by Shootist » Fri Sep 04, 2020 9:30 pm
I'm actually quite surprised I'm still here. It's been a dodgy 9 months or so. (No, I've not been bloody pregnant!)
So, here's a summary of recent life for your entertainment, or otherwise.
28 November 2019 I'm nipping into town on one of my motorbikes, a Virago 535 (Don't laugh! It's shaft drive low maintenance and easy to handle. It's my 'nipping into town' bike. It has just started raining and I slow down to allow a woman to use a zebra crossing. At no more than 20 mph I just touch the front brake and wallop! The from end goes away and I land on the kerb of the centre reservation, I'm knocked out for a few seconds and when I come to I'm hollering fit to bust. It's said that the noisy ones are not in immediate need of first aid. Don't kid yourself. I'd busted four ribs, my collar bone, and cracked three vertebrae. What I didn't know at the time was my lung had been punctured and because I'm on blood thinners I'm bleeding to death internally. It can't have been too bad because I survived the hour I waited for the ambulance to arrive (!), laying in the road in the rain.
Once the paramedics arrived I was quickly allowed to settle into the arms of Morpheus, with the help of plenty opiates. Into hospital and the delights of the medics inserting a chest drain. That wasn't too bad because of the opiates. A couple of days later they removed it and then decided it had to go back, in a slightly different position. This time, the local anaesthetic definitely didn't work, a problem I have with such things. I felt the rib spreader working, and every bloody millimetre of that drain going in. The tube diameter must have been approaching half an inch! For some reason they did this on the ward and I announced my feelings about it to the entire floor, screaming the bloody place down! Kheerist but that hurt. The collar bone has not set and the outside end is still wandering about independently, looking for a place to call home. My right arm is half paralysed due to nerve damage.
I made my excuses and talked my way home after two weeks, feeling like the proverbial and bloody delicate. Liquid morpine and some other pain killers saw me through the next three or four weeks. I started to feel better, or less knackered at least just in tome for the lockdown. Great! I got through that OK. There's some advantages to being an anti social miserable git. As strength improved I stated to ride the bikes again. At first it was a little scary as my right hand was so weak I couldn't operate the front brake lever (!) or manage holding the throttle very well. Some modifications helped.
August came and I decided it was time for a decent bike ride. OK, John O'Groats and back it was. Only about 1,000 miles round trip, give or take. It didn't start well. I had move the bike from the garage to outside my front door, fitted the panniers and top box, and loaded up. All I had to do was start it up, do a 'U' turn and I was off. The turn was over about 3 feet of turf and the slightest of bumps down onto the gritted road surface. as I put my foot down it slipped and I fell over, the bike following. This was also due in part to my weakened right arm Bugger! I should have just unpacked and gone back to bed! A neighbour helped me get the mike back up (It's a Yamaha BT1100 and it weighs somewhat over a quarter of a ton!) So, off I go, nice day, nice run up the M1, A1, and across to the M6. Somewhere around the border I stopped for the first fill up. All done and paid for I come to get back on the bike and on my way. For old farts it can be a bit of an effort getting in a decent sized motorbike and I'm no exception. Unfortunately, with the panniers, top box and tank bag limiting things even more, I caught my foot in the pannier frame and fell arse over tit. This might not have been too bad but I had a camera bag containing a decent sized 'bridge' camera on my left side and I landed hard on it. The camera miraculously survived but at least two of my ribs (on the other side) didn't! It hurt like hell. I climbed up the side of the bike, trying to look nonchalant, and no doubt failing miserably. What to do? No decision needed there. My Scottish ancestry came though. I had booked and paid for three hotel rooms and I was damned if I was going home.
Co-codamol from the first aid kit kept me going. The ribs only really hurt when I moved, or breathed. Perth, John O'groats then overnight in Scrabster. Had a mooch around Castletown, my paternal grandfather's home town, before heading south the next day. In all, not too bad apart from sea mist on the way up to John O'groats. The route back was OK, again, sea mist on the A9 coastal.Things were going great until I decided to stop in a lay-by to get my waterproofs off. I rolled into it perfectly and stopped and as I put my left foot down it slid, and over I went again, once more the bike followed (to the left this time). This would be about late afternoon time. I was OKish, albeit worried about the bike, but I had no chance of getting up without being in serious agony due to the ribs. As I was laying there wondering WTF to do I found myself suddenly surrounded by wild Jockinese types, all lovely people and all eager to help. To my embarrassment they had called an ambulance and refused to let me get up until it arrived. I explained to the medics that I would survive if they could just find a way to get me standing again, which was duly done, not without some squealing from me though. Jockinese and paramedics alike were great people and helped to restore my faith in human nature.
The rest of the trip was somewhat mundane, motorways, pain, and home. Put the bike away and straight to bed for a 12 hour Co-codamol assisted kip.
The End.
P.S. No! I am not fitting bloody stabilisers to the bike!!!
If you don't have to give up your car because other people commit crimes in their cars, why should I have to give up my firearms because other people commit crimes with their firearms?