Do They Have The Accent Or Do We?

. Brands Hatch and London...............

Pit entrance going towards turn 1

Buildings along the front straight

Ducati boys preparing for scooter race

Sweaty journos in smoky press room

Hospitality tents for riders and guests

Get used to this tire manufacturer

Steve and his gal in the rain

DJ & Julian (pr) shake on some shady deal

Cornerworkers seeking Mad Cow grub

Brands Hatch
I never used the word "lovely" until I went to England, where everybody seems to use it. Here in the states, if you use that word you're either being facetious or you're gay (whether you know it yet or not). Being secure in my masculinity as I am, I'd like to use that word to describe Brands Hatch: It's a lovely track. I have no idea what it's like to ride, but the track itself and the surrounding geography is...lovely.

There was no compelling reason for Ducati to have me attend Brands Hatch but for one: It is one of the biggest race events there is (the Brits are legendary in their rabidity for racing), and it's been so long since I've screwed up anything badly on the Ducati racing pages, my reward for loyal services rendered over the past couple of years was a trip to see this great event, to take in the environment, and to experience air horn abuse first hand.

Our first work day was Thursday. The press room already had a good number of inhabitants so we staked out a couple of seats and got the phone line situation taken care of. Not only were we there for the SBK race, but we still had to take care of the MotoGP news and any news from the AMA Mid-Ohio race. Throughout the weekend there were bits and pieces of news rolling in, all requiring prepping before publishing in the racing section.

Many of the faces in the press room were familiar. I had seen quite of few of them just a couple of weeks before at Laguna Seca and before that in Imola late last year. The photographers, in particular, are an obvious fixture as they run in and out of the room with their truly monstrous lenses in tow ("Is that an optical enhancement tool or are you just happy to see me?"). It's clear in their camaraderie that they're a family. Couldn't tell you who the alpha male would be in the lot of them, as the press room is 99% male and none seem to be shy.

The days of work were long and the challenge sometimes was finding food. There was a burger stand in the building, but four days of the Mad Cow special didn't rock our world so we'd either go to Clinica Mobile or Ducati Hospitality. In our first visit to the Clinica Mobile hospitality tent, we found the lunch table full. There was one empty spot that DJ, my boss, told me to take, but I looked at the chair with horror. Sitting next to that empty chair was a woman who had read me the riot act on the starting grid at Laguna. As reported by a third party who witnessed this, when it was time to leave the grid she was yelling at me to get off. I never heard her so she thought I was ignoring her the whole time. When she eventually caught my attention she was so livid that she proceeded to scream at me about pulling my pass and making sure I'd never be out there again. To this peculiar explosion (from my point of view) I simply said, "Yes, thank you" and walked away. Anyway, there we were stuck next to each other. Ironically, when we ate at Ducati Hospitality the next day, she was also there, eating. It actually became rather humorous that I couldn't get away from the woman with bad juju.

The best incident of the weekend was when we were walking by Steve Martin (the racer, not the comedian). My boss says, "Hey Steve, how are you doing?" and they exchange pleasantries. I just hang back. I'd met him before but figured he wouldn't remember me. Then he walks over to me, extends his hand and says, "Hello Ducati girl." I figure he's just referring to me as a female Ducati employee due to my company shirt so I tell him, "Hi, I'm Zina." He says, "Yeah, I'm just calling you by your web name. You know, my girlfriend doesn't like me to look at your site." I laughed at this and told him not to worry as I was truly harmless. Never mind the fact that he's Aussie and I'm pressing my breasts against another Aussie on the site � evidence that I'd whore myself out to any man with an accent from down under. I later caught a shot of Steve walking with his girlfriend in the rain. He had his arms around her waist as they huddled under the umbrella and he seemed quite the gentleman. To Steve's girlfriend: Let him read this site. I promise that any nudity directed towards Australians will not target your polite and spoken-for man. Well, until you leave him. I wouldn't mind globe-trotting with a racer for a season. Chris probably wouldn't mind if I could get him a job changing oil or peeling stickers off the fairings for the team.

The weather was a departure from scalding Brands Hatch events of the past. It was a mixed bag of sun, clouds, drizzle, and apocalyptic downpours. There were several wet practice sessions which must've been problematic for what turned out to be a dry race. That is, problematic for all but Shane Byrnes who did the double. I didn't have to ride in the rain so I enjoyed the colorful climatic departure from the usual San Diego fare.

I was hoping to walk around the entire circuit while I was there but I never got the chance. By the time I had a window of opportunity early Sunday morning, the place was so crowded that it was impossible to walk a straight line. I'd be half way into my walk and it would be nightfall if I tried. So, in the end, I saw half of the circuit. The rest of the time was filled with a laptop screen full of text, photos, and HTML.

Race day was the day. Wall to wall fans who descended upon the local Asda (that's Walmart in England) and cleared out the air horn supply. Without looking at the monitors, I knew every time the leaders were entering the front straight as the fans would stomp on the horns. There's no way to describe it except annoying to the point of endearing. To get so many people to ruin their hearing in the same united fashion is group thought at its best.

After the race was over and after our internet work was done, we schlepped our tired asses over to Ducati Hospitality for our final meal. It was quiet there; the proverbial party was over and things were wrapping up. Neil and Ruben were eating, as were their mechanics, but the myriad of guests who had filled the tent during the day were somewhere well down the road in their right-sided-steering vehicles. DJ sat down at Neil's table and I joined them. DJ introduces us and Neil says, "Oh yeah, we've met before." Well, I can tell you with complete certainty we had never met before. What Neil has burned into his memory is that there's this woman in a Ducati shirt who always seem to be silently lurking around. Not only is she a woman working in a man's world (clarification: who isn't 34D, in spandex, and hoisting a brolly) but she's an Asian woman who looks like she should be Izutsu's or Kagayama's missus. However Neil's recollection processes worked, he was courteous to me and seemed like a nice enough guy. His wife Kathryn was about eight months along and ready to burst; she was incredibly upbeat for a woman carrying a wide load. Ruben was at another table with a beautiful woman; not a shock here. If I could use the line, "Hi, I'm a World Superbike racer" my days of dating dogs would be over too.

So these are the more interesting impressions from Brands. What will I remember about the place? It's simply lovely.

I'd look sullen too if I sold radios to drunks

Sunday morning warm up

Fans lined the track everywhere

Right outfit, wrong girl; guys don't care

Industrial maidens docked and at rest

Marky B in subway beneath the circuit

�berfox Suzy Perry in a catsuit

Fans fill the infield for the race...

...and leave wrapper-sized memories

^{....................................................................}

I'd be dead without these markings

War protesters outside House of Parliament

I know wrong-way when I see it

All trains lead to Clueless Touristville

The street I lived on during my stay

No surcharge for the boiled beef smell

Museum with impressive ceiling

London Eye and aquarium

Internet cafes feature sticky keyboards

Skyline that popped up in the 80s

Walking tour in Greenwich, where East meets West

London
The Monday after the race weekend, DJ dropped me off at Stansted airport. It was along his route and it was just easiest to get into central London since they had direct train service. Although I lived in San Francisco and Los Angeles for years, you'd think I'd have some understanding of mass transit but I don't. Except for a brief stint in college where I took two specific buses to get to school, I always drove everywhere. California is Car Country. So I go to the train station and stare at the signs with the most overwhelmingly clueless sensation deep in my belly. I had no idea what to do. I knew I needed to get to the Goodge Street Tube station in London...but how?

Naively, I was hoping to find something that said Goodge Street somewhere. At first I tried using the automated machine. No luck; the machine, with its many onscreen options, would not lead me there. I finally gave up and looked over at a long line of people waiting to buy tickets. There's probably a reason why they weren't using the machines: Confusion.

I got in line with the rest of the foreigners. When I got up to the ticket window, I held my map up to the window and pointed to Goodge Street. "I have to get here," I told the lady. Thank god I at least spoke the language. She sold me a ticket and I walked over to the platform. At that point, I realized I still didn't know what train to get on as the ticket didn't say and the signs weren't really clear. Before I had any time to research, a train pulled up and I said "What the hell"...I hopped on, hoping for the best.

I rode the train to its destination, Liverpool, and got off. Then a repeat of the first station: profound cluelessness. Everyone said that the mass transit in London would be easy to use. They probably meant easy for people who had traveled with someone who knew the system and was shown the ropes before being cut loose. So as to not prattle on about this, I will summarize my Tube trip to my hotel by saying I did get on the wrong trains and I did want to cry.

I found my cheap hotel (�46/night) in the Bloomsbury district and settled in. It was a very small room but at least it was a roachless place with a bath. Unfortunately, I had underbooked by one night (can't even reserve a room properly!) and the last night I'd be moved to a room with no bath � as one who doesn't like to get dressed at 11:00 pm just to go urinate, I wasn't looking forward to this. The one drawback to my cheap room: It was right above the kitchen and the room constantly smelled of boiled beef. I left the window open day and night even though there was a chill in the air. Better cold and subjected to traffic noise than to be permanently scarred by the odor of hyper-hydrated dead flesh.

After I unpacked, I pulled out my map and walked to Leicester Square, where I had planned to meet Brad, a former co-worker. Turned out he was going to be in London at the same time and since he had lived in the UK during a military stint years back, he knew his way around. Instead of "discovering" London on my own (i.e., being lost on my own), I welcomed the idea of following someone around.

I've heard about the service industry in the UK not quite matching up to that in the US. Here's an anecdote to support that argument: Every day Brad and I met at the same Starbucks. Every day I ordered a coffee there. The first two days I had to wait five minutes because it wasn't brewed. The third day they actually handed it to me when I ordered it. The fourth day the regular coffee machine was broken and only the espresso machine worked. My god, ALL THEY HAVE TO DO IS MAKE COFFEE and they failed three out of four times. And the best part was that there were like eight employees behind the counter fueling the mayhem.

By the way, they don't do half-and-half in the UK. You're asked if you want it black or white (with milk). Having been to Italy where coffee is high art and metered out like anti-venom serum, I've learned to travel nowhere without my Coffeemate packets, the culinary accessory for philistines. I'd get my espresso, add water, and dump the Coffeemate in. I'm pretty sure were I caught I would've been dragged into the back alley and clubbed with stale foccacia bread until I apologized to someone.

With regards to the food, despite the UK's bad rep on cuisine, I liked everything I ate. Then again, I genuinely enjoy airline food so I cannot be a true judge in what is good or bad. Having had a couple of desperate bouts with food poisoning, anything that doesn't make me spew out any holes within a few hours later is good and perfectly suitable for consumption without complaint.

Over the course of four days, Brad and I visited a half dozen museums, attended two theater shows, checked out a smoky underground bar, took a boat ride on the Thames, and stared at Buckingham Palace. The city was living history. But what was I struck by the most? Any bike that went by. They all made me miss Pogo. What I learned was that taking in the sites of a foreign country is nice, but the truest holiday is on a bike. A historic city like London was at my disposal and what I really wanted was to hop on some rat bike and squeal around the streets. It was the same with Italy � it's a fabulous place, but it would just be so much more compelling on a motorcycle. In the end, I learned a very important lesson: I wasn't meant to pursue travel for travel's sake. I was meant to enjoy the world via the Discovery Channel and then get on my bike and go for a ride. If that motorcycle happens to be situated in a foreign country, great. I won't pass it up unless it's Sierra Leone, Angola, Iraq or anywhere in which the home team wouldn't hesitate to lop off my head with a rusty machete.

After four days of seeing a whole lot of London, I packed up my stuff Thursday night and was up early Friday morning. The trip presented one last obstacle: the Tube ride to Heathrow. All I had to do was make one transfer. I bought my single-use ticket and got on the southbound Northern line. I got off at the Piccadilly station and headed up the subway. I stuck my ticket into the machine so I could exit and go over to the Piccadilly line, but the ticket disappeared. I stared at the machine struck dumb by what I had done. One of the employees, sensing my distress, came over and asked me what was going on. I told him what I did and he explained, "You should've changed trains down there." So he opened up the machine and fished through a stack of tickets, searching for the one issued at Goodge Street. He found mine, handed it to me, walkie-talkied over to a guy working the Piccadilly gate, and told him to let me through. My mistake was, as the gent pointed out, not transferring down below where you don't have to do anything with the ticket. If you "surface" from the Tube, you have to use the ticket to move between the lines. That's fine if you have an all-day pass, but not fine if you have a single-use pass. A case of ignorant American operator error? Oh no...I'm pretty sure the Tube had been planning to crush my spirit from the moment the plane spit me off 11 days prior.

After many days abroad, I didn't mind the prospect of returning to my routine life in San Diego. There's something to be said for the domestic pleasantries of being in your own bed with your own husband. The check-in process was fairly painless and the flight left on time (British Airways had a walkout right before I arrived and it had left the place in chaos).

There was a heightened alert for terrorist activity on international flights, but alas, I found no opportunity to subdue an al-Qaida operative at 30,000 feet with my ballpoint pen. In fact, the greatest threat to me was an English kid with a clear case of attention deficit disorder (takes one to know one) in my row. Thankfully his father was between us and doing his level best to keep his son from continually standing on his seat and talking loudly about the plane crashing.

The plane was full of Jehovah's Witnesses with GIVE GOD GLORY pinned on their lapels (a convention had just taken place). I alternated between feeling super safe because the big guy was going to look after his flock (which would require me to be included in the umbrella insurance policy), and then thinking what a fabulous case of irony it would be if the plane did blow up with so many of his true believers, as the almighty has displayed quite a twisted sense of humor in the past.

A few random London notes:

� The upside was that there was very little litter. The downside was that it did smell a lot like urine. Or maybe it was just me who smelled like urine? Amazingly, the Tube and its myriad of stairways were devoid of that odor.

� The Tube might've been my nemesis, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate its map for the work of art that it is.

� If you go to the museum of modern art and there's a video of a naked guy who's wearing boxing gloves and punching himself repeatedly � stopping only to smear ketchup on his genitalia � walk away. The "ending" takes forever to get to.

� I don't think this is an English car thing per se, but the auto window control is reverse to the one in my truck. I had used the cigarette lighter to melt the end of a frayed nylon cord. It stunk so I opened the window and stuck the hot lighter out the window to cool it off and remove the smell. With my hand out the window I went to open it a little more. Well, I did the opposite and shut the window on my hand. With a yelp I let go of the lighter and off it went, bouncing down the English freeway. After I rescued my hand, now adorned with a fabulous indentation, my concerned boss said, "That's coming out of your pay."

� I couldn't find a pack of cinammon gum anywhere. They just don't do cinammon.

� American comrades, the passenger side of the car is not the passenger side of the car. You will get into the car and find the steering wheel in front of you and your boss may say to you, "Get out of my side, stupid girl."

� Kylie Minogue's love life made it into the top TV news headline, falling in importance just after the death of Saddam Hussein's sons and the British Airways labor talks. News personality fashion is also a bit more relaxed: solid cleavage and off-the-shoulder wear displayed in the a.m. surprised this American viewer.

I certainly wouldn't mind returning to the UK some day. I just need to make sure my primary form of transportation is a motorcycle and that any Tube travel is only done because I'm really drunk and am weepy with nostalgia for the punishment...