The Irish Tales

Second Life (22)
The long road back, to Assen.
　
The neurologist had the last laugh. I was discharged from Charing Cross hospital, (which is nowhere near Charing Cross) one sunny day in September and walking to the main road to hail a cab nearly finished me.
I just couldn’t walk in a straight line and fell over twice, as my battered inner ear got it’s left, right, up and down all in a dither.
Added to this, all sounds were distorted and booming and when people spoke to me, it was like watching an old film where the lip-synch is 10 frames out.
Oh and I had the mother of all headaches, which lasted for three solid weeks.
I spent these weeks almost entirely in bed, because if I got up I simply fell down again. The idea of ever getting back on a bike was laughable.
It was a little….depressing.
Two things started me on the road back, which eventually led to Assen racetrack in Holland.
One was the ad of the Ducati 748R, which I’d ripped out of the mag and pinned on the study wall. Its siren call got louder by the day.
The second was an osteopath at the clinic over the road. In one magical session, he stopped the headache using acupuncture and skull massage.
I still walked like a drunk on ice, but at least I could think clearly.
The next day I saw an ENT specialist in Harley Street. He listened sympathetically, then grinned. "It think we can do something about this," he said. Before I knew what he was doing, he took hold of me by the shoulders and arm, leaned me forward, then violently whipped me backwards onto the couch.
"Now get up," he ordered, just as I was thinking about lamping him one.

I did as he asked and to my utter astonishment, I didn’t fall over ! I took a few tentative steps and though there was a few wobbles, I could walk.
Gentle reader, you cannot imagine the joy I felt at that moment.
Mr.Wonderful grinned at me. "Always impressive, that manoeuvre," said happily.

He started to explain about the tiny crystals in my inner ear which the crash had knocked out of position and how their incorrect readings could be negated, but I interrupted him.

"When can I get back on a motorbike?" I asked. He shrugged. "Anytime you like. But if you don’t want to keep falling off, you’ll go see this woman, she’s just round the corner, and do some concentrated rehab therapy.You’ll need to stick at it though."
He cocked an eyebrow at me. "You a good sticker-at things?"
I grinned broadly. "Watch me."

Stick at it I did, though it was dull and repetitive and there were relapses. And tantrums. I am not a patient man, in either sense of the word.
And then one fine day, I found myself wandering around the showroom at Frontiers, the lovely old independent bike shop, sadly now gone.
In my pocket was £1100 in crumpled notes, the proceeds from selling what remained of my Kawasaki to a nutter who liked rebuilding things.
I cast envious glances on the latest race-reps, including a mint condition RC45, but my last bit of common sense told me it was too soon.

Then my eyes lit upon a somewhat elderly old Aprilia Pegaso, a 600cc thumper, semi-trail bike, though you’d have to be insane to actually take it off-road.
It was for sale for £850.
An eager young salesman hovered at my shoulder. "Nice clean bike, sir," he ventured.
"I’ll take it," I said absent-mindedly. He looked shocked.
"Don’t you, er, want to haggle a bit?"
I blinked at him.
"OK. £849.50. My last offer."
He stared at me, amazed. Then, as the truth dawned on him, a strange light appeared in his eyes. He’d caught a live one !*

As he babbled on about some nonsense or other, I walked across to where several Ducatis were standing, looking gorgeous as only Ducatis do.
He saw my gaze and dared all.
"Is there…something else, sir?"
I nodded slowly. Oh, yes, there was indeed. I took a deep breath.
"How long to deliver me a brand new 748R, with race Termis already fitted ? In yellow. It has to be yellow."
I thought he was going to faint with joy. "Two months?" he squeaked.
I gave him £800 in notes and my credit card for a deposit on the Duke.
"Yellow, mind. Any other colour and I’ll scweam and scweam until I’m sthick."

From that day on, he was my bitch. Although, he may have had sudden doubts when I came the next day to collect the Pegaso.
For whilst I could walk in passable imitation of a normal person, sudden movements still threw me a tad.
The Pegaso is much taller than a race rep and to get on it, one had to swing one’s right leg high and jump.
I took me three goes to do it and out of the corner of my eye I saw him visibly pale.

So this was it. I sat there, with the engine ticking over sweetly.
I nodded to my bitch. He nodded back. I pulled the clutch in and kicked it into gear and it stalled immediately.
"You….er..have to push the side stand up, Mr.David," said the young man.
I winked at him. "I knew that…I just….forgot." And with that I hitched up the stand, fired up the engine, put it into gear and jerked away across three streams of traffic, swerving and wobbling like an absolute beginner.
I was back !

*I should point out that at this time in my First Life, I was not only fairly well off, but an aunt had recently died, leaving myself and my two brothers an obscene amount of money.I was a salesman’s dream……..aye.

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To be continued…………….