I have never really had the most successful of relationships with motorcycles. I got my one and only motorcycle at the tender age of 19. It seemed a good idea at the time... along with purple shoes, lamb-chop sideburns and 32 inch flared levis.
I should have seen the omens coming... it absolutely poured it down the day I picked it up from the bike shop, so much so that I felt I should make my way back to my little village on the back roads on account of the fact that there would be less traffic for me to collide with. When I finally got to the end of my street, soaking wet and very much in need of a hot bath, the local village idiot decided to cross the road between two parked cars without looking and wham! That was my first accident. To be fair, it wasn't my fault... my light was on and I was driving as cautiously as I could without actually getting off and pushing the thing home... but it was not a good omen.
My second spill came about a month later on the back roads near Loch Lomond. It was the height of summer and I had just spent a thoroughly pleasant summer's afternoon by the Loch, alternately swimming and reading Lolita and was now driving home to meet up with some friends when wham!... A car full of young guys out on a joyride sped round a corner giving me the fright of my life and causing me to make a sharp left turn into the kerb. As the front wheel clipped the kerb I lost control and down I went, skinning my knees, denting the petrol tank and ruining my favourite pair of flared trousers.
But the last straw came one summer, years after, when I was travelling round Crete. I had found myself in Matala and, tired of relying on busses and the limited number of coastal resorts that they could take me too, had hired a scooter to take me inland. I had it for 3 days and the plan was to tour the interior in a huge circle, driving by day and sleeping out in some olive grove by night. As it was only a scooter, I planned to travel light: just my sleeping bag, a hammock and a change of clothes for the evening. Otherwise I would be driving in my sandals, swimming trunks, shades and bandana... note the lack of helmet.
... I didn't get very far. I had only been driving for about fifteen minutes when I saw a sign for a beach. Heading down a quiet asphalt road early in the morning, I opened up the engine a little more than I should and before I knew it was fast approaching a tight right hand bend. Pulling on the brakes, I tried to swing the bike out to the left such I could drive into the bend at my higher speed, but at the moment I hit some gravel and the front wheel skidded out from underneath me, throwing me down hard onto the asphalt.
I hit the road with my head and skidded on my unprotected limbs for a while before finally coming to a bloody halt somewhere in the middle of the opposite lane. I didn't feel any pain at first, just shock and the shame of being such a fool... again. Jumping to my feet I walked unsteadily over to the scooter, it's engine still running, to survey the damage. It was then that I noticed a lot of blood was gushing down over my eyes from an open wound in my head... but this seemed to matter less than getting the bike off the road. It was as if hiding the evidence of my stupidity from passing cars would somehow undo the damage... I guess I was in shock.
Stemming the blood flow with my bandana, I wheeled the bike into an olive grove, then gingerly pulling back the bandana, checked my head wound in the broken mirror of the bike... there was a big hole in my head... there was no way I could just pop back on the bike again and carry on as if nothing had happened; from previous experience I knew that this needed to be cleaned and stitched. Besides, the wounds on my limbs were pretty extensive too and they too were beginning to hurt.
I don't know how long I spent alone in that olive grove with only my conscience and and ever more keen sense of pain to keep me company, but I do know that I was eventually discovered by the driver of a rubbish truck who kindly informed the bike company and called me an ambulance. But once again I had to wait alone in that olive grove, replaying the incident; dealing with it. I swear I could have kicked myself with shame... if I had been able to find a part of me that wasn't bleeding already.
One X-ray, five stitches, a trip to the rental office and 100 euros later, I sat in my sleeping bag in a hammock strung between two trees on the campsite in Matala. My wounds had been sprayed but not bandaged as they needed to breathe, which left them at the mercy of every insect that happened to be passing that corner of Crete. They had also started to tighten to the extent that I did not have the necessary flexibility of movement to put up my tent in what was a stiffening breeze. So that night, I slept out in a hammock, sweating in a sleeping bag that had to be zipped up tight to protect my wounds from flies. I say slept, but closer to the truth would be agonised... both on account of the pain and over what might have been.
It was then or then-abouts that I made a promise to myself never to ride a motorcycle again, and to my credit it was a promise that I managed to keep... until I got married.
I got married in August of 2006 on the island of Anafi, a simple ceremony in the village mayor's office with only a handful of friends to witness it. The day after the wedding the point was mooted that it might be a good idea to rent some bikes and head off on a tour of the island; or, to be more accurate, everyone apart from me was dead keen on the idea and I was beginning to look like a bit of a party pooper. So bowing to pressure and participating in the spirit of the occasion, I broke that promise.
Needless to say that carrying my recently acquired wife on the back of the bike as pillion passenger was more than enough incentive to take it very easy indeed. However, just because I was the very model of the careful driver didn't mean that I wasn't, at times, haunted by the prospect of... well... falling off. Indeed, the very fact that I was responsible for my wife's welfare too only served to heighten my anxiety.
So in a nutshell and like I said, I have never really had the most successful of relationships with motorcycles. That's why when I went to the bike rental office that morning in Alonissos I walked in asked them...
"Mipos ehete mia goyroyna?"
Strictly translated this means: "Do you happen to have a sow (as in a female pig)?" But you will no doubt better understand my meaning when privy to the knowledge that this is the name that Greeks give to those sturdy, grunting off-road quadbikes.
Now that my responsibility had been halved since that last time I drove a motorcycle, I was taking no chances: it was four wheels or nuthin' at all.
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