A tale to be told. Left handed.

4 Sep

images.duckduckgo.comIt was a pleasant evening at Buckden rounding off a weekend of mayhem (us) and debauchery (not us) in Leeds..(what happens in Leeds stays in Leeds). I’m riding my bike home, carefully, as you do on a wet night, when suddenly the bike makes determined effort to mount the left hand verge. I wrestle it back only to find it drifting across to the other side. The inevitable happens. The bike his the verge, stops dead, and hurls your truly over the top and into a somersault. The aikido rolls and five years of tuck and roll from Sara’s car come into play, and I somersault, dramatically, into the ditch.

I pick myself up and dust myself off, and try and lift the bike. This is not happening. I have obviously done something serious to my right shoulder.

Rather than call for an ambulance, I call for roadside recovery, thinking that I can get the bike home and go into A&E in the morning. Unfortunately, because it’s an accident, I now have to go through the claims process. By the side of the road. In the rain. With a busted shoulder. They advise me all sorts of things about false declarations and stuff. Eventually it’s done and a recovery vehicle is ordered..it’s 60-90 minutes away.

At which point my phone dies. I spend the next hour so walking up and down the road. In the rain. I see no other vehicles in this time. Concerned that they may not be able to find me, and with the nagging doubt that no help is coming at all,I decide to set out in search of help.

I have two choices. . Go on to the sleepy village where no one has ever been seen on the streets, and scare the bejabers out of some poor soul at 2am, or go back to the US Air Force base where surely someone will be awake.

I head for the base, a couple of miles away. I am now aware that my left foot may not have escaped injury.

Eventually the welcome sight of the barbed wire gates comes into view. The place is seemingly deserted. However, I can just make out the shadows of two figures in the guardhouse. They are awake. They are fully armed. And they are not at all sure what to make of the grey clad figure emerging out of the rain. Apparently I am the first walk up visitor they have ever had, and I don’t look like your average civilian tourist anyway.   An early question is ’are you armed’ and I run through an inventory of the contents of a motorcyclist’s pockets to see if I am carrying anything I might get shot for. Newspaper headlines swim before my eyes..”British biker shot after midnight crash’…’Biker attacks US nuclear depot armed with helmet lock’.

images.duckduckgo.comThey take pity on me, but to a man the entire base is equipped with iPhones. I will not be charging my phone tonight. They send for medical assistance. It arrives in the form of two firetrucks driven by a crew with broad Cambridgeshire accents. I am told that my blood pressure is too high (really? I wonder why?) and that yes, my collarbone is probably broken.

The base police turn up. They, too, are reassuringly English but equally heavily armed. I might now get shot or tasered. Choices, choices.

Eventually an ambulance arrives, and takes me to Huntingdon. I do not particularly want to go to Huntingdon, but Huntingdon is where I am going.

At which point the wonderful thing we call the NHS kicks in. The driver is English. She expresses regret because she hoped to see my arm get fixed. She believes it is dislocated. Fortunately, she is wrong. The other paramedic  is charmingly and wonderfully Spanish. If you are female it may well be worth getting in an accident just to meet him.

The hospital is quiet, but am greeted by a United Nations of fabulous medical staff who continually offer me drugs. I turn these down on the basis that if it really starts to hurt, then I will really want all the drugs I can get and I don’t want to waste any on mere discomfort. I have an Asian doctor who takes great delight in poking bones, bruises and other bits exactly where it’s going to hurt. However, he manages this with such good humour that it is easy to forgive him. The Filipino porter manages to move a weight four times his size at the end of a 20 hour shift. The Chinese nurse brings me tea and biscuits. They are all cheerful, helpful, and efficient. They make me very happy, which confuses all of them, and I am transported round the building propelled by my fabulous Filipino friend while grinning like a madman.

The doctor confirms what I suspected. My collarbone is broken, and there is some twisting to my foot. I ah equipped with a boot for my foot and a sling for my arm, along with a single crutch. I feel less stable using the crutch than if I just stomp along like I have done all my life. It may come in handy for waving, threateningly, at people.

And that’s it. One of the nurses finds me a charger and I discover that while the recovery vehicle could not initially find me, my motorbike has already made it home. I will later find that quite a lot of grass verge has also made it home. Darcey has a smashed fairing and bent wing mirror but is not too badly damaged otherwise. I get through to my son at 6:30, who cheerfully comes to pick me up. As he arrives the reception staff are graciously trying to deal with a very irate man who cannot quite grasp the fact that if he has an abscess on a tooth then he needs to go see a dentist. Again, the staff are doing this tactfully and diplomatically.

So. I have crashed my bike. I count myself lucky – my injuries are relatively minor, and they will heal. But I am full of admiration for a bunch of air base staff who rather bemusedly dealt with this crazy Brit who appeared out of the rain with a random story about motorbike and phones – for an efficient bunch wildly international medics – and the fact that I can just turn up and the only thing that’s important is getting me back to a functioning state, without worries about insurance and hospital bills.

I am back home, glad to be in one piece (apart from the bit of me that’s in two pieces, of course). I doubt I will be riding again soon…or, indeed, doing much with my right arm for a bit. But, somehow, it feels like this is a very good day to be alive.

.

Find out more at www.timhodgson.org

Apologies for typos. I am learning one handed typing. Badly.

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2 Responses to “A tale to be told. Left handed.”

  1. Jenny Collier September 4, 2017 at 12:59 pm #

    So glad you are alive and with GSOH intact at least! Take care xx

  2. Linda September 4, 2017 at 5:25 pm #

    Hello Tim….thank you for writing this. It has answered all my questions..Love and hugs to you for a speedy recovery.

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