BLOODY HELL*!
T
HE AMBULANCERIÀFHUZKR
had pulled me out from under the
Armco snickered when I showed
him my neck tag with my blood group
on it in the hope of getting him to
UHSODFHVRPHRI WKHVWLFN\ÁXLGFXUUHQWO\
leaking from me into the gravel.
“Do you seriously think we’d give
you a transfusion on the basis of a
tag?” he said. “You obviously don’t
know: one, what happens if we give
you the wrong blood; two, that there is
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three, how quick and easy it is to
establish your blood group.”
The subject of blood came to mind
when I read Lester’s column last month
about the bikini-clad (or perhaps
unclad) scooter riders. There is no
getting around the fact that as a
motorcyclist you’re more likely to see
your own or a mate’s blood than if
you’re a surfer, say. Unless it’s Great
White Dining Out time. I’ve perhaps
seen more than my share of my own
OHDNLQJ EORRGW\SH ERGLO\ ÁXLGV H[FHSW
for people like Frenchy Frank.
Frank did not have a noticeable job, so
whenever he wanted to buy a new bike
he would step out in front of a car. He
was the only person I ever met who
actually liked hospital food, and the
compensation payment was usually
enough to fund the bike. And no,
that compensation system no
longer exists – possibly partly
because of idiots like Frank
abusing it. His theory on
blood was that you
had a lot of it inside
you. “Mate,” he’d
say, “I’ve never
run out of it.”
I guess he’s right,
too. When another
mate whom we’ll call
Barrie, mainly because
that is his name, fell off
his bike his broken ribs
punctured his body cavity.
Two days later, when he
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he could no longer breathe, the
surgeon ladled litres of jellied blood
out of his chest.
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operated by Messageries Maritimes on
behalf of the French government to carry
mail and passengers between French
overseas possessions. We had a layover of
a few days in Tahiti – more so the crew
could enjoy cheap booze and the favours
of the local ladies than anything else, I
suspect - and a few of us more
adventurous souls rented Mobylettes.
You’ve probably seen photos of these
skeletal little scooters with their engines
and fuel tanks above the front wheel.
One evening while returning to the
wharf where the good ship Polynesie
was loading copra in a desultory manner,
I came upon some roadworks. In the
happy state induced by an evening in
Harry’s Bar, I rode up the berm
provided by excavated soil
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into the ditch from
which the soil had
come. Not too bad,
except that there were
fang-like ends of rebar
sticking out of the walls
of the ditch.
I will never know
how I avoided
being
disemboweled,
but all I
sustained were
VXSHUÀFLDO
injuries. I
extracted the
Mobylette from
the ditch – they’re
very light, and I was
younger then – and
returned to the ship
and my cabin. In the
morning, I resembled
nobody more than
Caesar on theafternoon of the Ides of March. My
bloodstained bedsheet was stuck to me
by the abrasions and shallow cuts all
over my body. As is usual in these
sorts of cases, my cabinmates thought
I was possibly the funniest thing they
had ever seen. I was taken outside and
drenched in bucket after bucket of
seawater – ouch! – before the sheet
slipped from my partially raw body.
Being subsequently drenched in iodine
by the ship’s doctor did nothing for
my appearance either; in my patchy
state I now appeared to be suffering
from leprosy.
A well-deserved fate? Of course. At
least the renter of the Mobylette did not
charge me for the slightly off-round
front wheel and minor scratches in the
paint. He thought it was funny, too.
Let me leave you with another
misfortune suffered by a friend, or
perhaps an acquaintance. I won’t
mention his name because he would
demand free beers if I did. He had
never ridden a motocross-type bike, but
when the opportunity arose he was keen
and set out on another mate’s PE175.
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donned a well and truly oversized dirt
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PLVFDOFXODWHGDQGDUULYHGIDFHÀUVWLQ
the dirt at the same time as the bike did.
His face, unfortunately, kept going
inside the helmet and struck the chin
bar. When we lifted the helmet off him,
his face was entirely wet - and red.
“There’s a thought,” the helmet’s
RZQHUVDLG ́9DPSLUHPRWRFURVV«μ*I’ve had it pointed out to me that this magazine
really ought to be safe for small children to read,
and that therefore the language should be mild at
most. Sadly for those who ask this, there is no
motorcycle magazine aimed at small children,
but this one is aimed at adults and thus may
well not be suitable for them. Bad luck, kiddies.
$VIRUZRUGVOLNH ́KHFNμLQVWHDGRI KHOO,KDYH
been assured that heck is the place where people
JRZKRVD\WKLQJVOLNH ́GDUQμDQG ́MHH]μ,
have no wish to join them there. DBEARFACED