Stupid is as stupid does; or is he?

The mining industry birthed a process called Take 5 many, many years ago when the spotlight was turned on workplace safety. Safety in the work place became a necessary evil because, to put it plainly, too many workers were getting themselves dead! The concept of the Take 5 was wonderful in its simplicity and practicality; before you do something that is potentially dangerous just stop and take five minutes to think about the consequences. If, upon consideration, your task reveals itself to be dangerous don't do it. Make some change in the process to make the task safe.

Unfortunately the Take 5 process is seldom employed in the home and falls short in the hands of someone like me. I stop, think things through, realise there will be deleterious consequences and then go ahead and do things any way. Fortunately for both myself and my family this seldom results in injury, but more often results in a lot of wasted time and/or damage to expensive machinery. 

Let us employ the Take 5 and demonstrate it's shortcomings.

Case Study

On my property I am building myself a little dam (I love water in the landscape; it adds another dimension of life and motion to what is otherwise a static asthetic). My little dam has a dam wall (as they do) and the wall is hard up against the common fence I share with my neighbor. 

My dam wall was a little lumpy in its construction and I wanted to smooth it out by driving back and forth over it in my big, black, shiny 4WD.

Take 5 

The task - flatten and smooth the topside surface of the dam wall.

The desired outcome - a nicely sculptured dam wall that no-one would actually a) see b) care about.

The risk - the car would lose traction on the topside surface and slide down the side slope into the fence.

The likely outcome - my car would be stuck fast, bogged and pressed hard against the fence posts and fence wire.

The consequence - damage to my car, damage to the fence, damage to my relationship with my neighbour of whom I am already scared of, significant lost time on my weekend spent retrieving the car and fixing the fence.

At this point in the Take 5 process one is supposed to weigh up the pros and cons of the task. Essentially this is to determine if the risk is worth the reward. However, for me the reality is this: I could Take 5, 10 or even 15 and I would still come to the same conclusion. The reward is always worth the risk because getting yourself out of the @#$@# is almost always just as much fun as getting yourself in the @#$@#.

Gina Said It So It Must Be True

Whether you want to admit it or not you, like the other 11, 654, 000 employed people in Australia, are not productive at work 7.5 hours per day, 37.5 hours per week. You, like all of us, will plug away diligently for an hour or so, then your mind will drift effortlessly towards your happy place. If you are outside on the tools, your lift/load/dump ratio will slip: if you are inside on the keyboard you will read or write the same sentence over and over again, or have to triple and then quadruple check a calculation you have done a thousand times. In both cases productivity plummets, Australia slips further into the Dark Ages, and Gina Rinehart will berate the lot of us for being lazy.

Remember she said Australians must work harder to compete with Africans who will flog themselves for $2 per day. She has a few quid in the bank, so she must be right. Though I hear on the news she is doing it tough at the moment and is begging Tony for a discount on her mining 'fees and charges'. Now that her net worth is a small fraction of what it was in 2011, I wonder if she will apologise for being so mean to us when she was worth 20 billion?

Whatever the case, I have a solution for the 11, 654, 000 working Australians that will keep Gina off our backs. 

Everybody knows, the second they open their eyes in the morning, that it is going to be 'one of those days'; one of those days where you can't concentrate, focus or produce a product that has any net positive fiscal value once labour is accounted for. My solution is that on any 'one of those days' you simply go and do somebody else's job!!!!

Stay with me here.......

Everybody has romantic and idealistic notions of what they would rather be doing: sort of a workplace grass is greener. Everybody has something they would love to do every now and then, knowing full well they could not do it day in day out as a career. For me it is driving heavy machinery: diggers, loaders and the like.

What if there was a Job Share app for your iPhone into which you simply log on, detail your skills and interests, where you live and give a rough indication of how much time you would otherwise spend day-dreaming at work. The app would process your info and then match you with a work-share buddy.

So when you 'just can't be stuffed' doing your own job, a notification goes to your buddy that you will be fronting up at his/her workplace and pushing him/her off the tools for the day. It is just so simple that I simply cant understand why no-one has though of it before.

Granted, there are some fatal flaws. Here are a few:

1) your full time employer might get a little upset when you are AWOL and, as a consequence, you miss an important deadline;

2) unless there was some type of police clearance or Working With Children procedures, there is a small chance that you may return to your place of work and find your very expensive machinery or (if you are in childcare) your customer's child(ren) missing.

But they are the only two potential issues I can come up with, so I believe I have succeeded, where others have failed, in deriving and developing a quick fix for the Australian economy. 

I know where my happy place is: where is yours?

Rain on the Rock

Uluru explodes out of the vast, flat desert plain of central Australia. It appears as though it is completely disjunct from or alien to the surrounding landscape. It looks as if it was cast off from, or abandoned by some extra-terrestrial mother ship. But its alien appearance belies its origin and affinity with this great land of ours: Australia. Uluru is the beating heart of our country: the Red Centre, the Rock. It has stood steadfast and true, unchanged for millions and millions of years. It is hot, dry and listless and appears to be completely void of life. The truth, however, is that the Rock is more stochastically dynamic than most people can imagine. It can change radically from one day to the next and then not at all for months and months on end.

There are 365 days in a year and rain teases the Rock for on only 30 of those days over which only a miserable 280mm of rain falls upon it. But the Red Centre are not about averages, it is about extremes and it is those extreme climatic events that defibrillate the beating heart of Australia resulting in a short but thunderous pulse of life that radiates out into the surrounding desert.

Every so often as much rain can fall on the Rock in a month as would be expected for a year. Moreover, there have been rain events where almost one half of the annual rainfall has been recorded in a day. But such events are few and far between: generations in fact. To personally experience such an iconic Australian event, to see rain on the Rock, is a privilege that few Australians will ever enjoy.

I could have been one of them; I could have been one of the select few that could put their hand on their heart and say they have seen rain on the Rock. I was less than 25km away when it happened, but I squandered the opportunity. At 22, I was too young and foolish to appreciate the rarity of the occasion. I woke to the rainstorm smashing my tent as the sun rose over the Uluru National Park. I knew what was happening but I was too tired and too lazy to comprehend the enormity of the occasion. I rolled over, pulled my swag up over my head and went back to sleep. When I work again, only one hour later, it was all over. And I have regretted it ever since. 

In the desert, water is life. In my swag, in my tent, on that morning I just let a life event pass me by. Now I bide my time waiting for it to happen again, only this time I will take you with me and you will see the desolate and desperate Red Centre explode into life.

P.S. Just to be clear and decent, these photos were lifted off the web. First one by Fabien Zassadowski. If I'd taken the second one, I would not have needed to write this blog!

A Gentleman's Sport for Maniacs or a Maniac's Sport for Gentlemen

I first discovered Moto Trials when I was just a lad. I remember two things about trials very clearly indeed:

1) It appeared to be the only motorcycle sport where you could compete whilst smoking a cigarette (remember this was back in the 90's); and

2) It was the only motorcycle sport I knew of where riders intentionally rode straight into the face of a completely vertical obstruction. Having raced sidecars [a.k.a coffins] at Barbagallo Raceway, I had learned very quickly that concrete walls were best avoided not aimed for.

My how things have changed. Trials riders are still throwing themselves and their bikes at vertical obstructions, but smoking a cigarette whilst doing so is now very much frowned upon.

Seriously, Moto Trials has evolved beyond reckoning and now it is madder than ever. 2015 will see the first major X Trials Australian Championship staged right here in Perth. If normal Observed Moto Trial is a quiet jog down St Georges Terrace on a misty winters morning, then the X Trials 2015 Australian Championships is 'brain in a bucket' parkour through Hay Street Mall during the Boxing Day Sales. X Trials is not slow and considered like standard Observed Trials, it is extreme, furious and it is in your face - literally. 

Traditional trials has never been a big spectator sport in Australia because the courses are usually set in ridiculous terrain deep in the scrub. This suits the riders who love to ferret their way through the scrub, jumping up and down clutching their privates when they come across a monster obstacle to conquer. But it is not much chop for the spectators. X Trials is different. The course is set to drive the riders to absolute distraction while the spectators can relax in 'arena' comfort.

If you don't know trials you have to check X Trials out. If you do know trials, you have to check X Trials out to see just how twisted this motor sport can be. Enjoy this 15 seconds of insanity and jump onto this page for all the ticket details and all the other info you could possibly need, want or desire http://ausxtrial.com.au/

Moto Dynamics is proud to promote this format in Australia. These guys are the duck's undercarriage when it comes to all things trials and they are damn nice folks too!

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info@motod.com.au

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(Im)mobisation Part 2 - The Burke and Wills Solution

Day 4 commenced with a marked similarity to Day 3 and 2. I was surprised to find that my quad had survived the freight trip from Kununurra to Mount Isa, via Darwin. Though it barely survived its previous employ on another mine site where the environmental officer (you know who you are) ran it nearly dry of engine oil. More fun was to be had with the second quad which we had been warned was drained dry of fluids. In went a new battery, in went 14 litres of petrol, in went a clean air filter and, then, out came 13.5 litres of petrol all over the workshop floor. After much swearing, fist waving and mopping up of 98 ron we determined that the Fitters from the other site had drained the carby and not done up the fuel dump valve. Noice one boyz – love ya work!

On Day 5 we got off to a cracking start heavily burdened by the knowledge we had nearly 700km of black top and gravel to conquer before night fell and the cattle, wallabies and snakes came out onto the highway to play chicken.  

Normally I would not consider 700 km as a ‘big deal’ drive, but we were packing some serious kit; the quads alone weighed near on a tonne and Mr Ed had bought so much tinned food I was convinced he was intent on re-enacting Burke and Wills epic journey across the red centre.

The fun really began about 40 kilometres out of Isa, when the temperature had hit 40 degrees. The fuel contamination alarm started screaming like a banshee. For a pair of field scientists we are both pretty adept at roadside mechanics so we loosened some valves, I burned my arm on the manifold, and we pumped the fuel pump clear of what we thought was water in the fuel line. 

Five kilometres down the road she went off screaming again. So we repeated our remedial action. Five kilometres down the road more of the same. With the incessant heat I had noticed something odd. The diesel that was covering my hand as I let off the valve was evaporating: ping went the light globe. Some clown had filled the Cruisers sub-tank with petrol instead of diesel. With our fingers crossed we switched from the auxiliary tank to the main tank which saw us through to Tirrana.

At the Tirrana Roadhouse I decided that my nice cotton shirt was way too clean and Mr Ed decided he did not need his reading glasses for the next 7 days. As we scrapped around under the truck, on the hot and grotty roadhouse forecourt, trying desperately to drop the sump plug, drain and contain the petrol I caked my back with grease and oil and Mr Ed lost his specs. That made the remaining 150 km exceptionally uncomfortable for me, and exceptionally blurry for Mr Ed. But we were back on the road and there was no way we were stopping to remedy these minor glitches in the matrix.

By the end of the trip the ONLY vehicle that had not given us any grief at all was the kayak I borrowed from Tim at Kingfisher Camp to paddle out to the middle of Goose Swamp. Big and bright yellow, I determined it to be enough of a visual deterrent to keep the crocs at bay while I paddled out into the middle of the swamp.

It was exceptionally hard, hot and demanding work pushing through the lilies and other muck fouling up the water. So you can only imagine my disappointment when I got out to the middle and stood up to find the water just over knee deep. The only vehicle that had not failed us was one that was, in actual fact, completely redundant in the first instance. I ended up dragging it back to shore after I had taken my water samples as that was infinitely easier than paddling.

So, after all of that, I, like you, have deduced that Burke and Wills had it 'down' all along. The next time I cross Australia from corner to corner am leaving my Frequent Flyer card on the kitchen bench and I am taking the camel.  

(Im)mobilisation

When travelling this wide brown land things can happen that are beyond ones control. In such situations one just has to sit back and suck it up. But sometimes when I leave home it seems the whole world is conspiring in a bid to prevent me from getting to where I need to go. My most recent journey was no different. But just how bad was it going to be this time? Well, buckle up and come with me on an epic journey that went nowhere fast.

As an aside, this trip was a classic case of life imitating art. Whilst flying from Perth to Alice Springs, I was actually penning a document outlining all of the mishaps, mis-information and misfits we very regularly have to deal with as consultants with Animal Plant Mineral when we are just trying to do our damnedest to mobilise for a job.

Perth to Alice Springs wasn’t bad, but for reasons that are beyond me alcohol was not free during this flight? It was an interstate Qantas flight, not at all dissimilar to the one I am on right now, where the Cab Sav I am enjoying cost me no more than the air I expelled to ask for it. Alice to Cairns was a bit of a blur. I may have slept. I know I did not drink as I had no cash and was too scared to ask for one just in case the Cabin Crew pointed and made fun of me.

My most favourite client (Mr Ed) picked me up from Cairns airport in a Nissan Micra and I think that very moment set the tone for the whole trip. This car, as the name implies, was so small that, after loading my luggage into it, I couldn’t help but wonder if I should grab a cab and just follow Mr Ed back to the hotel.

On Day 2 we had to drive about 63 km from Cairns to Mareeba, which should have taken about 56 minutes according to Mr GoogleMap. We wound the lacky band right up tight and attempted the ascent from the coastal plains to the tablelands. At the steepest gradient of the Kennedy Highway, through Macalister Range, I could have sworn the road work crews were laying bitumen faster than we were driving along it.

On Day 3 we were scheduled to fly from Cairns to Mount Isa and I was unaware, due to an innate inability to read a flight itinerary, that we had to go via Townsville and right into the path of Cyclone Marcia. Keen to dodge a battering from the cyclone, Qantas decided we would leave a half an hour early. They called to inform us, which was nice, but they obviously failed to inform every single staff member at Cairns airport who, upon our arrival at check-in greeted us with pleasant smiles followed by blank expressions. In the end we left half an hour late so, at least at this point, we were on time.

Much to our surprise and dismay, Qantas had taken it upon themselves to fiddle a little more with our flight and they gave us a nice stopover in Cloncurry which, I am not joking, is only 100 km shy of Mt Isa which is well over a 1000 km from our departure point. You can imagine how impressed we were when we got to see the outside of Cloncurry Airport from the inside of a Airbus A330 as we sat on the tarmac for not a minute less than three quarters of an hour. 

To make matters so very much worse, while we were sessile on the melting black top on a 40 degree ‘end of the wet season’ day, the good Captain politely informed us that one of our auxiliary engines had gone to lunch. Not only could the remaining engines not power the air conditioning, which was gasping like an asthmatic senior with mesothelioma getting mouth to mouth from pack a day smoker with emphysema, but the Captain could only open one cargo door at a time effectively quadrupling the time taken to unload the Cloncurrians baggage. I’m not sure about you but I am far more fond of airplanes where all the engines work, no matter what device they power. As far as I am concerned, one motor not working just means one step closer to a mid-air disaster.

Our holding pattern on the tarmac got all too much for one Mount Isa Matriarch, who looked surly enough to castrate cattle with her bare hands. So desperate was she to suck down some nicotine that she made a beeline for the front exit only to be turned on her heels and sent back to her seat by an equally assertive Cabin Manager. The Mount Isa Matriarchs retaliatory move was to blaze up in the toilet ON THE PLANE! Who does that?? So, like a classroom full of naughty little school children paying penance for the most rotten apple in the bunch, we were all chastised by our good Captain. Busting, I went for a #1 about 5 minutes later and emerged from the thunderbox clutching my eyes and smelling like an wet ash tray.

After all of that it was no real surprise that almost every single passenger broke rank and dis-engaged their seat-belts long before the seatbelt sign went off. Weighing discretion against valour, the Cabin Manager chose to let that little Federal offence slide. Thank god, as I was certain we were either going to get a detention or scab duty around the grounds of Mount Isa airport for our bad behaviour.

That was just Part 1 of the journey.