It kept flashing through my brain. The time in January when the black
ice got to me. The front wheel hit it, the next thing I knew I was flying
one way. The GT750 the other. The bike, equipped with crash-bars and hefty
panniers, destroyed everything in its path. I landed on my knee, the crack
ringing in my ears. The pain incredible.
I really thought it was a knee-capping. I hopped in desperate circles
on one leg. Grinding my teeth to keep the screams within my mind. Vision
clearing, pain subsiding a little, I noted the position of the big Kawasaki.
20 yards down the road. Cagers staggered out of their tombs. Astonished
and enraged at the damage to their pride and joy's.
I kept hopping towards the GT. To add insult to injury (to the cagers)
the Kawasaki ended up leaning against a once pristine BMW. Still f..king
ticking over! The only damage, a couple of bent levers and cracked panniers.
At that point, I summoned the courage to glance down at my knee. The padded
leather pants were still intact. No swelling. As long as I kept the leg
bent it wasn't too painful...
I hopped over the saddle of the GT. Found that it was less painful to
sit on the bike than stand up. At that point I noticed the gang of cagers
moving towards me. They looked like psychopaths. Popped the clutch, got
out of there fast. The nearest cager's mouth hung open halfway down his
chest in shock at this lack of social responsibility. Officially, y'see,
I didn't exist. Fall into the one part of the bureaucracy and the rest would
have a real feast.
The reason that flashes of the accident kept intruding was I kept dreaming
about being run down by a pack of enraged cagers. Was living in fear of
falling off again. Despatching for just eleven months, my brain often felt
like it was falling out of my head. The old hands just laughed when I complained
about hitting things and falling off. Seems, it either clicks or you move
on to something else. That's fine if you have no commitments. I'm lumbered
with an expensive wife and three brats. Work, work and work. Or die! And
die?
About the only thing I've done right is machinery choice. I went about
this in a logical manner. I looked at what the DR's were riding. Talked
to a few of them. The GT's and NTV's emerged as the toughest of the bunch.
I decided to be sensible. For once! Buy a newish GT550. How did I end up
with a 750, then? Simple, really. The only 550's I could find were high
milers at absurd prices. A 6000 mile 750 came up at a bargain price and
I didn't think about it. Not existing, didn't need insurance, tax, etc.
The GT750 proved an amazingly adept choice. It was a big, fat old tug
for town work. Didn't matter. What I couldn't swing around I just attacked.
The crash-bars were soon notched up with all the cages battered into submission.
Their own fault for trying to play silly buggers. Or deliberately closing
up the narrow conduit through the traffic chaos.
One time, some dumbo was so enraged that he swung across my path. Okay,
I'd just thumped his roof, leaving a large dent. He'd swung across two lanes.
Making me almost lose my breakfast as I slammed the brakes on. He wasn't
amused by the air-horns either. He was absolutely out of his head when he
found he couldn't open his doors far enough to exit the car and thump the
shit out of me. When traffic to my other side moved I was gone. Rather than
a goner. A lot of cagers were close to murder - the density of the traffic
jams was ruining the little worlds they lived in. Shattered their illusion
of being a master of their own little universe.
The GT did 30,000 miles under the usual regime of disinterest. Oil was
done every 2500 miles, the filter when I felt guilty. That was about it,
really. Oh, the drive chain was replaced at 18000 miles. Only because its
wear ruined the gearchange and low speed running. Despite its capacity,
the mill still needed a fair bit of cog swapping to keep ahead of the traffic.
Cheap Avon tyres lasted a credible 15,000 miles. As mentioned, they had
no resistance to black ice. Fine on wet roads and good on dry if shiny summer
ones. Fuel was expensive, around 40mpg. Could probably improve that if I'd
ever balanced the carbs. Or did the valves. But I could never bring myself
to go that deeply into the aircooled motor.
Cleverness in my choice of motorcycle was all very well. But the despatch
companies were something else. The first one I worked for had a controller
with a thick Scottish accent and a short temper. When I misheard him, went
hurtling off to the wrong side of town he'd go ballistic when I called in
complaining that I couldn't find the company. You wouldn't think it was
me who was losing dosh to hear him rant and rage. Honestly, two days was
all it took for me to conclude that I was wasting my time. He may just've
been taking the piss!
The next company had a controller I could understand. Sort of. Sending
me on a circular tour of London, trying to find one address, was quite educational.
Going to Hornchurch when I was supposed to be in Hounslow (about as far
apart as you can get and still stay in Greater London!) didn't amuse me.
Often I'd turn up at some plush company HQ to be met by a scowling receptionist
who looked deep in PMT, or something. She'd deny all knowledge of any package.
I'd radio in, they would consult the company and radio back. Finally, a
package was thrust into my hands to go somewhere completely different from
what was on my docket. Invariably, this ruined the controller's carefully
crafted series of pick-ups and drops. The receptionist left scowling ever
more furiously when I let rip. To cap it all off, I'd get a bollicking from
the boss when I returned to base. Reminded that the customers were paying
my salary and I'd better shape up fast! Cocksuckers always win out in the
end!
I started out wearing fairly dapper clothing but the first rainstorm
changed all that. Plus all the grit and shit thrown up by the other vehicles.
Enough black to give a fascist a hard-on resulted. Leather plus waterproofs
even in the high summer - it made for some sweat and an odd odour but at
least I had the illusion of protection from the road rash.
I still haven't got rid of the death-flashes. Either premonition, paranoia
or just plain old brain rot. Zooming through the traffic for hour after
hour enervating in the extreme. It's quite frightening to find my hands
shaking for hours after I finish the day's work. I don't think it's just
down to the secondary vibes that creep through the GT's rubber engine mounts.
There's also backache, stooping shoulders and the beginning of a hump.
The backache wasn't helped by the time I had to heft a couple of bags
full of beef joints on to the back of the bike. Banning beef-on-the-bone
made them into cult dinners, nice little earners for butchers and mad DR's.
One of the bags split slightly, dripping blood over the GT, stinking like
death. Some traffic warden copped a sight and noseful, went berserk on his
radio as I swept off into the traffic. The sound of sirens came not much
later but by then I'd dumped the incriminating evidence on some top notch
restaurant. The GT was just one of thousands of UJM despatch hacks in Central
London. No way the beef police could track me down!
I suppose that was fun, of a sort. At least it took my mind off my probable
imminent demise. The only thing that keeps me coming back for more is the
dosh. I don't think anyone else will pay me more than 25000 notes a year
(tax free until they catch up with me). Mind, it took six months of near-misses
and general insanity to get up to that level.
The Brockley Butcher