Continued......
Questions! Questions! Why hadn’t he really tried to get a room at that pub back there? He had dropped a cog and eased off on seeing the lights of the ‘King David’ ahead and, on looping into the half-full car-park, his headlight had picked up the ‘Rooms Vacant’ sign. But then he had seen the ‘No Motorcyclists. No Gypsies’ notice. Damn it! He was no scruffy, hard-up yobbo. He had no intentions of smashing up the genuine plastic Tudor décor of a ten-year old mediaeval inn. He never felt less like a little bit of rape and pillage.
True, his Gold Wing was no Johnny-come-lately, life-style machine. Over twenty years old, but the amount he had invested in restoring it to showroom condition would have bought most of their poxy little tin-cages, with change left over. What’s more, he probably could have bought the whole place, lock, stock and barrel, with his petty cash. But these thoughts didn’t stop with him as, with a flash of anger, he twitched the throttle and roared away.
He pulled his attention back to the road, now fully dark. Apart from the remembered anger warming him for a moment, these thoughts did him no good. He had to go on now. Where was he? He must be somewhere near Glastonbury, about halfway to home - or from it. He tried to maintain his usual relaxed rhythm of riding, but the shivers and tensions buried deep inside caused the bike to waver more than once.
NIGHT
Seeing the sheep glowing golden in the headlight and the automatic emergency reaction occurred almost together. He felt the back wheel slip to the left. With long-practised skill he caught that one. The bike began to stand up. He’d got that in hand, too. Then there was the Moor pony – or was it a donkey? Silently, "No, you stupid bugger, you’ve got Yarmouth on your mind – and it’s too late to matter anyway" - out loud, "Oh shit!" He angled into the second rear slide, tried a little gas to get himself away from the threatening verge and sensed that sickening, roller-coaster whoosh as the bike high-sided. He cart-wheeled into the darkness but, before that darkness closed over him completely, he coolly said, "I must be delirious", as he saw the other animals below him.
When the darkness lifted, it was still night. He lay there assessing his position – apparently in a thick gorse bush. He began wiggling various extremities. "Two legs … two arms … I seem to have two heads – that must be the fever." Concluding that the inventory was reasonably complete, he tried moving. Successfully. It ached like hell everywhere and a few places besides, but everything seemed to work. A flash of fear dissolved as he realised that it was indeed sweat and not blood trickling down in various places.
He staggered to his feet and stumbled to the roadside. He looked for the bike – but not far. It lay against the wall of a ruined byre near the roadside. It looked crumpled – very crumpled. Puffing and panting, he pulled it upright and heaved it up on the centre-stand. At least that was OK.
Yeah! From the looks of it he could keep the centre-stand and throw the rest away. The front forks and wheel looked like Uri Geller had been at work. The bars, shaped like a question mark, made a clear statement. What remained of the right-hand valve cover covered little and, sod it! The engine was skew in the frame. Various fluids made dark pools in the dirt. But God! He’d been lucky. Better to have a broken Gold Wing than a couple of golden wings.