Showing posts with label My name is speed. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My name is speed. Show all posts
24 January 2012
25 laps
01 February 2011
The name of this toad
Walking past the foyer of Hyatt Hotel, the mother complained, "TSK. Why is this car so noisy? Like a toad croaking."
Me: "Mother, the name of this toad is Ferrari..."
(And so it is true that a Ferrari is only nice if you are the one in it!)
Me: "Mother, the name of this toad is Ferrari..."
(And so it is true that a Ferrari is only nice if you are the one in it!)
08 July 2010
Flashy bikes, sunnies and flirty skirts.01 March 2010
Helmet heartthrob
While the other gals were ogling over Chanel bags (one or two which are no doubt quite worthy of ogling), I was eyeing this at Selfridges.
But actually, my dream helmets are these ones from »Les Atelier Ruby.
And oh yes, having access to a bike would be nice.
06 February 2010
31 December 2009
Take Harry and Sally to Sunday tea
This wonderful ad appeared in the tube stations about two weeks ago. I've just made contact with them to see how I can help with neither a car nor an apartment here.
Next time when I am old, I hope someone takes me out for tea in a bike or a sidecar! :)
If you are interested, this is »a video of what goes on in these tea parties.
10 April 2009
Motorcycle diaries
I finally got round to requesting for the hi-res photos of my Harley bike rides and the good folks from »Wild Rides Sydney sent a CD over recently. It occurred to me that I was becoming a biker gal on my travels. Just the year before, I was in Paris and was zipped around in Mr C's vespa. For the record, let me declare here that the most exhilarating way to see Paris is to vroom by Place de la Concorde and Champs Elysees, on an ultra-blue autumn day in a bike.
It was in part because of the memorable Parisien experience that I decided to go for a Harley in Sydney. I was right: spectacular cities are born to be seen on a bike. Particularly bridges. Going through the Harbour Bridge made you feel dimunitive.
Sydney marked the second time Ms L and I have been on a bike ride together. The first time was in Phnom Penh, where we asked our restaurant to help us hail a cab to go to the Russian market. In a classic case of lost in translation, we found two grinning bikers waiting for us at the doorstep instead. After two moments of hesitation, we decided not to be lembeh city gals and hopped on. Some eyes wide shut was required.
Mexico, however, is the country with the honour of my virgin bike ride. At a heady age of 22, with a good friend ill in the hotel and only one day left in Mexico, I decided that it was of utmost urgency that I see a real »cenote before I left (not a Mickey Mouse touristy version). So I asked the young security guard at the entrance of Tulum how I could see one. To my surprise, his answer was, "I can take you there". "How?" I asked. "On my motorcyle," he replied, matter of fact.
Again, two moments of hesitation, and I said yes. On hindsight, this was probably foolhardily dangerous. I spoke roughly five words of Spanish, had told no one - this was the early days of cellphone, let alone roaming - and was riding pillion at 60 km/h with some random guy on some random Mexican highway. Thankfully, the young man did not rape, rob or kill me and leave me by the side of the road. Instead, I got to see a very local cenote in the middle of a jungle (incredibly clear water) and rode back home on the dusty highway with just my bikini, sun shining, wind blowing.
No photographs unfortunately, of this splendid scene of youth.
05 April 2009
A dizzying zorb
That's the romanticized picture. In practice, it is more like 10 rounds of 360-degree roller coaster turns!
More explanatory pictures »here.
29 September 2008
The Ferrari mechanics who are going to get so much crap
Lesson in life: Never, never underestimate the dark Spanish horse.
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