# 76 & 89 boy toys

Looking at the title, I probably got you pretty excited - boy toys.  Now gentlemen, get Eva Mendes and Kiera Knightley out of your dirty mind; we’re talking about fast toys.  Well, I guess for most of you, this would probably also be descriptive for any sort of interaction with these two ladies – well, back on track.  Literally, as both of the points I have ticked-off the list were performed on a race track, see how smooth this transition was? Bad pun, I know, but you are smiling and that’s all I want. Now smile!

Point 76 of the list states “drive a V8, big block” whereas, point 89 states “race a friend on a race track or at least drive a race car on a track”.  Eventually, I could have ticked both of these points off at the same time.  In a very time un-efficient way, I didn’t! 

Both could eventually be ticked off at once if you have a friend available who puts his hand up to race me.  Yes, I deliberately said HIS hand.  This doesn’t mean I don’t have female friends; I just wouldn’t want to race a woman.  Most women probably wouldn’t be competition on a race track.  Don’t get me wrong, women are very capable of high class performances in a car… I actually meant in a race car.  Back on track: none of my female friends wanted to race me in a V8, anyway.  Well, neither did one of my male friends.  Scared to get your ass kicked gentlemen?  NO!  I think most of them just had a lot of laundry to iron last Sunday afternoon.  Bottom line, I couldn’t tick both points off at the same time.  Therefore, I did both: I raced a friend at Go-Kart and then raced a V8 against men’s hardest and most cruel enemy – the clock. 

No 89: Race a friend on a race track

My mate DJ S. had the great idea to go go-kart racing.  So we, that means DJ S., his girlfriend K., and his two friends C. and T. from Scandinavialand who were just visiting DJ S. in Australia went to go Kingston go-kart race course to burn some tires. 

As most of you know, I have a big mouth.  Having driven a go kart once in my live before, yet it only took about as long as it took to finish the ice-cream from the gas station until the trash talk started.  DJ S. being a race car enthusiast has been go karting for about 100 times before, needless to say that he picked up the trash talk in a second and firing back at me.  So, when we finally got to the go kart track, the deal was that who ever wins the race has bragging rights until the next race (which basically means you can insult the other person as being a wussy driver for the rest of your live – or until the next race, which ever comes first…).  The other three pretty much stayed out of the childish trash talk, so it was up to the two of us to lose our face in front of each other.  That pretty much meant that you could either win or lose, not even a chance to come second end pass the shame on to the third or fourth… damn, that wasn’t good news.

The frame was set.  We had two times ten minutes with a break where we switched karts and started over in the reverse order of from where we finished the first ten minutes.  At the beginning of the first session DJ S who was leading needed to protect his spot against his girlfriend and I was able to make use of their competition and passed both of them at the same time.  What a great feeling.  So now that I was leading, there was no way someone can overtake me – at least that’s what I thought until two laps later DJ S. was basically flying past me, taking the lead and putting quite some distance between us.  Damn it – he was going to call me wussy driver forever!  He won the first heat easily, I came second, his girlfriend third and C. and T. – I actually don’t know how they did it, but they were ranked fourth and fifth.  If I would have an influence on the computer they would not have been allowed on the scoreboard, that’s how slow they were.

We started the second heat in a reverse order of how we finished, that means C. or T. first and second (not sure who was even slower than the other in the first heat), K. third, I fourth and DJ S. fifth. K, me and DJ S easily passed the other two in the third corner but then it took me a while until I managed to get passed K who was defending her spot really well – as DJ S was about to experience being stuck behind K. for three laps.  By the time he passed her, I already had put quite a bit of space between us trying to go past C. a second time (I didn’t as he discovered his inner Kimi Reikkonen and finally found the gas pedal).  Long story short, I won the second heat. 

The interpretation of the results left us a bit unclear of how to see the outcome of the day.  Was it a 1:1 and no one had bragging right?  Or did DJ S have bragging rights after the first heat and I have them after the second heat (which would be a pretty sweet deal for me, as this would mean I would still have them). Or should we use another measure such as who drove the fasted lap – as this would be a more objective measure of the ability to drive fast around a race course?  Yes, that sounds like a plan, especially as it was me who drove the fastest lap.  What’s up race wussy!

No 76: Drive a V8, big block

I have no idea what kind of block the Holden V8 that I was just entering had, but I didn’t think it really mattered.  15 minutes earlier we had a short briefing of how to approach the curves on the race track and where to accelerate and where to break.  Seemed like they put a lot more emphasis on the breaking part than the accelerating part, not sure why as they had tire paddings around the race course.  I guess that guy who surpassed all these paddings and smashed a V8 into a wall about three weeks earlier made them very conscious.  But let me back up a bit.  It was a great sunny Sunday and I drove to the Queensland Race Track in Ipswich (close to Brisbane) eating some of the cake I baked 4 days earlier (yes, my first self-made cake – I probably should have use more sugar as my mum suggested, but it was still good or at least it was my first self-made cake).  When I arrived at the race track, I was given the choice of buying a video for just 49$ extra.  Not quite a deal but considering that I already paid 299$ for 8 laps on the track, at least I wanted some proof other than my memory – which I don’t trust too much.  So sure I paid for the video.  After I signed a whole bunch of waivers – which probably would have allowed them to use me as one of the colons on the track or basically anything they wanted to – I was briefed, given a race suit, a helmet, had a picture taken in front of one of the race cars and was asked what kind of car I wanted to drive. 

Well, I guess my naïve answer of “I want a fast car” wasn’t really what they expected.  Apparently, I needed to choose between a Ford and a Holden.  “Well, I guess I will take the one that is better” didn’t really make it a lot easier for them either and people not knowing if they preferred a Ford or a Holden was something new to the race track staff.  Apparently, there is no such thing as “I don’t care” if you have the choice between the two.  You are either Real Madrid or FC Barcelona fan, Coke or Pepsi drinker, hard core Catholic or Muslim, or in this case Ford or Holden driver.  “I don’t care” is like being a Catholic Coke employee praying in a Mosque before attending a Real Madrid game, drinking Pepsi and wearing a FC Barcelona jersey.  So I guess I was this guy saying I didn’t care.  Shaking their heads they made me wait in between the two holy waiting lines clearly indicating ‘Holden’ and ‘Fort’ and just going with the next available car.  In football I would have been called a mercenary, not 100% sure if I want to know what I would have been called in religious terms.  In race car terms, I was something along the lines of Fordolden Judas.  A Holden car was the first to get back to the pit lane, decision made: I got rid of the Fordholden Judas aura and became a loyal Holden fan – until next time a Ford is the better or easier choice…

The driver’s seat was quite snug and the guy putting on my seatbelt as if I was about to get rocket-launched didn’t necessarily make me feel more comfortable, but then I guess it makes sense for the rare occasions when you were daydreaming in the briefing and didn’t really listen to the “you have to break hard for this curve”.  On the passenger seat, there was John who was my co-pilot.  His task was to help me find the perfect line to be as fast as possible.  Sounds good in theory, but is not so great in practice when the dude continually yells at you via radio that you need to slow down and break harder and earlier.  I guess he wasn’t aware that I had race-car bragging rights and basically was a younger and better looking version of the great Michael Schumacher.  How could he not???  The race track was slightly disappointing as it was only half of the track and the straight was therefore only half as long, making it impossible to go really fast - the fastest I managed to get out of the V8 was 185km/h.  Having driven way faster on the German Autobahn, the top speed itself was a bit disappointing.  However, going around the track was still a great experience as I could push down the pedal as hard as I could and, given the current gas prices, that doesn’t happen in my daily driving.  Furthermore, taking some of these corners full speed was a great experience and I can’t wait until the next time I will be driving on the German Autobahn to show off my race skills. The video below also indicates that every good race driver has some tongue action going on while racing.  Just in case you were wondering why you never excelled - the secret is in the tongue...

# 47

# 47 Provoke a fight and punch the fucker in the face:

I’m a lover, not a fighter.  But here is the story how this almost got me in a fight in Auckland and how I talked myself out of it.

The whole story started in a bus that I took from Paihia to Auckland.  After 3 days in Northland (as the name would suggest, yes, you are right: the northern part of New Zealand) I took the bus back to Auckland to explore this city and to ‘make really nice party’ as the German in me would frame it.  If you know a little bit about me, or have been in a car with me before (where I wasn’t the driver), you know it: I get sea sick, motion sick, or Seekrank, name it how ever you want to name it; it sucks!  I get sick when I can’t see the road and I get even sicker when I attempt to read.  Therefore, I can sleep, listen to music, be bored out of my mind or chat.  Right, so I chatted with that Canadian girl sitting in the next row.  What other option did I have?  Canadian girl was actually quite good looking, easy going and she had been in Auckland for over one month and knew her way around, making her a perfect wingman for the weekend.  Even better; I hadn’t even booked accommodation for the night and she recommended a place.  So I decided to book into the same hostel as the Canadian girl. 

‘Making really nice party’ is easier when you are in a group of cool people.  Canadian girl knew a lot of other backpackers who had been staying in Auckland for a long time (at least in backpacker terms it was a long time); and it was one of these guys’ birthday, so we decided to all go out together on the Friday night.  So we met up in the common area of the hostel for a couple of drinks to start of the night.

Before I go on, let me give you a quick overview on the group:  There was Canadian girl: as described earlier.  Birthday boy: He turned 21 that evening, was from England, had his jeans tucked into his red socks and was wearing a XXL t-shirt that was way too big for a 1.70m skinny guy.  Next, English guy 1 and English guy 2:  English guy 1 was about 20 years old, 1.75m tall, skinny, shaved head and typical English teeth (at least the few that were still remaining).  Stereotype 1: English have bad teeth, tick.  English guy 2 was a lot more respectable.  He didn’t really fit in the group as he seemed to be a nice guy with at least half a brain (compared to the rest).  Furthermore, there were two Scottish guys, an Irish guy, four girls from France (average to poor looking) and English girl 1(way too good looking for being the girlfriend of English guy 1, but still average) and English girl 2 (pretty hot).  All she could speak about was how much she missed her boyfriend whom she hadn’t seen for the last three weeks (as if I wanted to know).  And of course there was I (always mention the most important person last).  Hem, maybe I should have paid more attention to the part ‘cool’ when I said ‘making really nice party is easier when you are in a group of cool people.  Too late…

 

After a couple of drinks the whole group were kicked out of the common area because it was after 10pm and that means quiet time for hostels – and we were pretty loud.  So instead of heading out to the bars, birthday boy and the others decided to keep partying in one of the hostel rooms.  Best idea ever after being kicked out of the common area for being too loud – right, maybe not.  Anyway, the whole group went to birthday boy’s dorm room, where we woke up Dieter, a German guy.  Half an hour later, we were also kicked out of this room after the group managed to keep the whole hostel awake (luckily, I was staying in another hostel than these guys).  What the hell was wrong with Canadian girl to hang out with these guys???  Anyway, we started our journey to the bars, already down by English girl 2.  Remember the hot one who couldn’t stop talking how much she missed her boyfriend?  Right, apparently she missed him so much that she took comfort in shagging up Dieter.  Mental note:  “Girl that tells you how much she misses her boyfriend is really missing SEX.”

For the next part, you need a little bit background information, so stay with me even if you don’t like football (yes, I mean soccer, it’s called football, goddamn it). There is a massive rivalry between Germany and England, not only on the football pitch.  The rivalry probably dates back to the Second World War and dominates English-German football games.  For example, English football ‘fans’ sing “Two world wars and one world cup”, or “Ten German Bombers” when England play against Germany.  During the 2010 FIFA World Cup, some friends and I watched the Germany-England game (where Germany won 4:1) in an Irish pub in Australia, where about 90% of pub attendees were English.  After England scored the equaliser which was not given by the referee, one England fan got a good grip around his glass and smashed it on the table.  Not the smartest move ever, as he massively cut his hand, my buddy Chris still has some English blood on his German jersey from that night (click here for the picture).  Maybe someone should have told him that glass can be sharp when broken, duh.  To me personally, this win against England was worth more than winning the World Cup (maybe not).  Bottom line: there is a massive rivalry and when challenged by English, you shall not back down.

After a couple of drinks at a very nice, way too posh for our backpacker gang, lounge bar at the waterfront in Auckland’s harbour, we moved to a more appropriate place - an Irish pub.  We invaded the dance floor and everyone seemed to have a good time dancing. Until suddenly, English guy 1 (the one without teeth), pushed me on the chest and told me “You don’t dance with this girl, she is my girlfriend” Admittedly, I danced with his girlfriend, and I probably danced a slight notch better than him (which wasn’t hard at all), as she seemed to have a good time.  She was a slightly better dancer than her boyfriend, but still miles away from being even an average dancer.  On a scale from 1 – 10, where 10 indicates being an awesome dancer, she would probably rate a 4, her toothless boyfriend maybe a minus 3 (on a good day).  Stereotype 2: English can’t dance, tick.  But back to the German-English rivalry.  I didn’t care for the girl; after all, she was average looking, a mediocre dancer and a backpacker.  If you don’t know what this means, here is my number one tip: Usage instructions: Place in shower before intercourse.  Anyway, back to the story. The smartest thing would have been to swallow my pride, apologise and enjoy the rest of the night.  That obviously didn’t happen…

As I mentioned before, I am a lover not a fighter, but:  There was no way I could let a young, skinny English guy push me, although, I was sure he had been in more bar fights than he had teeth left.  So I told him “to get his dirty hands off me, and that I could dance with whomever I wanted to; and I could totally understand that his girlfriend wanted to dance with me rather than him.’  That didn’t really calm him down.  I wondered why. Mental note: Don’t use this line again if you don’t want to fight as this seemed a very bad way of talking yourself out of a fight. His reaction was to tell me I was a F#*%ing wanker and he gave me another push on the chest and told me that he was going to punch me.  Hem, I needed to change my strategy.  My next awesome idea was to try a logical argument.  I told him that we are all mature and his girlfriend can choose who she wants to dance with and that I was sure he would find another lovely lady for the night if she didn’t fancy him after dancing with me.  Maybe that wasn’t really a logical argument, but it was strategy 2.  Let me tell you, that didn’t go down that well.  He was getting more and more pissed while his mates were getting closer – either to support him or to break it up.  I wasn’t sure, but certainly didn’t want to test it.  Damn, I needed an even better strategy, this English man just didn’t want to let it go (ok, my strategies might have influenced it in a certain way).  My next strategy was probably the last option before the mature “swallow-your-pride-and-apologise-strategy” would have been needed.

For those of you who know me well and who have been in contact with me when I moved to Australia, you will remember my first housemate; the alcoholic butcher.  For everyone else, to cut a long story short: When I moved to Australia I needed to find a place quickly and moved in with a butcher who had a bit of an alcohol problem.  Three years before, he fought Muay Thai cage fights and accidentally killed the other fighter, no big deal.  Anyway, he told me that whenever he would get in a fight in Surfers (apparently that happened sometimes) he would have to warn the other person three times before he could hit him because he was considered a weapon by law (I wonder why…). 

So here is how living with an alcoholic butcher finally paid off – back to our English tooth fairy.  I grabbed his mate (nice English guy 2) by the arm, pulled him towards me and told him “Dude, I legally have to warn your mate three times before I hit him. I am fighting Muay Thai cage fights and I am considered a weapon by law. So tell him I just warned him three times - you are my witness.  If he touches me one more time, I am going to fu%# him up.”  First thought after I said this: ‘brilliant idea’.  Second thought: ‘shit, what if he doesn’t believe me?’ Luckily, or I should rather say, because I was so convincing, English guy 2 got so scared that all he could do was nod at me and then immediately step between angry English guy 1 and me.  All I could see was him whispering in the ear of angry Englishman and convincing him not to try if I was bullshitting or not.  I must have been very convincing as he really backed up. 

At this moment, the bouncers also arrived.  Now imagine, a Maori bouncer about 195m tall and about 150kg heavy getting in the argument between an English and a German who together weigh less than the one Maori bouncer.  Even if my bullshit would not have worked, the fight would have been over before it would have started.  Anyway, the bouncer got in the argument and asked what our problem was.  Since it is always better to befriend the bouncer than being the idiot getting kicked out, I told him that we had an argument about a lady but that everything was fine.  Big Maori bouncer looked at me, the English guy and the lady and told me with a wink in his eye pointing with his thumb at his chest “The only guy who gets a girl in this bar, is the good looking bouncer right here”.  That was pretty well played and there was no argument after this statement, so we all went back to the bar for another round of beer.  Which by the way, nice Englishman 2 bought.  I know, I didn’t really get in a fight and I certainly didn’t punch the fucker in the face, but hey I was as close as you can get to almost having a fight.  I told you twice already: I’m a lover, not a fighter.

Do not attempt at home.

# 103

103 - Go white-water rafting on a level 5 river. Sounds like fun, but what the hell is a level 5 river? So I googled it. Wikipedia’s definition said "Extremely long, obstructed, or very violent rapids which expose a paddler to added risk. Drops may contain large, unavoidable waves and holes or steep, congested chutes with complex, demanding routes. Rapids may continue for long distances between pools, demanding a high level of fitness. What eddies exist may be small, turbulent, or difficult to reach. At the high end of the scale, several of these factors may be combined. Scouting is recommended but may be difficult. Swims are dangerous, and rescue is often difficult even for expert. Very difficult rapids; the extreme for commercial operations (Wikipedia, 2011). Right on, I guess this was not a walk in the park. But hey, I am young (at least semi-young), fit (at least semi-fit) and good looking (massively), so what should go wrong?
Road-tripping through New Zealand, Kristine (a good friend who I studied with in the USA) and I decided to white-water raft the Kaituna River in Rotorua.  It just got better when we were told that we would raft the highest commercially rafted waterfalls in the world. In fact, the Okere Falls drop about 7 meters free fall.
We found ourselves in the raft with two English men and the two Kiwi guides. Turned out that one of them just got his licence and it was only the second time that he fully guided this part of the river. Nothing to worry though, remember? Young, fit and good looking?

For the first part of the tour we were floating around smaller rapids and through some amazing forest. Just beautiful. Then you could hear it. The Okere Falls. Brreemmm (I know this might sound like a truck, but give it another try and say it out loud “BRREEMMM”, right, now it sounds like a waterfall). Anyway, the guides told us to move to the middle of the raft and just duck down when we go down the falls. And I think they mentioned something about “when the raft flips, try to stay alive and we will go from there” or something in this area. So when we approached the falls, we slid in the middle of the raft and ducked down and went down the brreemmm-beast. Suddenly something hit me, hell, what was that? My nose massively hurt but I had not idea what it was. It didn’t feel like we were upside-down, hit by a rock or anything like that. In fact, the raft didn’t flip and everyone was cheering. Still my nose hurt and I couldn’t figure out what happened. So much about young, fit and … you already know it. Anyway, we mastered the breemmm-beast, the highest commercially rafted waterfall in the world on a level 5 river which, let me just quote here had “very difficult rapids; the extreme for commercial operations”. Watching the pictures and videos later on it turned out why my nose hurt and what hit me. Remember our young Kiwi newbie guide? Right, he did not slide in the middle and duck down so his helmet hit me right in the face. Sucker! Therefore I request a Kiwi obedience school. Which is also the word of the day. Click here to check out the pictures.

# 88

# 1 - Create a homepage to document the list: 
Alright, here you go, it only took me about six months to create this little blog homepage, so if I continue working-off the list in this pace, I will have to wait about 14 years and six month until I can turn 30.  This might be a problem, because at the moment I would only be 15 years and six month at the moment.  AKA: My face would be full of pimples and sex would last about 3.2 seconds (on a good day...). So hereby, I promise an increasement in pace.

Word of the day: Increasement.