CRASH, BANG, WALLOP

I guess there’s no such thing as a good crash, but this one was definitely a bad one.

I had spent the day on an old runway, honing my (lack of) Moto Gymkhana skills with my colleagues Tony and Ross.

My last memory is of jumping on my Africa Twin, and setting off for home after the practice was over. The next time I had a coherent thought was a week later in Queen’s Medical Centre in Nottingham. I had no idea where I was or what had happened, but with all the tubes and cables attached to my aching body I knew it wasn’t good.

The drugs kept the pain at an arm’s length but they also did strange things to my bashed brain: I somehow convinced myself that I had crashed while taking part in a classic motorcycle race in Italy, and was still there at a local hospital. How my brain came up with this scenario I don’t know