The Big Spill By Karin © 2001
It was on the Motorway between Manchester and Hull, I was trying to make it to the ferry port before my boat sailed to Rotterdam. The plan was to go to a big bike fest in Dusseldorf Germany, I'd been looking forward to the break for weeks. The last thing I remember before the accident was the traffic. It was fairly heavy rush hour and as usual the impatient, or unobservant motorist was too busy fighting his own car wars to worry about mirrors or motorcyclists. I'd dodged a couple of idiots who'd pulled out in front of me without looking behind and I'd had been lucky so far not to have been squared by some dick head in a ford fiesta.
The motorway opened up a bit as I managed to get to a gap in the traffic and more in frustration than anything else I cranked the throttle and opened her up to cover the gap before some prick tried to cream me again. As I sped up the inner track of the middle lane I remember seeing the tanker ahead of me. I knew I was safe as the middle and fast lanes were temporarily clear so I powered the bike onward to get past him. I was doing about 85mph and closing on the fuel lorry fast when I noticed a pipe dislodge itself from the housing at the back of the truck. It flew off to the rear of the vehicle and spewed a stream of diesel onto the road as it bounced along the carriageway. I slewed the bike to the right to try to avoid the inevitable but the hose bounced out in front of me and spilled more of the deadly lubricant into my path.
I tried to power through it, hoping I could maintain enough traction and get to the outside of the road, avoiding a disaster. My front wheel caught it first and I felt front end of the bike dip like a figure skater in a graceful bow. I leaned hard to counter balance but as I did so the rear wheel hit it and the bike pitched in the opposite direction. The world seemed to stop. The only thing moving was Me, and it was like slow motion as one minute I was a rider aboard my beautiful machine and then my mother bird was gone and I was flying alone, supported by nothing but air. I knew it would hurt, but I wasn't ready for quite how much it would hurt. It was like running as hard as you can into a solid brick wall.
The wind was smashed from me and I remember bouncing once or twice, each time it was like being hit by a train. I felt my arm bones smashing as I put out my hands to protect myself, then I was pitched upward in a curving arc, I remember watching the opposite carriageway turning about, cars and trucks upside down then right way up then upside down again. I saw my bike rush underneath me, sparks streaming from her glistening paintwork as she slid to her demise, then my head hit the floor with a huge bang and all was dark.
It was a minute later, or so it seemed. I opened my eyes to terrible pain. My limbs were in agony like someone was stretching me on a rack. I sobbed briefly. More an exclamation than anything. I looked around, trying to adjust to my surroundings. Everything seemed to be white. I couldn't hear any traffic and thought for a moment that perhaps I had died and was now waiting in Gods vestibule. "Hello Peter" said a voice out of view, "You back with the living then?" I moved my head, or tried to, but the brace around my neck prevented me from moving so I still couldn't see who it was that had spoken. A face appeared above me. Dark brown hair fastened back. Little paper hat perched on top of her head. Was this an angel?? "How you feeling then?"
It was a legitimate question. I didn't really know other than I felt like I was being tortured. A stream of questions rushed though my mind but the best I could summon was "Where am I?" It was a shit cliché, but nothing more inspiring appeared to me. I couldn't seem to open my mouth so I couldn't actually utter the words and a groan was all that emerged. My eyes must have conveyed the question.
"You're in Hull Royal Infirmary" she spoke, her accent twanged with East Yorkshire. "You were brought here off the M62, you're in a bit of a bad way, but we'll soon have you up and about again." She went on to tell me that my left leg was in traction, my right leg was externally fixated (splinted with steel screws attached to a metal rod on the outside of my leg) , both my arms were broken, my right arm in three places, my helmet had disintegrated on impact apparently and as a consequence my jaw was in tiny pieces, held together with wire. I lost my concentration after that and closed my eyes to sleep, it was less painful in the darkness.
I'd been there about a week I suppose. My wareness of the passage of time was not at it's best. Still lying in my tortured state, all my needs were catered for and I was unable to do anything for myself. My nutritional requirements were provided through a tube in my nose, my pain relieving medication was administered through cannulars in my arms and legs (they tended to move around a bit) my bodily functions were mainly self contained. I had a catheter in my dick trickling and endless stream of piss into a bag at the side of my bed. My cock burned like it had hot wire in it but at least I wasn't pissing the sheets. My shite however was mopped up in a big man's nappy applied to me twice daily by the tender touch of the nursing staff. I still felt like I was being crucified and the discomfort, not to mention the embarrassment was, at times, unbearable.
One morning, a team of nurses and doctors gathered around my bed and began to discuss me as though I wasn't there. They spoke in a medical code which I was not privileged to comprehend but after they had left, Julie, my nursing angel explained that I was on the mend. My physio would start tomorrow so at least I'd be able to move around a little bit and they were going to remove my catheter and replace it with a uridom, a kind of thick rubber condom with a tube attached. They were also going to move me onto a general surgical ward in the next week or so, depending on how I got on.
The removal of the catheter isn't something I ever want to experience again. Aside from the sheer shame of having your once proud man parts pulled about like they don't even belong to you, the burning sensation of the withdrawal is unbelievable. They did offer anaesthetic but the prospect of having a Male Nurse stick a needle in my penis had me quivering with fear.
9 days in and I was dying. The physio was going great and it was a blessed relief to be turned and twisted and thumped and pounded by the female wrestler who purported to be in the medical profession, but what was really getting to me, over and above all my other pains and tribulations was the ever present dull ache in my balls. I couldn't remember the last time I'd emptied them and I really was gagging for it. Julie came in one morning on early shift to see to my man nappy. As she pulled the curtains around the bed she asked how I was feeling.
"I'm OK" I replied in a sullen, matter of fact way through the gritted teeth of my wired jaw, "This is too embarrassing for me Julie, having you wipe my arse and empty my piss bag… I am an independent bloke and I find it hard to deal with… sorry, I'm a bit down today. Nice to see you this morning though"
"What needs to be done, needs to be done Peter" she answered. "Unless you think you can do it yourself."
"I can't do anything for myself Julie, that's the point…"
