When To Jump

Last updated: Tue, 22 Aug 2006 12:01:00 GMT

Now?

Recently, I joked to my wife that I wanted my epitaph to read "He died as he lived: on his knees, screaming." She refused to comply. I'd had an ominous dream night before, and was for some reason convinced that my dying words would be "no", probably mouthed silently and repeatedly into the inside of a motorcycle helmet. It was an odd day, and I've been thinking about death a lot recently.

Google video found me this video on Monday. I was looking for any home made footage of Kawasaki's relatively new ER-6n or ER-6f. I found some. Looks like a fun little bike, and I'm considering buying one for the commute to work.

My commute kills me. Seriously, I feel like I'm dying behind that wheel. During the week, I spend as much time driving to and from work as I spend with my kids. I know which I'd rather be doing. It might come as a surprise, but motorcycling to work isn't all that much quicker than driving. The time spent getting leathers, boots, helmet and gloves on, added to the need to refuel once a day, just about offsets the fifteen minute decrease in journey time.

The difference, though, is that motorcycling is fun. Even on a cutesy little tiddler like that ER-6f. Even in the rain, even when you're tired, even when you've had a hard day and the traffic is backed up for miles. Especially when the traffic is backed up for miles.

It requires total concentration. There's no room for dawdling, for flights of fancy, no desire to let the mind wander. Always looking forward. It's cathartic.

And it's dangerous.

Some of the comments about that video are, well, not surprising, but questionable. This guy's stupid, is he? Has no sense of fear? Uh, maybe. Yes, he's injured himself. Doing something dangerous and entirely unnecessary. Could have killed himself. But he could do the same thing by living on beer, fags and pizza. Plenty of people do that, no-one's calling them names. Probably because no-one's noticed that they're there.

The self-destructive urge takes a lot of different forms. See Fight Club. That stuff's been happening forever. What do you think football hooliganism is about? Or the regular Friday night booze-up and punch-up? You get to the point that your life is no longer a life and death struggle and decide, rightly or wrongly, that without the life and death struggle your life no longer has a point.

I'd be willing, for fun, to argue that the guy riding the bike here is actually less stupid than the guy killing himself slowly on his sofa. He can jump off. He does, watch him; as soon as he realises that the gig is up, self-preservation kicks in and he bails. He got away with a broken leg.

When's your couch potato going to bail?

Will he, ever? Or will he just fur up, melt away, unnoticed?

When I first started riding, I heard people talk about jumping off. I was astounded. I asked them how they knew, when does it become clear that it's time to jump? "You'll just know," they said. As I gained experience, I collected the usual portfolio of near-misses and, on a few occasions, hits. Just part of a rider's resume. The near-misses were perhaps more frustrating, because often I didn't know what I'd done to rescue the situation. You just do it, mostly it works out.

One night, tootling through town on the way home from the gym, I filter to the front of a line of traffic and sit, waiting on a red light. Light changes, traffic starts to move, I pin the throttle and shoot off across the junction. In very, very slow motion, a dark blue van enters my field of view, traveling from right to left, directly across my path. He's just jumped a red.

Heavy, heavy braking, cold tyres. Front end dives, wheel starts to lock, back end skips up, everything gets that waxy feel that means you're sliding. The van's seen me and is braking too. I get enough time to think "no" and then-

My knee hits the ground first, then the chin of my helmet. I'm pretty sure I'm sliding down the road, but only the noise of my helmet grinding along the tarmac tells me this. It stops. I must have come to a halt. I'm fine.

I stand up, turn around, everyone's at a standstill. I look the terrified van driver in the eye, jab my finger towards the still-green light and scream "GREEN FUCKING LIGHT!"

My knee hurts. My bike's wedged into the front of the van.

According to the witnesses, and there were many, I jumped off the bike just before the van hit it. I have no recollection. Had I not jumped, my right thigh would have been mashed into the front of that van with the rest of my bike. I guess I just knew.

In contrast to the only other serious accident I've had on a bike, I had time to realise that something was going on, and to try and rectify it. I did what I could, other than avoid the accident in the first place, and it worked out okay. I'm a bit more cautious on junctions now, lights or no. Lesson learned, bike replaced, a few cuts and bruises to brag about down the pub.

Sometimes you can't see it coming. Sometimes you see it coming and it doesn't work out so well.

The people I ride with are few and far between. I choose not to ride with others as a rule, because playing follow-my-leader is a silly risk, whether you're in front or behind. I can count the number of people I trust to ride with on what remains of my right hand. I got a call at the weekend from one of them to tell me that that number is now one fewer and further between.

John was probably the most reckless of us all, and the one I was least likely to try and keep up with. A funny guy, same age as me, straight up decent. I hadn't seen him in a while, and I'd be a liar if I said we were best of friends, but we shared some good times.

I had by some strange coincidence been thinking about him just a few hours before the call. I was driving old roads, and tittering about the last time I'd seen John -- I'd been driving him back from a bike meet at Cadwell Park in my Dad's camper van. His bike had broken down and I just happened to drive past. We'd been to the same race not knowing the other was there. On the way, the camper's brakes failed as we coasted towards a roundabout at 50mph. We crapped ourselves, made it through, laughed about it afterwards.

I wasn't surprised to hear that John was dead, just as I'm not sure anyone who knows me would be particularly surprised to hear that I'd died an untimely death. From what I gather, he got caught in bad weather climbing some Spanish mountain, and he and two of his companions died. I can think of better ways to go.

I spent the weekend downcast. The people I spoke to asked me what was wrong and made the noises. They were well-meaning, and they're nice people. But "dying doing something you love" is a sop for the people left behind. Very few people love freezing to death, or sliding into the path of an oncoming vehicle. Heart attack while snorkelling, anyone? No, I thought not.

Sometimes you just don't get the chance to jump.

If I were religious, I might say a prayer, try to beam magic goodwill rays at John up in heaven with the rest of the Care Bears, but I don't think that's going to do anyone any good.

For now I'll just pour a forty on the curb and go back to dying slowly in my shitty tin box, simultaneously wishing that I could endanger my life for 90 minutes every day and hoping that I die an old, old man.