Anne biking in the sunshine on Rottnest Island, near Fremantle, Western Australia.

See more photos taken on 18^th May 2006, or all of my photos from Australia and Brunei.

That’s me sat in the sunshine on Fremantle Harbour, waiting for my waffles to be delivered. Mmmm… waffles.

See more photos taken on 17^th May 2006, or all of my photos from Australia and Brunei.

Owen, relax­ing in Kings Park, Perth, Australia.

See more photos taken on 16^th May 2006, or all of my photos from Australia and Brunei.

It’s late July 2005 and The Hills Have Eyes monkeys [Adam, Alex, Anton, Brett, Charlie, Gary, Gaz, Nick, Olly, Rob, Stu] hit Morzine in the French Alps.

We ride bikes like nutters. We do over 200 miles, nearly all downhill, over the course of two weeks. We rail berms, fly off drops, ride see-saws, and rule the single­track. We fall off a lot. We kneel at the altar of body armour. We kill several pairs of forks, a rear shock, count­less tyres, gear cables, chains, brake pads and other myriad parts. We spend an obscene amount of money on replace­ments (Yes Brett, we mean you). We make silly BWAAAARRRRRP engine noises as we fly down the trails. We celeb­rate my birth­day. We’re given free drinks by friendly bar staff. We fly from one mountain to the next on the Fantasticable. We think Anne-Caro is a vindict­ive cow to have come up with that track. We chat to old friends in the pub. We eat too much food. We take pictures. We throw each other in hedges. We have an awful lot of fun.

We come home. We are depressed. We are really looking forward to the next time.

Update: <a href=“http://thinkdrastic.net/gallery/folder/16%20to%2024%20July%202005%20-%20Brett” s%20Photos%20from%20Morzine”>We take more photos.

I’ve been back from the Alps for three days now. Boy oh boy, did the post-holiday depres­sion kick in today. It’s fine all the time I’m distrac­ted by telling people all about the holiday, or even remin­is­cing with my fellow holiday-makers, but as soon as I have to think about anything else, I just bog down and want to curl up in a ball and go to sleep.

I went to a great big family party on Saturday. It was great fun, but very hard work — I’d landed in the UK at about 11pm, got home at about 2am, got out of bed at around 8am, travelled across the country, arrived at the party at around midday and then spent roughly the next 11 hours catch­ing up with various branches of the family (along with various family friends). Thankfully, they’ve given up on the good old Hey, I haven’t seen you since you were this tall! line of conver­sa­tion and instead wanted to hear all about my adven­tures, or tell me all about theirs.

This is all well and good, but unless they’ve exper­i­enced a simil­arly extreme sport (I hate that phrase), it’s very hard to give them an idea of just what it’s like.

The Coke Habit

You see, a decent downhill bike can cost as much as a substan­tial narcotic habit to build up and maintain. Of course you don’t need to spend that much, but the pimp value always helps. Get it right though, and it can deliver an incred­ible rush. There’s bits of trail that I think back to now and they send tingles right up my spine.

It’s very hard to describe it. I tend to liken it to a roller-coaster, but one where you’re in charge of just how fast it goes and just how hard it pushes through the corners. It’s up to you to push it that bit faster, brake that bit later, and deliver the all import­ant adren­alin kick.

Flying into a right-hander, completely off the brakes, letting the bike go airborne over the fly-off, twist­ing it beneath you before landing in the left-hander that follows, letting the wheels drift slightly across the track before setting up for the next corner. I’m sat here with a massive grin on my face just think­ing about it.

Or there’s the times when you follow a quick rider — someone whose ability you respect and aspire to — into a trail, and they don’t get away from you, all the way down. Then there’s the very rare moments when they move over to let a faster rider through, and that faster rider is you.

Times like that, where it all comes together perfectly, are what it’s all about. When you get “the flow”, there is really very little else that can match up.

Bikes rock, 100% of fact.

Here’s a selec­tion of pictures I took over the Christmas period. You’ll find friends, relat­ives and turtles amongst other things. Hope you enjoy them. View the pictures…

We wander slowly up the tunnel. Part of me is wonder­ing whether or not I’ll get searched again — after all, I’d already been x-rayed twice before we boarded this morning.

So this is the mighty America then. The famous J.F.K. It looks just like the airport we left, an anonym­ous window­less tunnel all the way into customs. It doesn’t seem as clean as Heathrow. Maybe this one’s just older.

Except for the toilets, that is. These ones are spotless, which is a marked contrast to the blocked up crap we had to endure back in good ol’ blighty.

There’s a secur­ity officer guard­ing a puddle on the floor and guiding people around it, while he waits for a cleaner to arrive. I guess thats just in case someone slips and sues the airport to hell and back.

Customs amuses me. Every officer at every desk seems to fit the stereo­types that we get to see on things like LAPD Blue. I get a large bearded older bloke. He clearly can’t wait for home-time to come along. They take my finger­prints and a cheap-looking camera takes a snap of my face. We’re straight through without a hitch.

Airports really are the same every­where aren’t they? Heathrow, Geneva, Lyon, Gatwick, JFK. Big, dull and anonym­ous. Long tunnels plastered with adverts for things I probably won’t buy and services I’m unlikely to t use. All they are is a great big bus terminal, and they’re never the most excit­ing places in the world are they? Nope, they’re just a way into the city. In this case, that really is quite an excit­ing place to be.

[Inspired by Stuart’s First Impressions of the same place.]