Peter has one of those BMW C1 motorbikes with a roll cage on top. Just 125cc and they are top heavy. As far as I recall they first showed up in the nineties with some talk about safety, but people quickly established that they bring as many problems as they solve. Top-heaviness was the problem today.
Peter does something complicated with cashback. He’s about my age and with the air of someone having a pleasant life shift. Girlfriend and a motorbike. Kids exist but I have a feeling there’s been a divorce. He’s tall and friendly and intelligent and his eyes sparkle. Brian and I met him this afternoon for the first time.
We were shopping. Paul had been shopping too. We were in the car park. So was Paul. It took me a moment to work out what I was looking at though as he was in right mess.
It’s genuinely astonishing how much a leg can bend before the bone snaps. He was in pain. Lots of pain. But somehow … somehow it wasn’t broken. His top heavy bike had lost the back in an oil slick in the car park while he was walking it out of the bike parking area. It had fallen on his leg and he was totally trapped by it. Two people who were physically perfectly capable of lifting the thing had instead been panicking and running round in circles. When Brian and I appeared they appealed to us immediately. “You need to help him.” *cos we won’t*
Slowly and carefully, taking direction from Peter in case he was attached it it or impaled etc, Brian and I righted the bike and got it off him. It had been leaking petrol everywhere so we stood it a bit away from Peter. Peter was adrenalised by shock and trying to be Superman while repeatedly dropping his helmet. A staff member showed up and brought him a chair. He kept bouncing out of it and immediately flinching.
It’s only 125cc that bike. Brian and I are both allowed to drive it. Brian made the offer to get the thing home if it ran. You have to strap in with two seatbelts. We duly trussed our lad into the cockpit before checking where the fire extinguisher was because, you know, it could have blown up when we turned the key. A worrying thought. Especially as the only extinguisher I could clock quickly was water.
It didn’t blow up, which was a relief to me and more to Brian, double strapped into the thing as he was. I took Peter into Bergman and we went slowly to Peter’s home through traffic in convoy.
Peter was talking the hind legs off a donkey next to me and likely he’ll wake up tomorrow in massive pain and on an adrenaline comedown. Shock is a big old kick. Brian did brilliantly considering he’s jetlagged to all hell. I was watching him pilot the thing in the rearview mirror and he looked pretty angry most of the way. God knows what time his body thinks it is.
Peter rang his girlfriend who suggested that he give us a bottle of bubbles so when we got him back he vanished into the house and comically emerged, staggering on his miraculously preserved leg and clutching a chilled bottle of Fortnums champagne. “Stop. Sit down. Put your leg up.” Brian and I said it simultaneously. “And thanks.”
I like Peter. I want him to get that leg looked at though, bless him. It might not be broken but ligament damage takes so long to stop hurting and Peter would do well to have someone tell him he’s not fifteen anymore. Although it’s charming. I hope he recovers well. Sounds like the work he does doesn’t involve running around lots so it’s not gonna be disastrous like it can be for those of us who jump on things for a living. It helped Brian forget his jetlag. “What’s it like to drive?” I ask Brian. “Depressingly slow.” But the things Brian likes to drive go at light speed.
A little bit of good Samaritan. Keeps the energy moving nicely. Brian stinks of petrol. “That’s the blog sorted,” he says, and I nod.
AlBarclay 