is the best one the man in black ever made, and that is saying a LOT.

Why stop there, for that matter? At this very hour of passion and glory, it seems to be the best song in the wide world! In fact, I’ve had it on repeat for days now, and I’m still hanging on to sanity by an easy thread…

“Yippie yi ohhhhh yippie yi yaaaaay ghoooost riders in the sky…”

Ooo sunshine makes me buzz like a busy bee. With happy vigor I attacked every bush in the garden, including three wildly sprouting apple trees that have, over the years, grown higher than Jack’s bean-stalk. No more; with saw in hand I must have reduced their length by half, trimmed them tightly, polished and manicured. They finally stand in symmetry once again. Ten hut!

The great joy you get from manhandling Fiskars tools. Uh ah! Branchlets and branches crack and break, fall down in a hissing rustle. I cheer three times. Get intoxicated by the smell of freshly cut wood. Uh ah! And from the top of my ladder, I can see the bend of the world.

God, I like to garden…

Dr. Gonzo, aka my attorney, aka editor-in-chief, recently interviewed winmeister Tom Kristensen, the Le Mans hero. During the conversation, the subject of faith crept up, as in my interpretation: the faith you need to have in life not to die.
[Hopefully, as you read on, you will know what I mean.]

One of the greater mysteries of human behaviour is the strange want or need or hell, I have to feel life a bit more than the rest. Another one of the greater mysteries of human behaviour is the strange want or need or hell, I have to feel a bit better than the rest. And nowhere does the the two marry better than in racing.

I know; I was a racer X.

Forget the broad definition of racing. If it is NOT very fast and wildly dangerous, it is NOT racing. As Dr. Gonzo listened to the intense Kristensen, he came to realize how much it means to everyone who’s crossed swords with the god of speed, and how hard it would be to let go, have you once tasted it.
See, lose it, and you lose the faith you needed in life not to die. You become reduced to not needing faith to live; you just need to live. And it is not the same. Not nearly. It only looks the same on the surface.

This is not a romantic delusion. Dr. Gonzo got it, and liberties are taken by quoting his email to me:

“I can’t really understand (since I’ve never raced myself), but I get some sort of foreshade on how much the crash took away from you. It’s not meant as comfort, cause I know it won’t give you any, but something sunk in tonight.”

I never felt lift at the end of the Mulsanne at 350km/h. I never won any titles. I was just a moto man on a journey. But I’ve sat on the starting line next to 39 other revved-up heroes/lunatics, waiting for the gate to drop, swearing to be the last one to brake.
And the gate drops, you hit the trigger and drop the hammer, into top gear in a hundred metres, the front wheel light all the way, first corner rushing towards you, everyone almost out of control, almost. From forty riders wide you hit the corner with room for not even half a dozen abreast.
And I am one of them. I’ve hurtled over huge tabletops littered by ruts and braking bumps, elbow to sharp elbow with the best in the land, overjumping flatlanding and eating stone, serving stone, riding like your life depended on it. Because in some ways, inside that helmet, it does, it just does.
And even if you lead for one lap only, but when the track turns back out towards the spectator area with you ahead, hauling ass up a mighty uphill jump, and you launch out over it…

Aah! Suddenly, it all goes v e r y q u i e t in the air. You see the crowds. You see the face of everyone in the crowds. They appear to be cheering. You assume it is for you. You sail. The world in the palm of your hand. You think you will never touch down again…

A second never lasted so long; this is it. IT. Purest, finest, like nothing else. Sensations and illuminations that defy belief; it is the very moment you lived your life for; yes, the essence of life.

Several corners and jumps later, you regain your senses, the race continues. I get passed. I might get fourth place.
However, memories of moments like the one above are enough to pull you through even the hardest of times. Moments like the one above are also the hardest ones to let go, because I’d sell soul to get to feel it, in action, just one last time.

The truth is here: I would not trade perfect health for 20 years of motorcycle memories. I would rather hurt the rest of my life. Without question. If you could believe that, you would understand the title to this post.

I say this kindly, with utmost respect: Yes, one can live without racing - like 99% of the planet’s population do with rather excellent results - but there is life, and then there is LIFE. If you think that is a cliché, you are 99%.

The other week, I sat down to watch Dreamgirls [2006], a fictional work inspired by Motown favorites The Supremes. Figured it might be a bit good, since The Supremes were… yes, supreme. Figured it might be a bit good, since Beyoncé has a very round bottom, and Jamie Foxx ruled the roster in Ray.

Pah. It turned out to be the worst film I’ve seen this year. Dreamgirls can not decide between being a musical or a movie, so it borrows the worst attributes of both. There is singing where there should be talking, and the storyline has been around since the dawn of film. What really blows me away in a sinful way is the actual singing, which by all accounts should be extremely strong. Sure, a few tunes are nice, but in the end it all turns into a great big wall of lungbusting that sounds forced and artificial, making me want to hide my ears in a pair of Peltors.

Two Oscars for this shit? Well, they can add my infamous Lemon Award to their collection. Dreamgirls give holy Motown a bad name.

*

Smarting, but still hungry for something that gets the combination of movie/music right, I tore the plastic off a certain and recently acquired dvd called Purple Rain [1984], and slammed it into the player. Then I filled my glass with Chantal Rosé, leaned back, and cocked my ears as much as one can possibly cock his ears.

And from beat ONE I threw my critic’s hat in a corner and opened up my soul to some of the best music ever made by the only real prince in the world, Prince. The film may be sexist, juvenile and moronic, but it is also wonderful in every way that Dreamgirls is not; HEART. Prince is ripping around on a purple motorcycle, dressed like Mozart, struggling with his identity or whatever shaboom shabaa - it can’t get worse, but then, it can’t get much better, either…

…because he is on stage before you, live-like, singing his guts out for you, and suddenly you appreciate and understand everything, his angst and anguish, his arrogance, his narcissism, everything. An interior genius shines the exterior apart, resulting in an explosion of such beauty that you may gasp, faint, puke or pee your pants, but for god’s sake, do something! Do something! Quickly! Show that you are not worthy to witness the divine at play!

And it shall rain purple all over you.

*

Right here right now, relive a bit of the magic, scroll down through your archive all the way to your precious album of Purple Rain, the one which you should have listened to pieces by now although you have it on mp3, then choose the song The Beautiful Ones, and prepare to die from sweet pain, then get resurrected. Please, turn it up as loud as you dare. Because, when the time strikes 3.24 on the song and you sit alone at home and you wish you had someone to love, Prince suddenly goes into overdrive…

DO YOU WANT HIM
DO YOU WANT ME
BECAUSE I WANT YOU

… and… gawd… you will wonder… who the hell it is… that’s trying to drive a thousand icepicks through your brain. And you die. And you live. And you die and live at the very same time.

Naomi Campbell, supermodel - if that terms still applies; the 80s did end a teenager ago - always had a bit of issue with temper. Of course, if you look like her, you get away with a lot. Chronically rude, late and grumpy, she came straight from the textbook of diva. Who knows; she probably wrote that book. But she certainly did not write Swan. Ha.

She may be part Jamaican, part Chinese, hailing from Britain, but I always found her very French. This time, she threw a mobile phone at her maid - ain’t that very French indeed! - and received a five day sentence for “assault“, to be carried out at a sanitation garage. What a pitiful “crime“, what an equally piteous sentence!

Funnily, all the reports on this development describe what she was wearing when she turned up for duty this Monday. Does this happen to ugly people? No. Do ugly people turn up at a sanitation garage dressed in stiletto ankle boots? No, not unless they happened to offer to show an officer of the law dressed in civilian clothes “a good time.” Do ugly people throw mobile phones? No, they can’t afford to, so they usually just stab you 127 times.

Still, there is something about a supermodel on her knees scrubbing toilets for five days that strikes me as the finest-ever definition of justice. But wouldn’t you still forgive her? I mean, look at her? She could throw mobile phones at me all day long, and I’d just pick them up for her to throw back at me.

And I bet you did not know that Naomi backwards is I MOAN.

A few Camparis later… set the dancefloor at LUX on raging fire until five in the morning, kicked back a few hours sleep, got up for the F1 rerun… to witness a driving clinic by the Iceman in his redhot Ferrari - just as I had predicted. Hehe… and what a wonderful start to the season for the Finnish James Hunt: pole position, fastest lap, and champagne glory in his first ever race for Ferrari. It’s like I wrote the manuscript for the race. I can only say, “Schumi who?”.

But if that was bliss, the Renault camp felt the sting from the opposite side of the stick. Flavio thought Haikki was crap - and frankly, so did I. Nevermind his arsenal of mistakes, the speed just wasn’t there all weekend, and that worries me. But don’t count the man out yet - as a rookie, you are allowed a few dark runs.
On the other hand, brand new star Lewis Hamilton shone like Lucy in the sky. I am duly impressed - dontcha just know how the English press will puff? Personally, I am counting on him to upset Alonso many times this year - hopefully it will rattle the Spaniard’s confidence, slowly eat him out from the inside like a hundred tiny rats; eventually he will fall apart, and I shall rejoice like Cartman.

But how come none of the McLarens blew smoke out their asses? I can not believe it. But it is surely just a matter of time - Badaboom badabing Malaysia? Yes, certainly.

The beemers were running nicely, too - and wasn’t Kurpitsa getting the better of Quick Nick before his car gave up the ghost? Interesting team rivalry brewing, perhaps? Tight match, like spandex on a fat chick.

Nico, the little Keke, is also coming alive. A pat on the butt, and job well done, I should think the verdict was by the man in the wheelchair. Wurz was probably ignored, but what else is new? Anyways, good to see Williams showing a bit of head again.

Now, if you excuse me, I have sore dancing feet and a headache to nurse, for which the only cure is to spend a lot of time in front of the TV doing nothing but stare into the abyss. Good party, though. I am always up for abusing my body…

Iceman on pole position, killed everyone by half a second… ah, never before have I felt so good at 5 AM in the morning!!! Wear something warm, because the new ICE AGE has begun.
To write any more than this would be to dilute the great feeling I have right now, so I’m just gonna pull over and climb out right here. In fact, I shall now suck on this delightful candy one more time, and watch the reruns on the Finnish channel, commentated by mad dog Matti Kyllönen… he must be going absolutely berserk in his itty bitty booth!

I got tired of reading stupid previews by morons who predict Massa or Alonso will win the championship, so I promptly decided to write one of my own.

Ferrari: The best most beautiful team, the fastest most reliable car, Bridgestone in a pocket. And for once, they stand on my side. Can you feel the love?

Kimi Räikkönen: The fastest man alive on earth will win every race of the season. You are looking at the champion of 2007. I give you my word, and that is as good as a guarantee.

Felipe Massa: Has been ultraquick in testing - but testing is schmesting. Whenever will the “experts” realize this? Massa is in for a cold shock, as he will get his butt consistently kicked by his superior teammate.

McLaren: As soon as Kimi left the team, they started crapping on him. Instead, they should crap in the cabin of their cars, which is what they will get: When the smoking oil clears, you will but see a long streak of DNFs.

Fernando Alonso: Will be fast, but probably not reach the checkered flag a single time, because the car will break down every time. On a personal level - I am really looking forward to see him walking to pits all over the world.

Lewis Hamilton: Groomed by McLaren since he was pint-sized, he will fit in and occasionally outpace the overrated Alonso. Mistakes are inevitable, however.

Renault: Reigning constructor champs, but will not be able to repeat the feat. Still quick, but will get even further on reliability. Flavio runs a slick crew - pin your hopes on “Haikki.”

Heikki Kovalainen: Lots of stylish driving resulting in great podiums, this bolt of lightning is nothing else than rookie of the year. Will outclass his teammate resoundingly. It was worth the wait.

Giancarlo Fisichella: His last year driving for a top team. Sometimes a bit quick, but simply not tough enough. As easy to pass as stealing hard candy from a toothless kid.

BMW Sauber: Ever improving, inching closer to the top. An outside bet for a really good finish.

Nick Heidfeld: Quick Nick is the invisible man of F1. No one cares an iota what he does, but he’s yearning to prove me wrong. Will put in one or two excellent drives now and then, but will fade in between.

Robert Kubica: Incredibly, a Polish F1 driver - a complete miracle, since they don’t even have cars in Poland. He is rather speedy, too, and will stand out compared to his teammate, whatever his name was.

Honda: Clever PR stunt will be forgotten as soon as it becomes obvious that the cars are nowhere near the front.

Jenson Button: Sadly, he will have to wait another 136 GPs to win again. It is a damn tragedy, because he has a shimmer of charisma in a pool of fools.

Rubens Barrichello: What? Is he still in F1? Well, not for long - this has got to be his last season. The only Brazilian in the world born boring, he will do nothing worth noting. Yawn.

Toyota: A complete waste of huge amounts of money. Go back to WRC. Please. This is getting to be painful to watch.

Ralf Schumacher: Lousy written all over his forehead. I don’t have a single positive thing to say about Ralf, so I will shut up and graciously move on.

Jarno Trulli: Gee, they really need new drivers at Toyota, don’t they? Trulli is a qualifying specialist, but a racing roadblock. Get a haircut. And a new job.

Williams: Frank and Patrick are still stuck in the dark ages, but at least they will beat Toyota, and hopefully spark one or two brilliant moments along the season.

Nico Rosberg: Last year, probably the worst season ever by a rookie in a decent car. Will do better this year. But I’d be surprised if better means much better. Needs to decide if he is Finnish or German or Monegasque.

Alex Wurz: Come in, Mr Wurz, your time is up. Well, ok, but this is your very last chance. Make it count.

Red Bull: Frankly, really hard to say. With Newey on board, who knows? Well, I do. They will be weak.

David Coulthard: Well, David? Every year you say this is your year - and this time you are right: It is your last year. Always overrated, always in a top car, never a contender.

Mark Webber: Will outqualify Coulthard, but that is not much of an achievement. If he doesn’t shine this year, he is in trouble. Unfortunately, I do predict he will stink a lot more than shine.

Toro Rosso, drivers Vitantonio Liuzzi and Scoot Speed: I wish the Americans would love F1 instead of Nascar, but there is apparently not enough taste in the world to go around for everyone. At least Speed can find comfort in having the best surname in the business, but don’t expect too much from the Toro Rosso squad, despite their Ferrari engines.

Spyker, drivers Christijan Albers and Adrian Sutil: Nah. Not enough resources. Not enough of anything, really.

Super Aguri, drivers Takuma Sato and Anthony Davidson. I always look forward to see Sato-san dive for passes. When he’s around, something is bound to happen - and end in tears. Oi look; Davidson got his chance at last. Congrats.

Ok, the chips may fall as they please, but when placing bets, you’d be well advised to use this preview as your guide. It just may be the best thing you ever did. Or the worst; such is the futility of previews and predictions. But in a world where nothing is pre-destined, I could be right. And if I am, I will never let you forget it. Look for this in the review…

Bending bends around New Zealand, I discovered a very peculiar phenomenon that I like to call “dogs on pick-ups.” Quite right - the name says it all… and it made me smile every single time I came upon the barking shagpiles riding shotgun - particularly at really high speeds, as can be seen from the first photo. Marvellous.

I wonder what the dogs think? They probably love it, of course, tongue out and all - until you hit a speedbump really fast, or have to jump on the brakes with both feet.

Another funny fact-bone is “dogs between the tires of huge lorries“, which is, well, I’ll tell ya. You see, truck drivers like dogs as much as pick-up drivers - but where do they put their Rex, Boliver or Tinkerbell? Well, between the huge roaring wheels of the trucks, believe it or not! There are small steel boxes there, that you first assume are gas tanks, but then you see a breathing hole in the box, and before you know it, you may see a woof-making snout poking out right at you.

I laughed so hard. So hard.

Sadly, no pictures of “dogs between the tires of huge lorries” - not easy to take pics when you woosch past and suddenly see a wet nose peeking out thru a hole - but you must nonetheless believe me; redneck culture is wonderful, funny as hell, and physically poignant. [I do suspect, though, that when these furballs have racked up the miles, inches from roaring tires, they don't hear too well.]

Well, as you were; hump on, smell crotches, howl at the moon, bark at strangers, and bite the postman in the leg. Oh, and always remember to lift your leg when you pee.