Stopped at the traffic lights I heard a sound that I will never forget; the desperate screeching of brakes and the drawn out sliding of a large vehicle. The vehicle in question was a 1990's, L300 van. This is a machine that can brake in a few yards when fully laden, or slide on a wet road for miles when empty. I guess it was empty and I know the road was wet, everything else was up to fate. It might well be lighter when empty, but it would still crush my motorbike and myself, if it hit.
The five of us were on our way to play snooker, me being the only bike rider. The others were fairly safely seated in the car in front, the car that was about to become one end of a motorcycle sandwich. The car was a newly washed, grey Nissan. It might be kind of nice to know that if I was going to end up splattered on my brother's car-boot at least it was after it had been washed. Indeed, in our family it might be a rare honour.
It may seem strange that I was occupying my brain with thoughts of vehicular hygiene at a time when facing possible death or injury. The reader may feel this to have been an unproductive use of my limited time, but I can tell you, in retrospect, that time did seem unlimited. It was as if someone had taken a video of my life and was stretching this small portion, until they felt t time to let go. Only my thoughts could move at a normal, perhaps even faster rate. My brain had time to do anything it wished, except move my body.
From birth a large part of our time is spent learning to control our own lives. Eventually it is possible to feel that you have control over almost every facet of your day. When faced with an exception to this rule, it can affect you quite drastically. Even a simple stumble and fall can be adequate to hit one of your inner-most fears, for right at this moment you have lost control. You will not regain control until you hit the ground. I could never again control my life until that van stopped.
Did I mention the time? It must have been around nine in the evening. I can remember the failing light. It was just enough to take a tinge of reality away from my predicament. Even the faces of the men in the van lost some of their sharpness to the light. To be frank I could not be truly sure that the driver wanted to stop. Was his face showing the strain of fighting with the brake pedal, or was he merely accepting the 50:50 chance of the outcome? Perhaps it was just a gamble with my life.
Glenn Innes gives the impression, in places, of being separated from the rest of Auckland. This particular entrance was partitioned from the city via a railway bridge and its long grass banks. Although I was only four cars away from Glenn Innes, a part of my childhood, it was almost invisible to my sight.
It may interest you to know that at this time I would probably have viewed permanent disability with almost as much dread as death itself. A motorbike attached to my body added manoeuvrability and freedom; a wheelchair seemed more like a mobile prison. I have, quite naturally, through the course of my life changed this opinion drastically. Experience of life continues to equip you with new methods to adapt and survive.
I can not remember for sure, though I would suspect, that as a New Zealand male I was probably as worried with losing the opportunity to show off my snooker prowess. It rated about equal with my fear of the impending metallic clap. If I did die, would they realise that I was destined to win?
The astute reader will have realised, perhaps, that in order for me to know I was destined to win, I must have survived. This is indeed the case. The van slid, it screeched, and eventually it stopped. It did stop farther than my bike, but a couple of feet to my left. My beautiful Honda CBX400F, the 'X' and 'F' being vital in distinguishing it from ordinary Honda's, lived on. A few months later I sold it for a fraction of its purchase price and locked myself away in a large car.
It may, quite naturally, interest you to know why I am reflecting back on harmless event. It is because of my current one.
The aforementioned car, a rather dirty, off-white object, is sliding. I have encountered my first ever patch of black ice and it is turning into a unpleasant experience. Now the car is going backwards, towards a large ditch.
I use the word 'ditch' so as not to be accused of exaggeration. To my way of thinking an sixteen-foot drop is closer to being a small cliff, than a large ditch. Now the car is falling down that ditch, tumbling coarsely through the air.
For unknown reasons my memories have ceased at this point. I can not describe any of the events, or my emotions, after the moment of rolling backwards. It is possible that I am not excessively disturbed. I do know that on occasions that I have found myself coming off my motorbike I have felt quite at peace. I would find myself floating gently and peacefully through the air, safe in the knowledge that all would be well and there would be no pain, until I hit the ground.
Had I have been able to float a few inches above my bike on the snookering evening perhaps I would have been less concerned. It is not important. On that night all that fate dealt me was two games of snooker and a large coke. Indeed, it was a very pleasant evening and one that I am quite happy to reflect back on. It is nice to have good evenings to reflect back on, but I fear that this one will be my last.
