The Irish Tales

Second Life (21) Part deux.
　
Midsummer, 1967, on the drive of my father’s house at Radcliffe. I am sitting on a battered old Tiger Cub, the engine ticking over bumpily,matching the rhythm of my heart.
I am 14 years old.
My father says :"This is the throttle. Twist it and you go faster This is the clutch : let it out and you move forward, pull it in and you lose power. And this is the- "
Too late. Always impetuous, I drop the clutch and twist the throttle. The Cub shoots forward erratically down the drive, across the road and straight into the wall opposite.
I look up through a cloud of brick-dust to see my father towering over me.
"I see you’ve found your own way to brake," is all the reproach I get.

I find childhood memories tedious, so suffice it to say that after my first introduction to bikes, I broke two more Cubs, two Vespas and a most curious hybrid machine called a James, which I loved dearly.
Then First Life took over with a bang. Er, literally.
By which I mean women, wine, song, money, music, women, cars, more money, a wife, bigger, sleeker cars, women, fatherhood, much more money and horses.
Oh my, the horses.
Do you know what riding a bike fast round a corner and riding a horse over a cross-country fence have in common ?
In both cases, you have to look where you want to go next, not where you’re heading and then horse/bike will follow. Mostly.
Do know what sets the two apart ?
A motorbike doesn’t have a mind of its own. Allegedly.
After losing my spleen whilst out hunting, breaking my neck twice over the same bastard oxer on the same bitch of a mare and wreaking devastation on my lower spine, I was given a friendly warning by my long-time back doctor, Keith Bush, of whom more some other time.
"Don’t ever get on a horse again. Not to trot out, not to walk out, not even to pose for a photograph, you vain bastard. If you do and you fall off, you’ll spend the rest of your days in a wheelchair.Find some other, gentler pursuit."

Naturally, I turned to motorcycles.
And oh what joy I found ! The puny, powerless, oily things of my youth had turned into sleek, vicious-looking, power-mad objects of engineering beauty.
And so, so, dangerous. So dangerous, in fact that it didn’t take me long to work out that the road was no place for them – or me.
The racetrack beckoned and I was drawn like any good moth to that flame, which burned oh so brightly.
Aye, well.

From there it was but a moment’s miscalculation to Charing Cross Hospital, (which is nowhere near Charing Cross) and the most unpleasant neurologist I have ever met.
We hated each other on sight, which, as the saying goes, saves a lot of time.
He hadn’t wanted to take me in, but as some of you may know, Kate with her war-paint on is an irresistible force.
"You can’t smoke in here," he said brusquely, on entering my room for the first time.
"Really ?" I replied looking around at the cloud of smoke. "I seemed to have managed it somehow."
He sniffed; no really, he actually sniffed. "It’s against the rules."
I stubbed my cigarette out. "I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were paying for this room."
He looked down his long, pointy nose at me. "I, am not."
I lit another Marlboro.
"I know you’re not. I am. So, if I wish, I will smoke. Now who the hell are you ?"
He dithered, walked around a little, fluttering his hands, eyes darting this way and that.
"There’s an oxygen cylinder in here!" he exclaimed in triumph.
"It’s too dangerous !"
I blew a perfect smoke ring.
"So get rid of it and replace it with something useful like a morphine drip. No…hang on a mo. How does one turn it on ? This could be fun."

You know when people state that someone "fumed" ? Well, they usually mean it merely as an imperfect metaphor.
I swear to you, I saw smoke coming from this man’s ears and nose and probably some more orifices I couldn’t quite see.
He took a few deep breaths of my southern toasted tobacco leaf smoke, then looked down at his clipboard.
A sour little smile twisted his features.
"Ooooooooooookay, Mr……….Rossiter ? The fracture of your skull is healing and no brain damage seems to be evident, certainly no impairment of thought and speech. I - …"
"Spunkyjismmonkeyfrism,ohfrabjousday,calloo, callay…" I said calmly.
His head jerked up. "WHAT? What, what….?"
I smiled pleasantly. "Nothing."
He shook himself like a dog, then continued.
"The hearing in your right ear is permanently impaired and cannot be cured. Likewise, your loss of balance, whilst if subject to remedial therapy may improve a little, will never be 100%."
He paused, savouring the moment. Then looked at me with a sweet sneer.
"You will never ride a motorcycle again. I am so sorry. G’day."

I smoked peacefully for a while and pondered.
Then I noticed a bike magazine on the bedside table, left there by Kate.
I flicked through it idly, until sleep claimed me.
When I awoke a little later, I stretched languidly and walked unsteadily to the window for some fresh air. The bastard was right about my balance, I thought, gloomily.
Lighting a Marlboro, I glanced down to see that some officious nurse had been tidying up whilst I slept and placed the bike mag by the window, open at a double page colour advertisement.
It was for a yellow, Ducati 748R.
I took a deep lungful of good ole southern fried tobacco and stared fixedly at it.
Then a huge grin split my face and I screamed out aloud with sheer joy.
What the fuck do doctors know, anyway ?
　
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Coming next, just for The Crow : The road back, to Assen.