Out of an ingrained biker habit, I don’t go down with the bike. I land on the right-hand shoulder (of the road, not me), having—somehow—not been hit by oncoming cars. I come down hard. I was doing about 60 kph when we hit. I feel as though I've been thrown out of a third-storey window. My visor is so scratched and covered with dust that I can’t see where my bike is; but I can hear it. The indomitable Rotax 650cc engine needs more than just a collision to make it stall.
An invisible voice next to me says: “Meneer (mister/sir in Afrikaans), don’t move”. I don’t think I can move, but my bike needs me, so it’s really not negotiable.
“Can you help me get to my bike please? I need to stop the engine”; I ask the voice.
In spite of his warning, he helps me up and leads me towards Linny II.
I feel for the “kill” switch and shut down the engine.
That’s the last time that I heard her.
By now I have managed to lift my visor. I see that Linny II is lying in the dust. It’s more than I can bear.
“Would you mind helping me lift her?” I ask my helper.
Between us, my rapidly swelling hand/wrist notwithstanding, we get her upright and safely resting on her side-stand. I notice that the left pannier has been destroyed, and that its contents are scattered down the middle of a road that is replete with Friday evening traffic. I don’t really care; they’re just things. I feel that I have done all that I can for the doughty Linny II. I feel the touch of death upon her. I feel injured. So many memories assail me. I think I want to cry.
I start trying to take off my helmet so that I can remove my balaclava and ear-plugs in order to facilitate communication.
“Meneer, I think it’s safer if you don’t take off your helmet”, says a kind lady who has also stopped to help. There are now three people helping me. They all look quite shaken. I guess they didn’t much enjoy the sight of my crash.
“I think my neck is OK”, I reply, “so it’s probably all right to remove the helmet”.
She agrees and helps me.
By now, a police officer and two paramedics have appeared. I’m impressed with the quick response.
I dial my eldest daughter’s mobile phone.
“Hi Daddy! Are you at the gate?" I love the way she still calls me Daddy.
I was due to arrive there this evening in order to be in time for her baby shower tomorrow morning.
“Er, no… There’s a problem. I’m OK, but I’ve been in an accident. I'm just outside Brits”. I feel bad—she’s 33 weeks pregnant with my first grandchild. She doesn’t need this kak. Neither do I. She assures me that she and her husband and her sister will be with me as soon as possible. What a relief! I tell her to travel safely, and that I love her.
I decide that I should call the insurance company.
I embark upon a verbose and irritating verification process. I quote my identity number and spell out my domicilium citandi et executandi. “Is this the car that is parked behind a locked gate at night?” asks the clerk.
“It’s a motorbike; and yes,” I reply. I have started to shake a bit and the ambumedic is looking rather concerned.
“And this is the car that is stored on access-controlled premises during the day?” continues the clerk, determined to fill in all the fields on his voracious little screen.
“Look,” I say, “I know that you have a job to do, but I have just been involved in a road accident, and I’m standing next to a very busy road, trying to hear you, and I think you have quite sufficient data to get this claim initiated. And, by the way, IT’S A MOTORBIKE”!
The ambumedics help me into the ambulance. One of them bandages my right hand. Then he helps me to remove my boot as I can feel that my right ankle is swelling quite spectacularly. I’m relieved to get the boot off; I don’t want some over-zealous ER doctor cutting it off. I deal quickly with a vulture (tow-truck driver). I make a value-judgement; he’s so ugly, scarred, pierced, and tattooed that I’m convinced he’s not a con-man. I sign his form. “Don’t worry; I’ll look after your bike and your possessions as though they were my own”, he says.
“Are you a biker?” I ask.
“Yes”, he chuckles, “what gave me away?” I’m at a point where I really don’t care what I say, when, or to whom.
“I guess it’s the scars, tattoos, and piercings”, I reply.
“You got it, bru!” he answers. Mercifully, he doesn’t try to high-five me. True to his word, he looks after Linny II and all my possessions, including my camera and recently-modified Netbook. Nothing is missing. Thanks Nic!
The ambulance starts to move, then stops as the traffic officer runs across the road with my keys. I’m glad to receive these, particularly since my driver’s licence is attached to them.
I have lost count of the times I’ve travelled in ambulances. In my rescue days, it was the norm. This time, however, is my first experience as a guest. I feel slightly embarrassed as we use the siren to run peak-hour traffic-lights. Come, on guys; my life’s not in danger. I’m just doing a lot of subcutaneous bleeding.
We arrive at the hospital. I decline a wheel-chair. A security guard steps on my bare injured foot. I am not amused. I tell him a bit about his ancestry.
I queue for twenty minutes to fill in all the blah that is needed for my file. I am told to wait. I wait.
I wait…
… and wait…
… and wait.
Finally, I am seen by a nurse. She doesn’t touch me. I am still clad in my biker jacket and pants, with one boot on, and the injured foot bare. Somehow, she feels that she has seen enough to make an assessment and to formulate a plan. I am taken behind a curtain and given a Voltaren injection.
When I see the doctor half-an-hour later, nothing has been written on my chart. He asks me if the nurse did anything. I reply that she gave me Diclofenac Sodium IMI. He raises his eyebrows, writes down what I said, and signs it. I’m glad I’m not going to be placed under his treatment. I convince him that nothing is broken (still fully-clad in bike kit, apart from one boot) and he agrees to send me home with some pain-killers.
My family arrives! Sweet relief! We don’t enjoy hospitals.
While we wait for the pain-killers, in the hubbub of the waiting-room, where no one can hear me scream, I get my youngest daughter to pull as hard as she can on my right ring-finger. We manage to pop it back into its socket. Now I feel that I can escape the clutches of the hospital.
I guess I’m still on an adrenalin high I survived the government hospital! (Oh yes, and the accident). I insist that we go out for dinner. First we go to the tow-away place to retrieve my possessions. Nic has been as good as his word. Next, we call in at the police in order to make a statement and get a case number for the insurance company. Finally, we can go and eat.
By now, I am starting to hurt quite noticeably. I order red wine for the pain. I’m not sure about the analgesic effects of red wine, but I start to feel better. A bemused waiter brings a bag of ice to this semi-barefooted man clad in biker pants held up by green braces. The ice brings relief to my enormously swollen hand. I gratefully eat a lasagne al forno with my left hand.
The drive home is my son-in-law’s problem. I doze in the front seat. When we get home, there are more calls to be made, pictures to be taken for Facebook; all the important stuff. Finally, around two o’clock, we all collapse into bed. In ten hours, we have to be at the baby shower.
I have a lot to be thankful for.