Brooklands Photo Shoot.

An easy autumn Sunday, kicking tyres, drinking tea and taking snaps of the car...106 others had the same idea!

Some more images here.

WEDNESDAY, 7th OCTOBER 2009

Croix en Ternois

A blat across the channel for a couple of nights B&B (booze & bullsh*t) and somewhere amongst it all, a track day in the French countryside!

...and then it rained.

...so we had lunch.

A Friday night blow through.

3pm Friday, weather clear and early autumn cool despite a forecast to the contrary.It'd be nice just to get an hour or so in to clear the week's log jam of unsolvable BS.

The 'Call up' is made to Ian H and CBB to join the jam... Ian's in.

So: RV 6pm in Farnham it is.

Objective: clear the crowds and head south and try to re-map the middle part of the route from last weekend for inclusion in the Sunrise route file. 5 days after the event and with dusk by 7 we'll have a challenge in dealing with memory and spotting the landmarks, but it's better than an evening consigned to otherwise 7evenless activities.

By 5.30 the promised clouds have rolled in, nice, thanks for that.Configured for fair weather, the aeroscreen set up at leasts allows for good visibility in the gathering gloom.

Encouragingly, the home bound commuter is keen to beat the daylight and, despite their numbers, we join a brisk pace down the A31 to Alton our unintentional diminutive 'challenges' taken up by Jag v8's and a big Audi or two.

The corporate fug begins to clear.

To be continued....

Newbury, Sunrise and Solent 7's - Blat to the beach.

Chill & mist - Sun & Fun, 15 sevens dissolve into the late summer Hampshire and Sussex countryside (picked off one by one by the BlatGoblin?)

Turnout for the 8am RV at Farnham was good: 10 cars and their willing participants.Temperature was a bit cool ... but that'll be the season then. So, a crisp start.

Roll call:

Andy of Coastal Command made his legendary 'pre blat' blat up from Worthing and came dressed in his ski gear.Very pessimistic/hopeful so soon after the recent drop in temperature!

Also in formation : Ian H , now more well known as 'Wolfie' after a tragic predictive text message that has left him with a tirade of themed remarks and accusations of other after dark activities.

The new Mr and Mrs 'Wilto' Wiltshire both joined the blat (cruelly prized from the grapplings of the marital bed, arrived with blankets and coverings ...presumably from that very bed).

A cross section of our local area 7 club members (ReHab) made up the remaining number along with the lone Solent Sevener, Trevor, in the fireblade 7... who was to lead the group on the ensuing main blat route... and most of us right off the map!

A swift spin down to Alresford, a pretty town woken in the crisp morning to 15 Caterham 7's as they manoeuvred in the main square for the RV with the Newbury group, who arrived at exactly the same time... all tightly planned of course by Jon Croft of military mind.

All too soon,Trev of the 'blade selected a sequential heap of gears and fled as the head of the blat, promising to show us selected routes in 'his' territory... 3 cars at the back were missing within 3 miles!

Low sun, narrow roads and the blind resolve to pursue anything of familiar 7 shaped outline up ahead, kept the senses sharpened. Only the Indian tracker equivalent of bent grass stalks that are the tell tale signs of a recently hooning 7 : the 'paused-to-cross dog walker (with strangling spinning dog on lead)' or 'stopped and looking behind cyclist' give any indication that this could be the right direction.

Quick check behind, Wolfie's there then !!

Junctions appear and are guessed at as a glimpse of something low and familiar just slips from sightline up ahead. There's three up ahead and 5 behind ... that'll be three missing: the lead pack of hounds. A cross roads, the three in front raise hands of surrender, I dive past and break right (it's got to be south here, further behind Trev's lines so he can really up the pace!), it was, we open the taps and climb the straight passed Loomies.

Our two wheel motorbike cousins, basking in a seal colony of leathers on the shoreline of the car park, turn from their sweet teas at the familiar yowl of Trev's full Honda Fireblade rev range, but find no source for their reference: something pink with four wheels and only 3o inches high is not a match they'll make today.

We know what hybrid we're dealing with , which is why we can't follow him and keep the man behind in sight, which is the normal 'Blatiquette' you understand. This is one Pied Piper that isn't going to have many rats to lead to the watery end.

More to follow- here's some pics in the meantime.

Newbury 7 patrol heading through our territory Sunday 27th 08.45 hours!

Sunrise Squadron standby RS 12 hours.

Intelligence reports that a neighbouring county's 7 patrol is planning to pass through our airspace.

Escort operations are required to:

1) Secure the territory in case of insurgent activity.

2) Add noisily to the fly through.

3) Ensure that breakfast is plentiful.

Met check and orders issued Saturday 20.00 hrs

... so, to summarise: anyone fancy a LazybellylateBlat to the beach on Sunday?

Overdue postings....

Bad form... there's loads to catch up on, but the weather's not been bad enough to force me to be indoors doing the blog updates!

The shortening daylight window will mean time to get up to date I guess, but I'm two sets of 'A' frame bushes further into the blat season, so plenty to commit to these pages.I need a blog whaller.

Gratuitous flame shot:

Blog comments to come include:

• The London Tunnel Run: An exercise in losing 50 cars in 5 mins
• Introducing the Nav-Can: Bending tin meaningfully.
• Blat 'n' car show: A Sunriser for two and a car show for 300.
• Stelvio Bob: A long solo recon trip.
• A North loop Blat: The welcome return of two missing men.
• Rob W's RAFstagBlat: A cul de sac of 7's gathers for the send off.
• Rob W marries: his girlfriend.
• Brighton NightBlat 2: The full moon has Ian out for meat at midnight...as wildlife gathered.
• Goodwood Revival: Flt Sgt CBB and I dress up and join the parade.

Jeeez... that's some home work!

(This is a few days later, so i'll make a start on the list above) -

25th July, Midnight.

The Tunnel Run.

'There's this thing they do, where everyone meets up really late at night , they all get together and drive off through loads of tunnels, there's ferraris and lambos and TVRs and stuff, it's all a secret and organised by Pistin Hedz, don't tell anyone, but come along and bring friends and....'

So three of the Sunrise Squadron gave the idea a go, adding 3 x-flows and their own micro climates to the rising temperatures and thickening fumes of central London on a Saturday night did little to relax the soul, but this run was a charity thing so we persisted through Greenwhich and on to the meeting point in the lee of the Dome.

Motor Neurone Disease robs the basics right out of healthy living. This evening was dedicated to Simon, a sufferer, already looking at the loss of the simple pleasures of musicianship and driving.

Donations were given for stickers and route maps, mementos presented and passenger seats made welcome for Simon in the top trump card section of the exotica turned out for the tribute. So, with good charitable intent we prepared for a spate of outright howling hooliganism around the streets of London!!

As seen in a Countach side window!

With pre-programmed Tom Toms apiece, using the 'TYRE' files sent out in advance, we loaded the diminutive 7's into the breach with 'high number' Ferraris, Lambos, A Tiger striped S2000 with an Osama Bin Laden wax work passenger ( :-0), that fast Datsun , a Sagaris etc etc...and we were fired into the teaming streets of the City and West End like a video game scene from Fast and Furrybus or something modern!

Tunnel names that you only hear on travel reports flashed by at the same rate as the speed camera salvoes. Multi cylinder flat plane cranked howls were doing their charitable most for the occasion as the sprints from 'traffic light -to roundabout exit -to sharp left' offered full rev range opportunity to excel... mostly in first gear!

We kept station for all of 15mins. Those visible in front thinned at one complex junction, as did those behind. The tell tale howls echoed unsighted about the city and with one more set of lights and a right turn later, our three 7's were on their own. Another blink and change in direction, and then there were two... and breathe.

Help!

To be continued....

The Black Mountains (Blatting for Jacko!)

A flock of 7's compete with the woolly ones on their own turf - former holiday seaside splendour - a sense of directionlessness and camping it right up proper.

640 miles, 70 x 7s, sunshine and sheep...and it all started from a pub near the horse running place in Chepstow. The start was at 10 am and the initial damp weather and similar enthusiasm was left on the other side of the Bristol channel along with the sat nav signal which fled back down the ozone drain. At the same time the road signs turned to consonants and the tarmac turned into roads again. Smooth roads, remarkable, and the 7 feels like a real piece of driving kit again. Love it.

The briefing by the blatmeister ,Dave Jackson of Welshland, had us directed to follow in groups of ten , despatched in 10 minute intervals: it's simple, follow the guy in front!

You can guess....within 20 mins the 10 were 6 and then 3.

We boiled a brew and wondered as to our fate as lost and tender Englishmen in a mining community, where presumably they do singing and stuff. I think the sign might have said 'miming' community as nothing happened, if it did, it was silently and we weren't looking.

The route through the Black mountains that the Evo team use for testing was nearby and part of the planned route, the 7's sensed their way back on track and the first of the day's legendary sprints had us scrabbling to avoid sheep whilst opening the taps in the sunshine wreathed in smiles. These were mainly at CBB doing the 'I'll go left, as the sheep went left, as he went right, as the woollen chicane went right, as Bob went'... you get the idea, the directional changes of both were rapid and meaningful.The sheep lost the staring competition and stepped aside to let the 'Ball by.

And on we went across mid Wales where we did our best to loose each other completely at one point, I was eventually to meet up with CBB at the Elan Valley visitor centre, having come at it in opposite directions.With roads this good I think 'driving' was more the order of the day than navigating, looking in the mirror or generally giving a monkey's about anything else!

How very selfish, but that seems to be a little bit of what this is all about, this driving thing, which is worrying. Rob was already in Aberystwyth having taken a different Elan Valley!

In the end we did all make it to the rendezvous, on the seafront, in the sunshine, at Aberystwyth. Discussions and dissection of who went where and why were had, and then the pastie and chips from the hut were discussed and dissected with similar incredulity.

Slowly the 70 7's left the seafront in groups, pairs and singles, the Victorian terraces reflecting the noise of seagulls, four cylinder barks and the questions about kit cars from holiday makers.

And then, we too were on our way in a 3 car formation to the campsite which lay somewhere a long way back through the mountains and over the other side...what, more of them there roads?

Well get me back in the seat then for a whole portion more! Such is the addiction , further heightened by more sunshine, a sense of direction this time, and the lure of not being in another one of those seaside towns in the UK, where holidays aren't going to be made and the Pleasure Palace has long since pleasured and lies pale and peeling in flacid hope.

Various halts were necessary to capture the images en-route ... check out the click link at the end of this entry for the full eyebag of pics. Without the deadline of the pastie and chips rendezvous , we'd drive a bit then go back for pictures, then drive it again. Insatiable and self gratifying, but it's 'fill ya' boots time' as it's a long way back to do the same again.

Don't let it stop!

The family run campsite owners welcomed us into their grassy embrace like returning pilots from a hard fought sortie.What they actually were, was kind. They listened to our over stimulated tales from the roads that they travel daily....to collect milk, and then offered us a pitch a good way from others, how welcoming they all seemed.

Sporting the smirk of self appointed heroes and with the slow arrhythmic drum roll of X-flow idle chunter, we passed our firmly staked out fellow residents on to our assigned field station site. Children emerged from their tadpole hunt and wondered as to the funny men struggling with big tents and small cars.Their parents doing their best with explanations avoiding Freudian theories and late development accusations.

Morning: Sun, early mist and the snores from hydro carboned sinuses still rattling on behind thin wet nylon.

But eventually things are wiped, folded and packed into small places and the previous evenings discussions with a local, at the local, has given us an objective to fulfil the Sunday morning religious experience that we have come to expect at home: the breakfast blat. Just 'cos an airman is a long way from home does not mean he should forgo the civilities he has grown to expect, even in these foreign lands.

The cafe was identified and the route was planned for a 'medium' blat rating.

Daffyd in the cafe, wasn't able to accommodate the coach load that I hinted at when enquiring for a table, referencing our appetites, but he had room for three of us at any one of the tables that were all free.The flies didn't eat much and refused to sit down, we ate loads and ignored the bare wired electrics and wheezing of the leaky hot water maker, that was Daffyd's unseen keeper, behind the curtain. Still unseen, she wished us well on our journey.

Opposite: a closed 50's service station ,complete with rusting petrol pumps, wooden service counter and, still hanging, a framed, signed picture of the Rootes brothers wishing all in the garage their very best for the future.Does it still count now that it's a charity shop with broken windows?

No more the Hum of the Singer or the tune of the Humber

And still there was more blat to come.With the breakfast pooling heavily the next leg was back to the campsite to collect the rest of our drying tent materials and then to point eastwards and back home.

There were a good many miles to enjoy cross country back through 'Avan'ta'vowel', 'Isitwyrthyt' and the like, before attempting to pick up the top of the Wye Valley road at Monmouth and the river route back down to Chepstow from where the long circuit had begun only yesterday!

Although, just out of Monmouth where it goes from a 30 - 60 limit , who do we find lurking in a hedge with a big ice cream van and a camera??

Like moths we honed in on the big clear NSL sign with the taps nicely open, straight into the gaze of the glorious technicolour panaflex lens, our performance destined for the full critique and consequent damnation ... nice. Just not fair somehow, and the lunch stop at the old railway station lost it's charm as we cursed the bursting of our bubble!

The ensuing pace was less eager as a result, but somewhat agressive. Challenges to our road postions and line astern formation on the motorway back in England were met with formation overtakes and synchronised head shakes.

The A4 renewed a certain amount of enthusiasm that only the Witshire rolling chalk downland can drag from hardened and tired 'Elan Valley' veterans! Final stop for the journey, and we're back at Nelson's for afternoon tea.

'So where were you when Jacko died?' they'll ask in years to come... I'll say: 'Wales, so it couldn't have been me'...'which Jacko do you mean anyway?'

(Post Script: The speed camera didn't have any film in it)

A whole load'a pics.

Never return to a lost hat!

Running on vapour, an old Sunriser returns and is out for a duck, 2 up in the bends, 'what's that brown stuff and no NIPs today...

Alarm! Scramble! Sun! 5.15 BST

All of which is a surprise having listened to the rain on the windows a few hours before and fully expecting not to have to take the RS 15 to operational status... it's tough having fun.

Right, roll call : Ian H? Present.

Paul C ? Present after 3 years or so, excellent, welcome back: famous for cold brakes and racing pads and frightening whoever's in front with grip scrabbling noises.Briefed to warm the brakes before using them today.

Rob W? Call up papers not acknowledged.Tut tut.(Since reminded us that he was in Italy blatting around Lake Como in a Fiat...so a reasonable excuse given the choice! )

Andy Coastal Command? Sent apologies, coil problems persist, parts are on order.

Cannonball Bob? Usually early at the appropriate RV ...and not present!

The call came in 'Mayday, Mayday, had to ditch... think it's a fuel thing... not enough of it!' 'Send a refueller and help me to clear the humble pie engulfing the 7 !'

Fuel gauges are never an indication of the fuel status in a 7.

Way over left on the passenger side they bounce, flicker and lie their way into the least popular position of all the instruments in the class. The end of blat reports are just never likely to see them performing with the integrity and energy of the oil pressure gauge or, the head of class : the Rev counter.

Only once does the 'I've done my homework: it's all here' over-bluff from the fuel gauge go on to reveal the empty satchel that brings the rest of the class average to a slow coasting stop and detention!

Long before have experienced blatters called on other pupils to support the class in this area, like the steady maths pupil that is 'Trip'. When it turns to 160 your attention is drawn to fuel reserves, and at 180, it's really time to attend.

So, here's Bob, of sound and logical mind, having run out of gas :-)

The Blat was not to be thwarted by mere pilot error ... we were away.

Paul C's straight cut bag of gears helps to keep tabs on his cosy proximity behind, some times closer than comfortable. Hindhead and Haslemere were dispatched as a warm up exercise ready for real engagement of the old A3 from Liphook south (now mostly deserted having been demoted to a 'B' road).

In and out of tree cover, through nicely changing elevation combined with lead swapping on the short dual carriageway stretches quickly had a man down... a lost hat. Paul C dashed back for the faithful brown beanie, whilst we sat playing the chuntering idle music to the well heeled sleeping neighbourhood.

'SHRT': Standard Hat Recovery Time came and passed.

The hat had made a dash for freedom or perhaps was scooped up by a passing tramp or hungry tarmac sniffing intake scoop. Check nose cones. All clear.

The morse signal came in.... H.A.T. M.I.A. N.O. D.R.I.V.E. A.F.T.E.R. M.A.S.S.I.V.E D.O.N.U.T.

R.E.Q.U.E.S.T. A.S.S.I.S.T.A.N.C.E. S.T.O.P.

Man down.

Warm tyres, grabby tarmac,the loud pedal and an Ital axle: do-not a happy do-nut make.

We found the drive-less 7 in a cinder layby, going nowhere. A nice spot to leave a car, no one around.It'll be fine, no one will find it. (See note 6)

So Paul , keen to have his promised breakfast, jumped in as observer with me and we picked up where we left off. Good man. Blatting for the greater good.

Petworth bends with two up was an exercise in energy management and a reminder that 7's are based around 'the less the better' when it comes to people. The 272 on to Wisborough Green stretched the Blatgland and warmed the soul further... something else had been warmed and loosened 'cos there was brown stuff coming out of the louvres at the front end of the bonnet.

Paul was invited to unbuckle and make his way forward to identify the leak source.He said no.

The breakfast in Guildford beckoned and we pressed on with brown vigour.

Mmmm...nice.

I had some brown vigour on my eggs. Paul ate by himself as he contemplated a lost 7 somewhere in Liss forest:

Outcomes and learnings:

1) Fill up with petrol.

2) Are hats worth returning to? Even ones that you have had since they were lambs?

3) Brown stuff happens when the expansion tank cap is left loose.

4) Remember where the 7 is parked , it saves a lot of time driving around with the trailer trying to find it again.

5) Drive shaft key-ways break off in woods in Hampshire.

6) Keep driving up and down the same road thinking your broken 7 has been stolen until you drive down the right road and find it!

7) Ian H didn't get arrested today.

From chilly sauce to maple syrup...X-flow cuisine.

A night run for kebabs, handling lunch and breakfast in America ...

Another weekend with a good forecast, we must have done something right and already the BlatMile count so far has easily exceeded the whole of last year. This is good.

Friday 7pm

Solent 7's have their monthly meet on a Friday evening and the last one that the Sunrise Sevens attended spawned the eminent Brighton run to the Market Tavern, so, rude not to put in an appearance really. The chosen pub, being Winchester way, offered a choice of 7 roads that would have CBB and I chasing pheasants and rabbits off the tarmac whilst in search of somewhere from the 17th century, that we would discover to be serving drinks in the same time frame, but at prices from the 22nd century.

£3.72 for a lime and lemonade?

I'll buy a bottle of Scotch and be done with it sir!

We were first on the bouncy castle tho'.

A fine evening in the country, but the shadows lengthened and faded and girls reached for cardies. Not having reached for the menu early enough to be served inside the predicted one and a half hours, and, unable to find an unoccupied cardie (sp?) to chew, I now needed a BlatSnack.

The mental route map ran through the options: Brighton really equated as too far east from where we were to head for The Tavern, cop out really, but the rest of the weekend was looking good to blat, so we put that in the 'next time' folder.

Loomies had a late night opening on a Friday : we had a look, but not that late apparently. CBB's petrol bomb progress singed the way clear back to Alton and Odiham, and by reversing the tried and tested route, lent a different aspect to that forgotten bend and missing dip or two.

This led us to the modern day roadside coaching in : The kebab van.

Glorious in its welcoming bath of neon light and flickering telly, (how do they manage to receive live turkish boxing on a coat hangar aerial?), it's popularity measured by the exploded contents of the wind blown bin.

I am not convinced that the kebab van equivalent of the McD litter patrol doesn't actually fill this bin before they start the evening and then spread more of their produce liberally about the road and pavement as an enticement to the passing motorist, drunk, policeman and... er... 7evener into thinking 'oooh, must be good, look how many people have eaten there'.

The funny cars looked more than usually so amongst the moth like arrivals of Saxo modded boygirls and out-of-body-clock-synched wedding guests in BMW's that all came, fed and were gone in the time that my chicken shish was born, lived briefly and was scattered on the pavement in customary approval.

The two stroke yamaha backed conversation in stilted boxing from behind the counter, suggested that our cars had engines that were 'a bit small innit'. The chilly size/strength ratio example I gave to illustrate the theory was lost amongst a brilliant piece of between flickers boxmanship and, with a new arrival of lexus light clusters, we moved on, scattering wrappers in appreciation amongst the fallen remnants of my simile!

Next,another 10 miles and then the flip side of nightstops, the Wild Bean Cafe (It's a BP garage isn't it, sussed that early on). Latte's and doughnuts under more bright neon ... we've been here before, and so have the lexus-lens kids and wedding guests et al. But, needs must, every blat sortie requires a de-brief and sustenance and this stop has petrol too, of which Bob likes to make full use.

A further loop south back up to the Hog's Back, not a food reference this time, a well named road, will conclude part 4 of the evening's blat. Bob and Miss England salute their departure with a ball of flame (blue then yellow) and make off back to Alton and Basingstoke...they like their petrol used in a blat of 5 parts.

Saturday: 10.30 am.

A lie in! Didn't sleep well ... the kebab and coffee that are essential Nighblat ingredients don't make for an easy shut down of all systems just 'cos it's time to sleep then. Good job that the Sunrise blat is planned for tomorrow. Truth being that the 7 Club Handling Day at Dunsfold is today and we'd planned a run down to have a look...20 mins away hardly constitutes an early departure and most of the other Sunrisers are either on half term, having girlfriends or 'off air', so any sense of my lack of commitment to the Sunrise cause this morning goes unoticed.

The sun shone.

Right, breakfast time, and a blat to Dunsfold...what do you eat after a short and defensive struggle through the grid lock of Guildford that soon turns any driving ambition to thoughts of bacon and egg rolls instead?

A bacon and egg roll then.

And dispensed from another van...mmm. CBB assures me that his friend in the Health and Safety Squadron would take his chances from the mobile caterer over a budget restaurant anyday.

So, a bacon and egg roll is bought from a ten year old with burns.

Caterham 7's were put through their paces as bacon and burgers were fitted in faces.

The sun shone on some more.

Tea was next on the ingested catering list, Rob W joined us and we watched instead of 'doing' for once... and the sun shone a bucket load more.

To interrupt the BlatSnack thread , a mention must be made of the RS Caterham Levante in attendance at this handling day. £100k's worth of cereal packet shaped carbon fibre with a siamesed motor bike engine, making a mini V8, and throwing out 500 broken horse powers!

There mentioned it.

How big is it? How Much is it?

And man did the sun shine ... and so did I. Jeremy Clarkson and Co have clearly not put the coins in the ozone layer meter over Top Gear Land where we stood. The water bowser being used for the skid pan was looking like the only way of extinguishing the kilojoules absorbed by my nose and forehead. Clown like, I sought sanctuary in some shade by discussing alloy wheel refurbishment with a driving instructor in a Ford Focus :-/

The RS Levante continued tearing more seconds off the 0-60 test event, and more holes in Jeremy's ozone account , and there in we were reminded of the outcome for not being in banking (or even wanting to use them) , our cars being perhaps a tenth of the value of this thing .Yeah, but is he happy?

Compare the Cosworth powered CSR 260 ... a short reign as king of Caterham Hill with that of the Levante.

(If you're quick these vids will run in tandem to give a bit of a race thing!)

Time to go, I need an ambulance for my face.

Sunday 05.15 BST

Sunrise Squadron Scramble!!

Back on it, the face flames have been dowsed and the previous evening's tirade of clown abuse has left no lasting damage. Any DNA changes from the intake of radiation are not obvious in the simple requirements of left, right and 'go' at this stage. Maybe that comes a generation or two later, won't harm this morning's Sunrise Blat then, green light go!

The clear sky and cool air at this time of the day cleans the tubes, but it hasn't helped Andy (of Coastal Command) to get his kite to fly this morning. Somewhere in Worthing a X-flow cranks on it's battery to all the neighbours, for about 20 mins. The vinegar stroke that a good squirt from the coil would have concluded, was not to be. Andy retires from the mission and a wingman goes without. We've cleared his locker and stopped his priviledges.

Ian H, fresh back from holiday and with the sound of NIP's rustling in his licence, slots straight into formation. We RV with 'CBB and Miss England' (they are one and the same) in the Cow Car Park in Hook (where today some free range Aberdeen's stood and wondered as to X-flows and their comparably steamy breath and fluid losses).

Today the mission objective is to convert the previously blogged NatBlat route into a fully operational alternative to the Southern based routes. 80 miles north to Pangbourne, Didcot and back south to Basingstoke and home. Just as well Andy (CoCom) missed this one,to join us he'd have been way up on the carbon footprint profile thing and that. Somewhere a cormorant remains clean and thanks a silent X-flow in Worthing... just visible, under a webbed foot, the handle of the wire snippers.

The best bit of this route comes after 40 mins of light exercise through country lanes and small villages (see NatBlat entry), speed cameras and new found fondness of our permits-to-blat keep the pace even. Tom of the Tom has us repeating a triangular road section a few times as one of the satellites, that makes him do his thing, falls through Clarkson's ozone hole or something.

CBB and Miss E stop for some fuel right at the nub of the good bit, they like fuel those two.

He advises that the quality of top shelf literature is particularly rich and plentiful at this BlatStop. Which reminded me, where are we going to get the day's BlatSnack? (The blog thread re-aligns smartly back on topic.)

7.20 BST and all is good.

And so to the long awaited 'downs section'. Do you remember the cartoon road analogy?

Meep meep !

12 miles of coitus un-interruptus!

Yup, grab the adjective book and include all the balancing, finger tip, apex cutting, foot dancing, tyre grabbing stuff you can and spread it on the next 12 miles promised by T of T to the next roundabout... and it'd not even come close.

This is top shelf, plain wrapper, trouser bursting BlatPorn.

Sullied by our exuberence and self abuse, we stave off the inevitable post coital depression with the weekend's final BlatSnack at the 'hope it's open' American Diner thing.We're 'twixt Newbury and Basingstoke and, as we park, the blinds open and the door unlocks. 8 am .

Our two wheel half brothers are standing their machines on pegs and are already looking for strong sweet tea, presumably after having ridden the crest of a continuous accident all morning, as is there wont.

Waffles, maple syrup and eggs to the sound of 'doo wop' surrounded by 1950's ephemera add an unusual culture shift and time travel conclusion to the main part of the weekend. Or does it?

Consider: The car that is our star in this blog was first set free as the Lotus 7 in 1957. This 50's roadside diner, in it's optimistic deco revival make up and period enthusiasm, represents the wave of response to the post war austerity years that helped give possibility to the man on the street for a better and brighter future. It's a dead cert that, across the country, a brace of Series 1 7's will have stopped for breakfast and coffee at similar roadside stops on a Sunday summer morning,in the same way, 52 years ago ... and every year since.

So here's an image that says something about car design, enthusiasm, hope, simple pleasures and BlatSnacks :

...and still the sun shone :-)

'Nip and tuck' : Three days of 7.

Good, it's Friday, it's not rained and the met check is showing yellow things and bright symbols. 

Bodes well for the end of a week at work and thoughts turn to more important numbers, well, just one : 7

So, reports sent, the VPN umbilical to corporate puppetry is severed and the lid is slammed on that energy drain, at least until the world does a couple of revs and I spin up a few thousand revs more, courtesy of Messrs Colin Chapman and Henry Ford.

Clear evening out there too, 9pm, I'm not out downing some 'sociables' and the current Miss Carrots is out endurance karting with clients (?! Where's my wild card ticket for that ?!).

Mmm...Wonder if any of the Sunrise 7 crew are up for a NightBlat. I know one who'll not even need asking.

RS 15 and normal RV? Red light on, green light on: go! The weekend begins.

And so the two man X-flow formation fired it's way south , the usual roads and a few made up bits delivered us through the Sussex evening to Brighton sea front some 80 scalp twitching miles later. Notwithstanding a brief altercation with what we think was an eco-mentalist at the traffic lights, who was stared down by Bob of the B's best Taliban melting glare, we landed at the Market Tavern for a burger and tea.  BST 23.30.

... and so to the main event, the NightBlat (v) home! 00.30 and the roads should be clearer by now, the route down having suffered the constipation of Friday night drivers.Who's out on the roads at 10 at night on a Friday? 

Really tho', who? 

Friday, after a week at work, you want to be where you're going by then surely? And if you're coming back from somewhere you've clearly had a bad evening, or come down with something, to be on the road at 10. Even if you've been to the cinema it would have had to start at 6 so as to be finished and get you to the middle of Sussex for this hour in your : Metro, Yaris , Micra etc... in which case you must go and make some friends. So, the stage is set for the run home. Cool, crisp and eighty miles to go ... like other things, it's the anticipation that's half the joy.

Up over the downs via the cartoon switchback towards Hurstpierpoint, the sharp left bend before the open stretch to Henfield and the sudden '30', which extinguishes the frantic action of a few hundred yards earlier.

Typical sleeping Sussex 'no-where land' village that never actually wakes up. 

A no-name supermarket in perspex green signage , lit but rarely open. 

Some other shops, that once sold stuff, that won't do in the morning or the next. 

A fox standing in the road is the principal town dweller tonight... and probably tomorrow.

30 it is though, in case we wake the dead.

A mini roundabout with the new paved 'halo' thing around it, I'll use the paving and halve the circumference, but thanks for the choice. The modern 'build by numbers' estate, that is the now statutory issue appending every small village, reflects blankly in the sodium vapour lamp haze... national limit, the black diagonal: escape.

And here we find it, the 30 minute un-interrupted flow of choreographed moves reponding to the changing score that the road finally, after all it's promises, allows you to play. It's a lead solo with no audience, it doesn't include any one else, it can't do: me time, now time, in time. 

A flash of overrun flame, white and yellow, lights the hedgerows, pops and bangs accompany the display of indulgence and, ahead, the reflected light of occasional eyes slink back into the anonymity of night.

The flare of narrow 7-spaced headlights a few bends back and the drive is duplicated with the same zeal. Two separate performances, seeking mastery in execution, to an audience of self, continues on across this county that really does have some perfect '7' roads in the clear of night. 

BST 1.30

B of the B peels away to make the best of the rest of his way home... I turn north and the reality of over familiar roads checks the anticipation of less well known territory behind enemy lines. The NightBlat begins it's natural energy wind down. Lean off the mixture , pull down the hat, come back down the revs. 

A parked police car in a layby near North Chapel, steamed up wndows, chips, perhaps... or new found love on the beat?

BST 02.00 Engine off, nice warm tyres , cold ears and hot smells in the garage.(Bit like in that police car.)

Alarm set for 8am... more to come,but, for now, the BlatGland rests. 

Saturday: History on Wheels Museum, Eton Wick.

Up and out to re-establish formation with the Ball and a (Lite)blat to Eton where, somewhere behind a row of houses, is a peculiarly interesting collection of cars and memorabilia from the 2nd world war period. Organised by the Reading and Hampshire 7's (ReHab),  the guided tour for 30 offered up, in detail, the rivet's arse story of  every exhibit in the converted riding school.The horses had long since turned to glue in a voluntary act of selflessness, we wished a similar escape as the sun shone outside and the moths ate more of the manikin's serge battle dress faster than the anecdote was ever going to conclude!

Gruber's little tank from Allo' Allo' lives here now: one of the highlights, along with a bicycle from 1912 with a two speed shaft drive,front and rear suspension and wooden lightweight rims.Now that was a piece of work.... as was the tested patience as Glenn Miller, on loop, did the thing over and over and over.No drip tray in sight was deep enough to self harm into.

An escape party was organised as I had plans for Thursday.

A LiteBlat home.Traffic and blood sugar levels preclude engaging the enemy at anything above decent manners... that 'between shift' clunk is becoming more noticeable. A  sloppy power-on oversteer drift around a roundabout confirmed the 'A' frame bush wear. 

So, the rest of the afternoon plan: trim the hedge, replace bushes and prepare the 7 to RS15 for a Sunrise Blat 'cos the forecast is good and everyman must do his duty!

Sunday BST 05.15 

Scramble! All clear above and behind? All out!   

Excellent, tucked up in bed one minute, out on a Sunrise Blat the next. The instant jolt into action when there's an empty road ahead and a clear empty sky above is not hard... roll call 0615 normal RV ... deja vu? To right too.

We're three up and a Westie joins us to make four at the RV this morning, Anton brings another X-flow to the squadron that still only features one of the 'k' series variants. However, Ian does offer a stable de-dion camera platform and the 'six speed light fly wheel gear change wrist action' of a floor trader...so the modern engine error is forgiven. 

Wonder if there's a correlation between engine type and a 'use' pattern... there's many more K's out there than X-flows. So why the pre-dominance of the much simpler and heavier Ford powered cars in this small group seeking the best of driving opportunities for their cars?

We complete the 5 craft formation with CB Bob at Lasham who had a lie in this morning. This was duly noted in the records by Andy from Coastal Command (Worthing) who again was on the road by 5.15 to report for 6.15! 

The sun is up, the roads (reasonably) clear, little could be wrong with the world as the Lasham bends and the road to Alton blend the cocktail that tarmac, 7's and sunshine makes.

Flicking through the long early summer shadows in cool temperatures soon dispatches the ribbon of road that is our winding way to Goodwood race track,our venue for breakfast at the Aero club.Breakfast has become our outward objective in driving somewhere for these early excursions and, as time has progressed, we are beginning to form a collection of eateries that suit the 'breakfast hunter' . Night blats have orientated around a snack stop it seems too... the Sunrise Seven BlatGrub Guide will clearly need to be published soon!

And arrival at Goodwood reminded us that this venue's eatery doesn't open until 9am on a Sunday... Core blatting time is defined as viable anytime up until 8.30am, that is the tipping point before car booters, cyclists and horse people coagulate the roadstream to an extent where you might as well be on a bike, towing a horse box heading for a boot sale.This is when breakfast really does become a good alternative to succumbing to that level of road use. And anyway, we've been up since 5.30 and it's 8 o'clock, so time for blatgrub.

Some snaps taken to prove we'd been there... (like a reconnaissance mission or something? No, just 'cos they always look good at Goodwood.)

Sunday 8am

Delia's Diner for breakfast then, Hayling Island, red on, green on,GO! The groan of disappointed stomachs is drowned by the majority roar of weber breath and something that's particular to K series induction sound, that isn't a roar really. Either way, the infield tunnel at Goodwood plays the sound back just nicely!

A big plate of the essentials with the steaming mug as a support act were the stars of Delia's stage. The wookie on a rope guarded the front door and the bearded dungaree clad family maintained their seat in the stalls as per previous visits , but the food led the audience in chorus.

Second cups of coffee were ordered upon the arrival of an SV R300, who was drawn to the stage by the 'breakfast of 7's' decorating the pavement outside. And then there were six 7's.

It was then that recon spotted what appeared to be another of the bearded dungarees on chauffeur duties. CBB identified him as clearly to be Santa doing his summer temp job in the next best thing to a sleigh!

It's still only 9.00 and the free pass is good for a few more hours and, so, the lure of the road has us reversing the previous Hayling Blat route back across the downs to the A32 and the glorious run up the Meon valley. 

Lesson one: outside core blat-time : avoid all known biker's routes.

Lesson two: don't follow bikes to show them how good the 7 is. Especially when they're showing you how fast their bike can go... in a 30 limit! 

Lesson three: Try to limit the clutch of NIPs to one or two every few years. Not two in one morning!

The argument and debate runs wild on this matter, the tactics used by current enforcement is effective, but somehow below the belt. Up a hill out of the village with the national speed limit post in sight invites the resumption of pace... out of sight behind a side turning hedgerow lurks a motorcycle and tripod. Pointing up hill and away from the village he's reeling off  tickets like rides at the fair.With barely time to 're-load' between snaps it's like shooting at paratroopers,but without the rules of engagement of the Geneva convention.

Subsequently, we have a man down who received two separate direct hits in the morning, a later one from an ice cream van completed the pair, and reduced capabilities in meeting future mission objectives will mean he is assigned light duties.Unlucky.We've cleared the things from his locker and his family have been informed.

We learnt of even more non-conventional tactics employed by the 'paratoop shooters' from fellow commiserators at Loomies Cafe, where the need for sweet tea had us amongst the 2 wheelers. There are resource funds being spent that cost more than moat cleaning and duck islands it would seem. Soft target? Easy revenue.

Nip and Tucked up.

So, ended the three day run and not on a good note really. 

Highs and lows and all that, but a sharp reminder that there is a limit to everything we're involved with... which is a shame, the  sense of freedom and opportunity for self expression is harder to find these days and remains one of the key ingredients of the Sunrise Sevens and our simple pleasures.We remain 'Questio Liberum Via' in all senses. 

Check the met for yellow things and bright symbols. RS60.

(In memory of the loss of one man's exuberance and loyalty to his wingman until the end.May the rest of us continue to be lucky b**tards.)

Hayling Blat.

Saturday : Web page shows good meteo conditions for the early morning Sunday : T - 17hours and counting..

Objective: Breakfast by the sea.

Usual RV.

Call up messages sent to Sunrise Squadron Conspirators, 0630 briefing.

0530 alarm call...Jeeez! 

At that time of the morning it takes a while to work out whether it's grey or just early and dark.

It takes the same amount of time to work out whether the grey is just how you feel... until you realise that the moon is crisp and sharp in outline and one of the squadron would already be on the road to maintain his reputation as the earliest of sunrisers. Any possible thought of a 'no show' would be just plain rude by the rest of us and the previous evening's messages of signing in for the job is a gentleman's word and that.

Coffee and a banana suffice before the semi's in suburbia echo to the start up alarm call of a X-flow stuffing the cold air through the webbers. (Some would consider that a good way to be brought into the day, I suspect the numbers are few.)

I'm still amazed at how many people are up and about at this time of the morning. Cyclists wobble as you pass, the roads usually their's alone at this time? Horses in their boxes try to turn their heads to catch a look at you chuntering at the lights waiting for green : are they coming back from a night ride? Do horses get tired if they're up this early, did it have a banana and coffee?

Up, onto the Hog's Back (once the most dangerous road in Europe), but today just a straight road to Farnham and high enough to give a good view and to catch the sun coming up in the rearview... and a Fiesta doing 80. There's a long blat to come, she can have this one, hope her friend can hear what she's saying at the other end of the phone line.

RV: and the flight today is 3 X-flows and a Superlight lookie like. It's a 'Stealth 7', carbon that's gone nicely matt (low radar signature), polished ally and with such a quiet 'K' engine we can use him to scout for wildlife. Or he can take up the rear so we don't run into the coolant slipstream when the head gasket goes!! 

Destination Hayling then, there's a good breakfast to be had and the cafe opens in an hour! It helps to have an objective and a time constraint, so the route was briefed in order to allow us to push the envelope a bit so as to not be later than when we get there.

Surrey was despatched fairly promptly, as was any semblance of a cruise to the coast. Hampshire gave us the long shadows and long corners of the Lasham curves and then the compass swung south along the classic Meon Valley in an unbroken song of on-cam energy through well sighted and rolling countryside. 25 mins in and the temperatures are rising both on board and out there, tyres are better now and each of us has found the groove. 

The semi hypnotic state of concentration in doing this driving thing has got to be good for you...nothing else is going on other than 'right now', there's no tomorrow or yesterday , just the turn in , power on, change up and the cool clean air of that moment. Unless you're in the Stealth 7, at the back behind 3 X-flows, then it's not such clean air! (Sorry Ian) 

A panda car passes the other way, apparently he waved by the time the third 7 skimmed by.

The trance momentarily broken to review the speedo.

In full flight we pass a few bikers coming the otherway , always a good indication of a decent road ahead, occasionally they wave ... probably in shared sympathy of being up so early.

 

But the next reverie is broken by the familiar front outline of low nose, high lights and exposed wheels of a Caterham coming north, this soon turns into a chain of  low noses, high lights and exposed wheels of at least a dozen 7's ! A flurry of main beam, horn and hand waving ensues... probably in shared sympathy of being up so early.

This opposite travelling blat was later to be identified as the Solent 7's doing their thing and making money for charity at the same time! 

And so to breakfast , Delia's Cafe: he's a bloke, but his food is tasty and safe.Hayling offers little other than seascape and sustenance before a new route home. We found a spot to get the 7's on the beach, not the most natural of environments for them, but a photo opportunity non the less with art direction by Bob Speilbergcombe.

                                          

Short of a 'dead end sat nav moment', the return blat established some great roads for permanent record and inclusion in the pre-breakfast part of future blats. 

Any time beyond 8 am sees the cyclist and eyeing horse numbers reach a level that has the formation split and off cam, and a certain wind down and 'head for the lines' objective creeps into the conscience. Slowly there is a yesterday and a tomorrow, the grass needs cutting and someone needs to go to Sainsbury's... but there's another 30 miles still to go, and blatting, when shared, is not entirely selfish surely?

The Blatgland is happy, but do horses eat bananas?

NatBlat: ( Doing the National Trust thang and blagging a blat at the same time!)

A sun barren set of meteo outlooks for the south east promised a weekend where the 7 would not be taking advantage of it's RS15 status (vehicle ready in 15 minutes, car should be pre-blat checked fully fuelled and ready to launch.)

Normal Easter bank holiday then.

Until Monday that is. A glimmer of clearing sky and the covers came off the mood and the car. The so far uneaten weekend snacks and deli specials were packed, wrapped and basketed.The credit crunch thermos joined the kit for it's Easter outing and the Tom Tom itinerary (North Loop) was pre-loaded for the carefully disguised recce patrol north of base via the National Trust's Georgian manor Basildon House near Pangbourne-on-Thames.Hence: NatBlat.

Half doors, tonneau and wind deflectors have to come off for the true NatBlat configuration of full doors, floor mats, umbrella and half hood: sun's out, the current Miss Carrots duly installed in the observer's station and all is set.

In the cruise, and at sub 4k revs, Chapman's 7 and the Ford 4 pot do their best to settle in to the lazy torqued pace of the Easter bank holiday Monday. Cool air keeps the webbers fed, but the rubber cold and hard. The shocks need clicking to soft on these bloody roads too. Did we lose the basket in that last trench? I think I've lost a tooth.My spleen feels bruised... are we following the 'nav? What's it doing now? (Don't try to pick up a Tom Tom Tyre itinerary half way along ... it really insists you do the whole thing and will drive you back until you jolly well do!)

'Route would be good if there wasn't any traffic on it' says the usual driving head, but we're in cruise mode... and the webbers sip frugally onward.

Oooo, nice bend that, wonder if you could drift it, smooth tarmac and a little bit banked... but we're in cruise mode.

'Tom of the itinerary' steers us around Reading , which is good , I see a sign for Aldermaston : that'll be nuclear stuff and that, cool, nice village.... it's a NatBlat, keep it cruiser styleee.

Wonder if we get pork pies.

Pangbourne.

A glimpse of the river... it's the Limpopo! I'm informed that the Thames is a more likely candidate.No hippos then?

Even the chance of 4k revs would be nice right now.

Basildon House, turn left, hope it's got a long drive.No luck, short and gravelly, but the paint faced children in the MPV's like the 'red car daddy'. Wonder if the lesbians in the face painting tent will make me up like the front of the red car daddy?

Lunch-on-the-grass-next-the-Seven (A small Cotswold village or a place to scoff pork pie? The latter.) And the sun shone,cars always look good on grass.

Basildon House was full of ice cream attached to children, or the floor. Bet it wasn't when Keira Knightley filmed stuff in posh dresses here. An unsilenced Tom Tom continues to navigate us around the Georgian splendour in muffled bag tones.

And so to the rest of the North Loop: and with Tom Tom freely bellowing pent up commands, we join the 'cartoon' road section across the downs. The type of roads that ribbon-curve, dip and climb into the distance. Briefly, only Wiley Coyote with his ACME speed camera in the small linear villages will see the webbers tuned back an octave before I'm thus reminded that we're still on a NatBlat...damn.

Didcot power station off to the right... it's not doing the steam thing where it makes it's own weather, and it's a lot smaller as you get closer to it...bit like the 7 , and that pork pie.

Nice road, over-run : pop, bang, nice.....shhhhh.

100 miles through Surrey,Berkshire and Hants. A mix of roads and changing scenery that'll add to the portfolio of choices for the Sunrise Seven Blat collection... the jury is out as to whether it'll be up there with the greats.That is until it's tested , in context, at blat pace, with clear roads, objective and focus.

NatBlat? Well it's cultural and sociable, but the 7 is a tool in the box for one job, and one application, and they have nothing to do with the aforementioned interactions!

Wonder how I'll get the paint off my face before work tomorrow.