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What is it they say about nature being a tough teacher – if you get it wrong it hands out the punishment first before teaching the lesson? In my case there were two lessons, one of which was crystal clear: keep your eyes on the road. Unfortunately, the preceding punishment was fairly draconian: not only for me but also – undeservedly – for my mate Charlie.
Back in 1978, following Charlie on a back road in northern Malaysia, I had glanced down at the map taped to the top of the box on the tank of my Honda. At the same time, Charlie reached a sizeable pothole and braked his XL250 as hard as you can brake one of those. Not very, thanks for asking. Since I wasn’t looking where I was going, I hit him from behind. I vaguely remember that, but after that my memory cuts out until I came to head-down in a ditch.
On this excursion along the beach in Malaysia, I am not wearing a helmet. Photo: The Bear
Fortunately – it might seem odd to use that word under the circumstances but stick with me – we were both wearing our helmets. Malaysia in those days had a fairly vague helmet law which required the rider (but not any passengers, of whom there were often four or more) to wear something which could be described as a helmet by someone whose vision was severely impaired. Even that was honored as much in absence as presence, so we did occasionally ride without our Shoeis; especially when it was very hot. This time, though, I think because we were on a kind of transport stage, we had them on.
While I scrambled upward out of the ditch, handicapped by a stabbing pain in my upper back, Charlie was picking himself up off the road. We might have been wearing helmets as well as our ubiquitous RM Williams elastic-sided boots, but the rest of our outfit was anything but ATGATT. Both of us had on thin (because they were cool) jeans and T-shirts. Charlie’s was ripped quite spectacularly, and blood was oozing out of several wounds on his upper torso.
South Asia abounds in crowds, quite a young one in this case. Photo: The Bear
We soon collected a crowd, as usual anywhere in southern Asia, and an ambulance was soon called. Several people volunteered to look after the bikes and our luggage, and we were whisked off to hospital in Kuantan. As I was wheeled into the building on a gurney, I told the woman walking alongside me that I thought I had broken my left scapula. I’d done it before. That blow to the head must have been more severe than I thought, because I normally know better than to self-diagnose in front of a medical practitioner.
The woman doctor, who later turned out to be some kind of American Peace Corps volunteer, said in a miffed tone: “I’LL tell you what you’ve broken!”
Charlie looks badly abraded, which he was. Photo: The Bear
Sure enough, she confirmed later, the X-Ray had shown no fractures. Once Charlie had had his multiple cuts and abrasions attended to, we booked into a Chinese hotel by the markets. Charlie organized for the bikes to be brought into town – I can’t overstate the helpfulness and kindness of the locals – and we settled in for the few days he had to stick around to have his dressings changed.
Every night we sat in front of the hotel drinking Guinness, to the amazement of passers-by. Guinness is considered a medicine in Malaysia, and people were surprised to see two foreigners who needed so much medicine. Four or five bottles a night! Medicine was what it was for me, because the pain in my back wasn’t getting any better.
Working on his bike a few months later in Delhi, Charlie has just about healed. Photo: The Bear
When Charlie had repaired the bikes with minimally competent input from me and his dressing replacements became less of a daily thing, we headed off again towards Penang. I could not lift my left hand for the pain and had to use my right hand to put it on the handlebar grip, where it stayed almost completely uselessly. Pulling in the clutch lever resulted in a blaze of agony from my back, but most of the rest of the time it was just pain. Somewhat distracting, it’s true.
We were pulled over at roadblocks a couple of times, and the soldiers were most suspicious of the faces I was making and groans I was producing. For some reason we could not assuage their fears that we, a couple of indisputably white (well, white-ish by now) Australian motorcyclists, were somehow in cahoots with the communist-backed local insurgents who had attacked a police station somewhere miles away. Well, either that or stopping and searching a couple of foreigners on heavily-loaded motorcycles broke the boredom. I suspect that it was the latter.
Just to round the story off, here’s me fixing that tank again a year later on Cape Cod. Photo: The Bear
When we finally reached Penang, I accompanied Charlie to the hospital where he was going to once more get his dressings changed. The hospital in Kuantan had given him a letter requesting this which was honored at two or three hospitals along our way. Like my treatment, almost free. Since we were there, I asked if I might have my back X-rayed again. The technician gave a low whistle when he saw the X-Ray, and confirmed the second lesson: never self-diagnose.
“No wonder you are in pain,” he said. “You have a crack as wide as my thumb in your left scapula.”
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