It continues to distress me. No, not that no-one takes a bit of notice of the persistent whinging of this column, but that more and more autos are filling up our roads to the extent that in some cities it’s almost impossible to make decent progress even on a motorcycle. Some useless government minister on the radio didn’t seem in the least fazed by the concept of the number of cars doubling in the next ten years, reckoning it was just a question of building more roads to service the demand.
Never mind that the UK is already grossly overpopulated and that cars cause massive carnage every which way, including inflicting heart attacks out of sheer frustration on their drivers. This phenomenon is not unique to the UK, it’s just as bad in most major European cities, not to mention the once exotic Far East where heat is mixed in with noxious doses of pollution. So bad, in fact, that along with a few other minor factors (don't ask, they're too depressing to relate) I’ve had to abandon the heady delights of Bangkok for more obscure pleasures. The Thai Way took a lot of effort and energy to get out of my system, even if, these days, it’s vastly overrated and hyped... and, no, I ain’t going to reveal the current area of, er, entertainment as I’m sure my past scribblings are responsible for the legions of despatchers spending the winter loitering with intent in Thailand, not to mention the (very) odd motorcycle media person.
If I was cynical I'd wonder if the bribery and corruption that’s an every day part of Far Eastern life has also infected the UK with all the massive construction projects both under way and under consideration. The police here have yet to acquire the Thai habit of pulling over motorcyclists to demand a bribe on the slightest pretext, leaving general thievery to the government. Not only are cars ruining the roads and the countryside, invariably large swathes of real estate in cities are wasted in building multi-storey car parks, almost always in some dreadful architectural style, whilst hundreds if not thousands of beggars are sleeping rough.
Even more shades of the third world, here, made all the more incredible by the vast sums blown on social welfare, a concept in the Far East that would not be tolerated. People seem to have become mere pawns to the automobile industry, unable to contemplate life without a nice shiny car in front of the house. Even if, in reality, it’s often quicker to walk into town than sit in ever lengthening queues of cars. Amazingly, car sales continue to bounce back from the recession whilst motorcycles head towards record lows. Of course, motorcyclists are just as bad in their obsession but the general experience of motorcycling tends towards exhilaration rather than frustration; even in heavy traffic the sudden, frantic surge through a hole in the chaos produces a high that cagers can only dream about.
Or it did until the density of the autos became so severe that any half serious motorcycle is a complete waste of time. Riding a race replica will wreck your back and wear your heart out in sheer frustration. Some high kicking, wheelie mad Paris Dakar replica seems the only solution if a decent power output’s needed, but these devices are very dangerous because of the ever present temptation of riding over the tops of cars as the final solution to traffic jams. Motorcycle crashes are down, I suspect, merely because car velocities have been reduced to their current pathetic level. It’s relatively easy, at least on smaller bikes, to avoid car drivers. And the relatively flimsy build quality of most modern cars means that lots of low speed accidents can be shrugged off with minimal damage to the bike.
My last accident involved one of the few clear sections of the city. A one way street, cars parked on every side with no reason for the van I was overtaking to do anything but go straight ahead. I was quite surprised to find him swerving towards me, without any warning and with a determined viciousness on the steering wheel that was either a deliberate act of attempted murder or merely the result of over-indulgence in drink or drugs. I was midway through the overtaking manoeuvre with no room to get out of his way and insufficient time to hit the brakes in anger. Neither of our speeds was high, the glancing blow to his door failed to knock me off, both feet down to help damp out the wobble. I didn’t even have to strain any muscles and was tempted to clear off, leaving him with the awkward and expensive task of claiming on his insurance.
By the time I'd pulled over, the big mouthed yob had leapt out of his van, all but leaping up and down in a frenzy, wailing that he’d just had the van resprayed and the large dent I'd left in his door was going to cost a fortune to repair. He didn’t offer any explanation as to why he’d swerved across the road; perhaps he’d assumed I would either brake harshly or swerve into one of the parked cars. He obviously suffered paranoid delusions of grandeur, was a repressed psychopath and couldn't take the thought of being overtaken by a mere motorcycle. In other words, a pretty typical car driver.
Naturally, I ignored him whilst I examined the front end for damage. The wheel appeared totally unscathed by the experience, although there were a few dents in the mudguard, but they might've been the result of previous abuse. l'd come to the conclusion that my motorcycle needs could be adequately met by sub 250cc machines and saw no real need to take much interest in their cosmetic condition. By the time I wandered over to the van he had worked himself up to demanding two hundred quid to repair the damage, reckoning I must’ve been doing at least a 100mph when I'd overtaken him. I pointed out that if I’d been doing any serious speed I would’ve been thrown off, the bike would’ve been gravely damaged and the side of his ancient van would’ve been ripped off. And that, anyway, if the bike had come close to such speed the engine would've blown up into a trillion pieces.
He ranted and raved, coming out with a continuous stream of bullshit which he tried to back up by flexing his muscles. I didn’t know whether to laugh or kick him in the balls, he looked like he'd crept out of a sewer and the only violence he would be able to manage was upon the smaller, milder variety of insect. I'd already noticed that his tax disc was two years out of date, the inference being that he probably didn’t have an MOT or insurance. My level of paranoia meant that I was completely legal, much to the amusement of various friends who found the presence of a current tax disc as rare as it was hilarious, gawping at its pristine state as if it was a precious work of art. I refused all entreaties, unwilling to allow it to be colour photocopied; yep, a real spoilsport.
When I suggested swapping insurance information or calling the police the van driver looked momentarily worried but soon came back with an excess of bluster. I decided to walk off, which would’ve resulted in a fight had not a plod mobile turned up. He was more concerned with the van blocking the traffic, the queue going back as far as the eye could see, than the accident. He looked a bit shocked when he eventually got around to checking my tax disc (I think motorcyclists have given up on them because they can’t afford insurance any longer). I even had all my documents on me. The cager actually tried to drive off whilst I was being interrogated. It was quite funny watching the cop leap into his car and wail off down the road... the cager didn't get very far because the traffic was chock-a-bloc a mere 250 yards down the road. I found it all hilarious.
Bill Fowler
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