The Bicyclists

What style of writing is appropriate for this?  Third person omniscient? Or the 'opinion editorial', the questioning and clarifying, or the dictatorial? Ralph Vaughan Williams as a young man. A bit grumpy that day. His mother had tried to comb out the cow lick in his hair My thoughts (there, I've settled it by making personal, 1st person).... Or He woke up in the morning, all around the city men were stirring. Stirring to join the compelling earthly desire to .....[whatever it might be] Or Mix it up and confuse the reader? The 3rd person gives an impression of authority. The 1st person requires consideration of the affection for and bias of the writer. See what I've done there? Gave authority to my own statement by delivering it in the 3rd person. Compare: " I believe that 3rd person delivery is more powerful" . That, of course, invites those who agree to do so more violently (in the positive sense) and those who disagree to attack on the groun...

Your correspondent, so far the only of the bicyclists to remain in Tasmania all of the winter, can confidently say that last Sunday it was "as cold as buggery". Pell will know what that means. When the cold winds of discontent and accusation descend on the lonely man, the only way to warm up the cockles is a bike ride to Mona. And [I know, never start a sentence with a preposition] that is exactly what Larky, Porter and your correspondent did on the 1st July 2017. Larkey's strategy of holding off taking collection, and paying, for his new bike paid dividends. The masters of his fate offered a $150 off deal, just 'if you will just pick the bloody thing up and take it away'. So it was a colourful scene along the bike track. Porter in Red, Larkey in Blue, Kimber in White - something of a flag waving exercise, in readiness for the celebrations of the French Republic (the tricolour). So, as we entered MONA for the cuppa, the thermometer was just rising above...

The weather was magic. The traffic unusual. Many classic and vintage vehicles including motorcyclists paraded the long path from Sandy Bay to Taroona. Perhaps there were some odd people out, including your Bike Group. As we headed for the 20 km ride from 'sea to peak' - Yacht club to the torture of Bonnet Hill, an attempt to merge with the traffic drew a blast of effusive agitation from an old fart in a Ford Fortuna, maroon in colour. The Fart was headed into the Casino: "we went down to Havana, to have a gamble". But taking offence at one of our number's movement off the footpath into the very left lane of traffic, the horn (no not that one) blew (and not in that way) like a pissweak electronic buzzer, but shrill enough to disturb the peace. As we perched precariously atop our bikes at the intersection the Maroon Fortuna drew up beside us and started a gobshite of abuse. Andre Gromyko, leading the pack, mistook the abuse as directed to him- but he knew h...

The Group includes wankers who are overseas most of the time, flying first class, and putting up photos of their leather couches in the plane, and others renting bikes to cycle around Vancouver. For example, Porter is floating around Stanley Park with NO LYCRA AT ALL! Just the clothes he was brung into the place in! The Porter sans lycra, at Stanley Park - Vancouver Now that is tortured. But back to the ride. Saturday weather reports said she was going to rain mercilessly. As the 6am Sunday grey sky and light drizzle was going on against my window pane, a quick revolving resolution was unanimously agreed "No ride today". But by 8.30am the sun was out and Tasmania, typically Hobart, was telling us "18 degrees, calm breeze, lovely day". So Jeff and I pulled on the gear, and invited Merv to join us, and off we headed. Against the stream of City to Casino 'fun' runners, we made the bike track at the Cenotaph, and headed off north, at about 15km/h (...

Last Sunday, 23rd April 2017 Bicyclists: Kimber, Porter, Larkey, Fitzgibbon The autumn leaves on the grape vines at Moorilla, crushing and extracting going on in the shed. Wine soon. The plan: Introduce Larkey to a bike weighing less than 1 kiloton, and see if that helps his striding out. Secondly, all for a calm journey in good weather. We started away from RYCT at a little after 9am. Overcast but warmish, and once up Napoleon Street Hill, there were no complaints. We drifted down the Battery Point and agreed that there was no need for a bike track around the front of the houses, from our perspective, as the journey was quite interesting on the road built for it. Around the waterfront, through the milling people, and up to the Cenotaph - shortly thereafter to be the scene of wild cavorting on ANZAC day. A pleasant and not difficult or fast trip out on the bike track had us arrive at Glenorchy and 'why not go on' - so we determined on MONA for coffee. Arriving only...

The bridge is a bastard. Whoever built the little bits on the side for punters to walk on and ride their bikes needs to be shot with a ball of their own. The world outside your own bedroom is an amazing place. At 9am on Sunday morning, there are no fat bastards around. Even the triumvirate of bicyclists who leapt away from the Yacht Club were looking decidedly trim. "Only one souvlaki please Jim, and the medium chips" - Kimber had ordered from the Mykonos on Saturday evening. The cask of wine was reduced through constant attention (like a good gravy reduction, ready to paste). So; Fitz can't find the internet: "It's everywhere" Larkey said, but not near the Gibbons's housing. So he went for a walk up Hartz Peak with Mo (remember the Australian comedian 'Mo'? During the 1930s I suspect - further report on that later): full report expected from Fitz and Mo on the travails to the Peak. But your correspondent and company: Who wrote th...

'WESTMORLAND. O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work to-day! KING. What's he that wishes so? My cousin, Westmorland? No, my fair cousin; If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more methinks would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmorland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his pur...