TH has, for
many a long year, been a cyclist. He is getting a bit long in the tooth, and
although I’ve seen a great deal worse, he’s probably well past the age where
lycra brings out the best in him. Nevertheless, I’m almost as proud as he is of
the seven or eight medals he amassed on his annual outing on the London to
Brighton bike ride for the British Heart Foundation. We’ve laughed with him and
at him: the latter, especially, when he fell victim to an irreparable puncture
several miles from home, and had forgotten his mobile phone. I don’t think he
enjoyed the walk back in his cycling shoes, but you’re never too late to learn
a life lesson.
Bicycle Marathon by Vojko Kalan
Image from http://www.publicdomainpictures.net
Then, about
four years ago , he had an unfortunate experience in France whilst out cycling,
where he was poleaxed by the Very Strong Gust of Wind.
Having
brought his pride-and-joy racing bike out to France, he set out one sunny
afternoon, leaving me lounging by the pool, with the promise to return in time
for us to go into the local town for a stroll and an early evening drink. I
settled down with a book to await his return.
Some time
later, my mobile phone rang.
“It’s me”
said TH “Can you come and get me? I’ve fallen off my bike”
“Where are
you?” I asked, fearing all sorts of things “Are you OK?”
“Yes, I’m
fine, but hang on….someone wants to have a word”
With that,
TH passed his phone to a Frenchman, and the conversation went as follows:
“Bonjour
madame. Your husband had a nasty fall. We picked him up, but when we got to
him, he wasn’t making much sense, so we rang for the SAMU”
( I did
think, rather uncharitably, that the “not making much sense” might have been a
little matter of language problems, but I was becoming increasingly concerned).
The
Frenchman (or men, for there were two of them) had been working on a chantier
next to the road, where a new dual carriageway was under construction. They
gave me directions to the spot, and told me that the ambulance was on its way.
I hastily gathered together my clothes, bag and wits and jumped into the car to
hurry to the scene.
Upon my
arrival, I found TH covered in blood, his cycle helmet looking as if someone
had attacked it with a cheese grater, and his lycra top looking somewhat
shredded. The SAMU had also arrived. TWO lots of them, for it appeared that TH
had selected a spot for his accident that fell exactly halfway between the
jurisdictions of two hospitals, so he was being largely ignored whilst the two
crews had a chat about who was going to take him where. I managed to establish
from TH that he thought he might have broken his collarbone, but that he was
now pretty sure he hadn’t. I got the story from the two Frenchmen and thanked
them profusely for their help, and then spent several minutes whilst waiting
for the medics to make up their minds who was in charge, persuading TH that no,
he was NOT OK, and yes, he did have to go to hospital and get checked out.
Eventually, after I had answered all the necessary questions and forms had been
filled in on TH’s behalf, the ambulance drove off with TH impressively strapped
onto a spinal board, wearing a neck brace and a helpless expression. His almost total lack of French, rather than
his injuries, was the main cause of this helplessness.
I’ll spare
you the blow-by-blow. Some few hours later, discharged from hospital and
wearing an impressive neck brace, with a prescription for a year’s supply of
Doliprane and Betadeine, I helped OH to the car. We did both wonder why, amid
all the x-rays, examinations and ministrations, no-one had offered or tried to
remove ANY of the blood in which he was covered, but never mind.
Anyway…
Since that episode, TH has done very little riding outdoors. The bike – quite an
expensive road bike – had suffered no lasting damage from the fall, and when we
came back home, TH invested in a gadget which enabled him to use the bike as a
static machine. This was installed in the garden shed,
to which he has disappeared on at least 3 evenings each week, and cycled a good
30 miles or so on the spot. Something known within the family as the “Tour du
Shed”.
Alas,
overnight on Friday, and after having already over the last month broken into
the garden sheds of both of our neighbours, the local thieves finally decided it was Our Turn.
Up early on
Saturday morning, I popped out to put some rubbish in the dustbin and noticed
that the garden gate was ajar. Walking through the gate to the back of the
house, I saw the shed door open and ran down the garden to check. The locked
door had been forced open, and the beloved bike was gone. It had been chained to
a huge wooden tool chest and fixed into the static rollers, but the chain had
been forced apart with a screwdriver (ours) and the bike was no more, along with
a few other items of equipment and tools. Luckily, and largely as a result of
precautions taken since the neighbours’ burglaries, another three bikes,
including a nice new road bike recently purchased by TH, were still there: he
had had the presence of mind to chain all three together using some really
heavy chain AND a D-lock. The police were called, and came to look. That’s all,
just look. They won’t be doing anything – they said so.
Things
could, of course, been a lot worse. However, TH is bereft. There is unlikely to
be much money from the insurance, as a separate insurance for a bike is almost
impossible to obtain, but although this is not a piece of expensive jewellery
or a family heirloom, that bike was an old and trusted friend. TH and the bike
have been through a lot together. No more Tour du Shed….
