The Great Escape

“Are you alright?”

Perfectly reasonable question, that one, though I must confess to thinking it ridiculous when I was laying on my back, in the West Austrian countryside, some distance from the road, with 170 kilograms of British motorcycle pinning down my right leg.

Whether I had gotten distracted by the beautiful scenery or simply gone too quickly into the curve, I had realised my mistake too late as the back of the bike began to slide out from under me and I began sliding sideways with it across the best part of thirty metres, across tarmac, gravel, dirt and grass, before both of us came to a stop. It could have been worse, believe me, the stop might have been brought about by a fence or one of the many trees that grew in the immediate area, several of them just a few metres away.

But there I was, the lower half of my right leg and ankle beginning to smart while I stared up through my visor at the blue sky and fluffy white clouds, a little dazed, thinking about all the miles I had travelled on crap roads, in suicidal traffic or treacherous weather, only to come a cropper on a deserted country road in perfect riding conditions. And some numpty wanted to know if I was alright.

I sat up, slowly, awkwardly, propping myself up, as they repeated the question. I tore off my gloves, then proceeded to pat myself down, relieved to find my protective gear had held up its end of the bargain, finding no gaping holes with red raw bleeding skin. My ribs and back ached, as did my right shoulder and elbow but it would be mostly strains and bruises. I leaned forward, intent on dragging myself unassisted out from under the bike but I regretted it immediately and through gritted teeth, I wriggled forward on my backside, muttered into my helmet

“Well I’m not fucking dead, that’s a good start”. 

They, or He as I soon discovered, came into my field of vision, moving to assist with bike and I groaned inwardly. Oh great. A male motorcyclist, in weatherproof kit. Just what I needed, some condescending wanker who would start in on the jokes about female motorcyclists’ abilities the moment I took my helmet off. 

I leaned in with greater resolve and inspite of the further protest from my back and shoulder, determined to get the bike off me before He could but even with that stubborn resolve and the adrenalin still pumping, I found the combination of injury and the awkward position I was in simply did not give me strength enough.  

"Hang on" He said, leaning down to grab the handlebars and pulling the bike upright onto it's wheels and off me. I gave my leg and foot only a cursory glance, I already knew they hurt but none of it was sitting at bizarre angles, there was no bleeding that I could see or feel. To be honest, I entirely forgot the pain and my own prejudices as my "saviour" began to wheel the bike away and the extent of the damage to it was revealed. 

My beautiful Triumph Street Triple, purchased brand new in Leicestershire three months earlier, which had carried me the best part of 12,000 miles all over the UK, then across Europe, was scraped, scratched, broken, leaking profusely, bits were dangling off it pathetically or, and even more dishearteningly, missing entirely.

I swallowed hard as I began removing my helmet, still lamenting the state of my Trumpy as He propped the bike up against a tree a few metres away. He inspected the damage for a moment, shaking his head slowly, resignedly before turning back toward me. With a burning degree of both resentment and defeat, I was free of my helmet and all but tossed it to the ground beside me.

"You are alright, then?" he asked with a hint of impatience which, with his Germanic accent, seemed all the more unfriendly. Glaring up to him darkly, I curtly responded

"Thank-you" and with that decided, with no thought at all, to get up and onto my feet. Second worst decision of the day. The moment I put weight onto it, my right ankle flared angrily and I swore under my breath, wincing painfully, eyes scrunched up, unaware that I had begun falling over until I felt my saviour's grip at my elbows.