rafael pyton

My grandma always called the bicycle “velo“, and she pedaled hers to the tune of the whistling wind. Ooeeee. But this is one she never saw coming. Look, no hubs, g’ma!

Ain’t that the coolest thing, sire? Suitably inspired, I’m just back from a business trip to Holland, pedal-country number one. When we run out of oil/when they ban the combustion chamber, whichever comes first, I’m stepping off my Ducati and getting on one of these. A well designed bicycle is like a Danish chair; you just want to sit and run your eyes over it until you die. I purr like a pussycat when my aesthetic faculties get titillated like this.

I’m middle class and I’ve had it! We built the world, we can take it apart!

Are you paying attention now? It has long been my opinion that speculation on the stock market is the root to, if not all, then at least 99% of all evil in the world. Once a perfectly good company goes public, all semblance to decency and goodwill is thrown out the window, and only the perverted allegiance to stockholders remain. And that is before the manipulation begin…

In truth, I was almost hoping the financial crisis would blow up like the big bad waterballoon it is. For once, I wanted to see the real criminals of this world burn in righteous fire. I wanted to see hedge fund managers leap out the windows in synchronized suicide, splatter all across Wall Street.
But lo and no - states all over the world stumbled over themselves to bail the poor billionaires out. My only comfort was the collapse of Lehman Brothers. Ha and jubilant ha.

Richard Fuld, Lehman Brother CEO, pocketed $484 million since 2000, continued to steer bonuses even as he was pleading for federal resources. Darth Vader was a rather nice chap after all, if you compare him with Richard Fuld. I feel sick just forming his name with my fingertips. Why not drop him off in a poor neighborhood, see what happens?

Tragically, we have a Richard Fuld in Finland too. He is Mikael Lilius, Fortum CEO, a disaster, a disgrace, and a pie in his face.
This is where my shoe hurts: I just received notice of the latest increase in prices. The last one came in August. All in all, the price on electricity has now gone up a fourth in one year. I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like paying for his fucking sailing boat anymore. I only feel like drilling holes in it.

It is one thing to hike up the price on mink or Mercedes. But when you screw with life-essentials, we get damn angry. Did you notice how I suddenly turned to we? I’m not alone, you bonus-sucking beast. We will overthrow your golden ass and pee on your throne. This reign of greedy terror must end, and it must end sooner than now, preferably already.

“Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm.” - William Shakespeare

Strike a wee pose. The first baby-item I ever purchased, early this summer: a pair of black and white Vans in size 4!

At the time, standing in the baby section at Stockmann, I did not know whether it was going to be a boy or a girl - but these tickled my inner cute-meter to the max. I squealed in delight and held them close to my chest.

Little miss cool chick will have outgrown these most diminutive of Vans long before she takes her first steps. But I think she’ll have a pretty good time kicking them off her tiny feet. And I will enjoy it at least as much putting them back on time after time.

If shoes maketh the man, Valentino Rossi racing boots by Dainese undoubtedly maketh the motorcycle man. I put these on, and feel better about myself, the world, even everyone else in it. Then I swagger around for awhile, most likely adding a few dance steps to the mix, watch my feet move in the big mirror, mirror on the wall.

And only then do I go out riding.

Carrie Bradshaw, I get you. Furthermore, I also assume most men don’t, because I found these, the great Vale’s own boots, at the new Bike World in Espoo, where they had been for the best part of 2008, unsold, unloved. Most men, and this is another assumption, don’t have the balls to wear one boot in bright neon yellow, the other in black. Me, please. Pizazz, dazzle! Discretion is not always the better part of valor.

Famous Italian brand Dainese is not only finest haute couture, they back it up on the track and spray it down with champagne; you are feasting your eyes on the best boots on the market, bar none, that money - quite a lot of money - can buy. Inside these ultralight babies you find carbon fiber ankle braces and titanium parts. And my feet. Frankly, the thought of breaking my ankles into bits again does not appeal to me at all. I had to get these boots. There was no question about it.

Why, I strapped myself into them at the store. They fit like gloves, which is weird because they are boots. Then I walked around in them for awhile, trying to talk myself into seeing past the price tag. I’m quite good at winning arguments against myself, so I eventually prevailed, and walked up to the sales girl, fully intent on paying anything she charged me and a little on top.
But just to press my luck, I asked if they have an offer on these demo boots… and… and… and she slashed half the price off!

As I said, it takes a special kind of man to wear one bright neon yellow boot. And who’s that there at the counter? “Cough“, I coughed, “well, in that case I guess I can take them off your hands…” My smile betrayed me in the worst way, but the fact remained that I was coming home with Valentino Rossi’s boots!

You would dance too.

You don’t need a helmet if you have a hard, hard head… but mine is soft. Softer still when I think of the plastic that has protected me throughout the years. God knows I’m the kind of guy that needs protection.

I wish I could regale you with pictures as well, but most of the buckets I’ve worn has passed to the eternal - it’s plastic, after all - junkyard in the anti-sky. But if you are passionate about something, if you live and breath and, in my case, leave kisses stinking of gasoline, you develop strong bonds with the most unnatural of things and dead materia. Motorcycle guys, already a breed apart from start, have very special relationships with their helmets. You will see. Say hello to my six closest friends.

The first one - you always remember your first - inhabits a particularly warm spot in my heart. It was bought for a packet of peanuts and a handshake, but the price matters not when you browse memories experienced in this crimson bowl. White visor, bolt-on red mouthguard, I rode the rivets out of it from age 12 to 14, and it also did duty as my street helmet during moped age from 15 to 18. By then I had ripped away the mouthguard, and covered every single inch of it in stickers, the more ridiculous the better. It certainly stood out…
Better yet, it covered my brain cells when I crashed into the side of a silver Toyota. For the record, it was not my fault. I trashed that car, yet escaped with a mere busted knee. But the amount of blood that a knee can fit without exploding would shake you, if you had seen me in the hospital later… they needed a tanker to empty it. Moreover, my head was intact. Well done, first helmet. I really didn’t want to end my story that early. I owe you, little red thing of generic shape.

My second helmet was the Yes helmet. It is the only helmet of mine I hate. It was ugly, and never protected me, because I never hit the ground hard enough in it - not that I tried, though, I just never really landed on my head in it. But my apple looked like a bloody melon in it. I guess it had looked good on the shelves… I came into my own in this helmet, however. The first time I passed my father on the motocross track, I was wearing the huge Yes helmet. My dad was an old racer, and when I first began riding, I figured he would forever kick my ass. There was no way I was ever going to become that fast, you kidding me?!
Two years later, on a Husqvarna 500cc - I was 14 - I passed him. I thought he was sandbagging at first, but then I passed him again. Dad would deny it, but it really frustrated him. In retrospect, I think this was when I first made my claim at manhood.

With my third helmet, I moved into player status. It was by AXO, and made famous by Alex Puzar. Now, pay little mind to these names; to me, he was the coolest, most stylish Italian on the circuit, and I just had to have his helmet. How I loved it!
By this time, I was already on the first of a very long string of Honda CR 250s, a racing weapon I would continue to use and abuse in the coming years, with the exception of one very fast Yamaha. But that’s another story alltogether.
My AXO helmet saved my hide on several occasions, a plethora of plastic scars lived to tell the tale of youthful über-exuberance and the shitloads of spunk that ran in my veins during these years. I was sad when I sold it to a friend. But I bet he never got the sweat out of it… I drained my whole body into that thing, while looking like Alex Puzar.

Then Jeremy McGrath burst onto the scene. He wore a Bell Moto 5, painted by Troy Lee Design, and it said Showtime on the back, including some fairly cool yellow flames and ubiquitous eyeballs. It cost 2500 Finnish marks, but to me it was worth the GNP of Finland. The store manager who sold it to me asked me why I needed such an expensive helmet. I looked at him like he was crazy, and pointed to my head… If you have a 25 dollar head, get a 25 dollar helmet.
My father died in 1999. Me and my brother did not ride at all the whole year, sold all our bikes. 1999 is my version of hell. The next year, we swore to put an end to it. We spent a lifetime riding with dad, and nobody or nothing was taking that away. Before the snow of 2000 had melted, we had acquired a new bike. And I still wore the Bell Moto 5 with pride, perhaps with too much pride, definitely with more speed than ever. Outside that helmet I may have been a troubled man with the world heavy on my shoulders, but once tucked inside familiar space, I was able to channel all the fucking bitterness of the shitty world into paradise with fireworks. With the exception of writing, it was the only thing that made me feel alive. On a good day, on my favorite track, when the sun was shining, I ran with anyone.

Then came the Shoei VFX-R. It is the only helmet I still have left, a morbid memento of another tragedy. As far as helmets go, it is still the archetype of aggressiveness. Looking fast is almost as important as going fast, you know. I’d eat people in this one; was never faster. Unfortunately, my peaks were punctuated rather than elongated.
I was never faster, true. In fact, I never really knew how fast I could go - with the exception of my best race ever, where I ripped away from everyone right off the gate. By lap three I had such a big lead I was starting to think how absolutely heroic I must look to the spectators… and totally lost concentration in a fast left-hand sweeper, flew off track and came back down on my shoulder. Hard. It dislocated so far it might as well have been in another town. When they finally got my shirt off, people nearly fainted. Body parts were pointing in all the wrong directions. I looked like Quasimodo. That shoulder still hurts.
Six weeks later I was back. And just in case anyone thought it had slowed me down - they all did - I promptly went out and busted the lap record. Oh, it was my finest hour!

27.11.2004, the next year, I died. But I couldn’t have died in a nicer helmet. And since I actually lived, I make it a point to never wear anything else than Shoei.

Which brings me here - finally, some might say - to my last helmet to date. Since my legs have the structural strength of spaghetti these days, I have been forced to take to the streets. But a blood-red supermoto Ducati goes some way to making up for what I’ve lost.
It seems safe to say I have established that I need protection. This is it, this is me, this is who - not what - is protecting me today: the Shoei Hornet DS in, oh yes, matt black.

He had no choice, he was born like this, with a golden voice - and blessed be his word, because it is without equal. Bob Dylan may polish his shoes; I refer to the towering force of majestic melancholy, the one, the only, the lonely Leonard Cohen, poet, preacher, river and mountain of true beauty.

Long ago I gave up hope of ever setting eyes and ears and all my adoration upon Leonard Cohen. When I gave up grunge and long hair for something a bit more intellectual, and contextual [as in relation to life], Master Cohen was already lost in monastery limbo, where contemplation of existence turns to mere, bare existence.
I found peace in his albums, which I gathered like a hamster, one by one, until I had all and treasured them alike. Together with Jack Kerouac, he taught me how to write. No better teachers around; blame the student.
Jack died before I was born. And Master Cohen grew older and further and further away from me, 74, the age of brandy and death. Still, I kept on carrying a little torch of hope in my chest - sometimes for no other reason than to keep me warm. Standing in the presence of a performance, I was forced to concede, was probably another one of the dreams that stay and only stay in the sphere of twilight.

But! Come Friday night! Look, tickets, crumpled by concentration alone! I dragged my Madli along to bear witness to what turned out to be the best concert of my life, of our lives. And while I have been accused of using superlatives like you get three for the price of two, I mean what I say; t’was the best concert of my life.

I’m still reeling from the experience. There were times when I was afraid to close my eyes, there were times when I could not help but close my eyes, there were times and they were all times where I was in awe, such was the power of the tower of songs of love and death and life and longing and hallelujah, it goes like this, the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift.

Hallelujah is possibly the greatest song ever written. Strike possibly. Immediately. It is so. And I was there, to mouth the whole song in mute, never to utter a sound, because I dared not soil it. I mouthed all the other songs, too. By heart finally reaches accuracy in statement, so to silently speak.

I better get up from the position of worship now, and steer into bed. The night is dark and the morning won’t be. Besides, if it wasn’t, and if it was, there is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.

Karis, my hometown, the garden city, the grand illusion, is a constant source/object of semi-intelligent humor, the best kind of humor. And since I spend my bright and early mornings pouring over the comic strips in Helsingin Sanomat, Karis jokes rarely escape my eager eyes.

Here is another one, by freaky Fingerpori, the second-coolest strip of the homeland [after Viivi ja Wagner].

Heek heek. Of course, should you not encompass a comprehensive understanding of the Barbaric language better knows as Finnish, the nuances will be lost on you. I shall try to enlighten: first of all, Karis is Swedish. In Finnish, my hometown is called Karjaa. If you translate Karjaa to, in this case, English, it means cattle, in plural form…

First square: “Mr leader of council, I’ve come to plan your elective campaign.”
Second square: “I have just designed a billboard for the people of Karis.”
Third square: We Are Karis.

Which here rather obviously stands for We Are Cattle. And why argue with something that is true? Muu!

There was no way we were going to wait until the grand entrance. We are impatient parents-to-be, and such are hard to stop. And thus, the story goes to be told and retold, the firstborn will be a GIRL, and lovelier than words, you mark mine nonetheless.

When I was young, I mean, when I was younger, and had ideas of fatherhood, I pictured a baby boy on a bike, a trike. Probably made out of orange plastic, with pedals and a horn that goes toot-toot. But I have come to realize that I only saw myself with my own dad. Dreams are of things you know. When it dawned on me that I will be the father to a daughter, it hit me, it hit me like the wind that make your eyes tear at the edges, and I knew that I could not be any happier was it a boy or a girl. And it will be a girl. I said that again, just in case you missed it. A girl made in heaven.

Yeah, you watch out now. I’ve been saving love my entire life for this. And bear with me if I sometimes go overboard; that is just me. I go overboard. Then I drown. And then I crawl back up. And do it all over again. Baby girl. Dad here. I know you want to say something. But I can’t hear you just yet. I’ll wait. We have so much to talk about, but I’ll wait. Until then.

Forgive your father for being an emotional creature. But the world is cold enough as it is. You melt mine.