We can rebuild him....
We can rebuild him, slower, weaker more fragile.



Photos and a long story of a bike, a van and a yellow line that the van ignored in reply below.
( Kovacs Slogan free since 2003, Mon 2 Aug 2010, 21:57, 3 replies)

I think it's broken.
Merrily making my way home after picking up some supplies from the pet shop; I suddenly came to an abrupt halt. How strange I thought, this van wasn't in the way of my motorcycle a second ago, and besides - is that not a yellow line that it should be waiting behind?

So begins a story of farce and woe.

"I thought you were coming through the window" are the first words that the van driver said to me as I picked myself off the ground. I didn't know it yet but I'd broken my arm in three places, ripped open the back of my hand, pierced my shin, broken my foot and pretty much ruined my knee.

I tried to pick my poor motorbike up, I could see it there laying on the ground, the front end caved in and a strange looking dent in the tank. I tried to lift it, but my wrist hurt too much when I braced myself agains the bike. I removed my glove and my arm suddenly looked very strange. It looked strange because it was now hanging down from the middle of my forearm like a strange second wrist. I gingerly held it with my other hand and only now did I notice the large holde that had appeared in the center of my hand. I could see the bones, and I could see the tendons moving as I flexed my fingers. I should have been horrified, but thanks to the huge amount of adrenaline now surging through my system I was totally calm. I remember thinking that it was the coolest thing that I'd ever seen.



I'd had the 'fortune' to be hit right outside a petrol station and suddenly had lots of people coming over to me, making sure that I didn't fall or faint. They took me over and sat me on someones bonnet. People were swarming over me offering help and reassurance. The initial high was beging to wear off and I remember feeling very sleepy all of a sudden. Someone then shouted to phone an ambulance and I told them not to as my friend Glen lived five minutes walk away and I could get a lift with him as it would be quicker then waiting for the ambulance. Someone called Glen and sure enough he pulled up in his old banger. I was escorted me to the car and strapped into the passenger seat. Someone then handed me a large piece of paper filled with names, numbers and addresses. "Those are all your witnesses", I was told. "Everyone here saw it wasn't your fault and everyone on that page is happy to tell the police that". One less worry that I was very thankful for.

The journey to the hospital was fairly uneventful. Unless you include Glen managing to get lost on the way. Eventually we arrived and I staggered into A&E. I walked up to the reception, my arm flopping down and blood now dripping and seeping through the bangage that had been wrapped around my hand. "What seems to be the problem?' asked the receptionist without looking up. "I've broken my arm", I replied. Without giving me so much as a cursory glance she very haughtily said "Why don't we let the doctor be the judge of that", "now sit down over there".

The next few minutes became a bit of a blur. I know that I never made it to the waiting area. A passing nurse took one look as me and then the next thing I know I've being carried by the shoulders by nurses and orderlies. I then find myself lying in a bed, a mask over my face and someone cutting away my t-shirt. Lots of people were around me and then I felt a jab and found myself sinking into the bed in the same way that Renton does in Trainspotting when he ODs. I remember wanting to sleep, and trying to do so, but the nurse kept shouting at me, telling me that I needed to stay awake. I tried to do as I was told.

Eventually, things calmed down and the another nurse came to me beside. She had a clipboard and questions. Who am I, where do I live, how old am I? She asked what religion I was and I told her I was agnostic. She asked if that was a Christian religion. I told her no. She asked if it was Catholic. I again told her no. She told me not to worry, she'll just put down Catholic. I was in no condition to argue. However the nurse that had been shouting at me to stay awake was! "Mr. Kovacs has told you agnostic, and you will write down agnostic. If he tells you he is a chicken, you will write down that he is a chicken. Now go away and do something useful as Mr. Kovacs has more pressing matters then discussing religion with you"!

I found myself liking her immensely.



I was taken for x-rays and then told the extent of the injuries. The foot and shin would heal fine. I'd torn ligaments in the knee and that would be taken care of later. The problem was my arm. From the witness statements and the injury type it was apparent that I had gone somersaulting forwards over the handlebars, slamming into the van with my back, head down towards the floor. My arm however didn't come with me. It had got caught between the brake lever and the van. The twisting motion has snapped the arm and it now required surgery to insert a rod and to plate it together. They were going to take me up to the ward to prepare me and then they'd operate within the hour.

But first they wanted to know if I had checked my balls since the accident. I asked why and was given the response - "to see if they are still there". A pretty common occurrence in bike accidents such as mine, was for the groin to make contact with the petrol tank, resulting in ruptured testicles. " Do you want me to check" she asked, as she watched me struggle to undo my trousers. "I think I'll manage", I replied. I was struggling quite badly with the zip and she said - "if you are embarrassed about having a stranger check, would you like your friend to check instead" and nodded at Glen who I now noticed was sat in a chair in the corner of the room. I looked at him, he looked at me; I made a mental note to kill him when I left the hospital so that word of this offer could never get out. Glen went white and I told the nurse that she should do the checking. She slipped her hand below the waistline of my boxer shorts, and I held my breath. Then I let out a noise remarkably similar to a goose when she made contact. "Obviously very tender, swollen but two of them you will be pleased to hear"; and she was right.



One final indignity lay in store for me. The orderlies took me to the ward and went to lift me onto the bed from the wheelchair. Two of them, taking an arm each lifted me. Of course it was at this point that we all remembered that my trousers were undone and that my boxers had been pulled down, and with my t-shirt having been removed long ago I had mealy been covered with a blanket. A blanket which now fell to the floor as I was held up for the entire ward, and their visitors to see - held Christ like, arms apart, naked except for the trousers around my ankles.

I've not made as dramatic an entrance to a room since.



Epiloge

This all happened in 2001.

The photo above is of my bike, the dent you see was made by my bollocks.
The driver that hit me went off the roads. I never received an apology.
The policeman that interviewed me the next day, tried to intimidate me into taking the blame. He tried to get me say I was speeding (I wasn't even close having just passed through traffic lights), that I was driving recklessly, that I must have been doing something - "because that's what you bikers do". I put in a complaint and received a visit from him at my house. He apologised to me and explained that some years previously he had been run over by a motorbike and that the situation of interviewing me in my hospital bed had affected his judgement.
Despite being right hand dominant, my gripping power is about a third of my left hand. Rotation is nowhere near what it was previously. Due to this, I now throw like a girl.
People have mistaken the wrist scar for a suicide attempt.
My wrist makes loud cracking noises whenever I move it.
My knee is still completely buggered. I have to take ibuprofen if I know that I'm going to walk any distance on it. I aches constantly.

I still ride motorbikes.
( Kovacs Slogan free since 2003, Mon 2 Aug 2010, 22:04, closed)

Makes me feel fortunate
I started riding bikes when I was 12, I'm now 42,I still ride bikes, both street and dirt and I've managed to get away with nothing more than a few bruises and scrapes. I hope I haven't jinxed myself now.
(M61A1 CUPID- STUNTS, Tue 3 Aug 2010, 7:42, closed)

Ouch
And where in the world can you ride that thing on L plates?????
( Greenbat, Mon 2 Aug 2010, 22:15, closed)