Ducks

As I was riding the coast of Orkney today I spotted a group of older men in a loose cluster by the beach. They were equipped with a range of high-end telescopes and binoculars, some of which seemed capable of making out Neil Armstrong’s footsteps. There was a discernible sense of excitement. Something was happening. It was enough to make me turn back to share in whatever it was they were observing. Judging by the sense of excitement, I imagined a pod of Orca, a pair of breaching Minke whales, possibly a mermaid: It was a duck. They were staring at a duck. Now, I know it takes all sorts to make a world. I am, in general terms, laid back about the fact that people follow different, sometimes odd, pursuits. I accept that people will look at motorcycling – my thing – and not get it. BUT I would suggest that barreling into a series of bends at a pace something north of the speed limit and your comfort level, is a legitimate reason to get your heart rate up. I can’t in all honesty see the same thing coming from a mallard bobbing about in the water.

I had the same reaction at an Americana festival I went to once. There was a group of people at the margins of the event- in every sense – that lived in the world of the American frontier. They had erected shacks, complete with patio, iron fire, household implements et all. These they had brought in a van to be assembled on-site and once done, they donned their buckskins and did whatever frontier people did – caught scurvy and had sex with their relatives I suppose. There was a degree of commitment, maybe even obsession, that was – I’m struggling for the word here – surprising, shocking even. I mean every detail (other than fleas) was there. I have seen the same thing with enactors, sitting around the fires being Anglo Saxons or confederates or WW2 soldiers. They are not harming me so I have no problem with it, no right to have one actually, but it does make me think. For the rest of the time, these people are living in the 21st century. I am sure there is an iPhone tucked somewhere alongside the battleaxes or flintlocks. What do they think about? Talk about? Do they talk of Patton’s push to the Rhine? Sioux Incursions, what a bastard Ivor the Boneless is?

And then there is re-entry to the real world. Monday morning people are back at their day jobs. “what did you do this weekend Frank? “Wee’ll pardner I whittled me a new pipe and then scouted for buffalo”, “Any success?” “No Sir, ah, din’t see a damn one of those varmints”, “Where were you Frank?”, “Surrey”.

I rest my case.