I never dreamed slowly cruising through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous! Studies have shown that motorcycling requires more decisions per second, and more sheer data processing than nearly any other common activity or sport. The reactions and accurate decision making abilities needed have been likened to the reactions of fighter pilots! The consequences of bad decisions or poor situational awareness are pretty much the same for both groups too.
Occasionally, as a rider I have caught myself starting to make bad or late decisions while riding. In the airforce instructors call this being 'behind the power curve'. It is a mark of experience that when this begins to happen, the rider recognizes the situation, and more importantly, does something about it. A short break, a drink, or even a petrol stop can set things right again as it gives the brain a chance to catch up.
Good, accurate, and timely decisions are essential when riding a motorcycle especially riding a Bantam - at least if you want to remain among the living. In short, the brain needs to keep up with the machine.
I had been banging around the back roads of the Tanant valley and as I headed back into Llanarmon, found myself in very heavy, farm traffic. Normally, this is not a problem, I commute in these conditions daily, but suddenly I was nearly run down by a tractor that decided it needed my lane more than I did. This is not normally a big deal either, as it happens around here often, but usually I can accurately predict which drivers are not paying attention and avoid them before we are even close. This one I missed seeing until it was nearly too late, and as I took evasive action I nearly broadsided another car that I was not even aware was there!
Two bad decisions and insufficient situational awareness. All within seconds. I was behind the power curve. Time to get off the road. I hit the next exit, and as I was in an area I knew pretty well, headed through a few big farming neighborhoods as a new route home. As I turned onto the nearly empty lanes I opened the visor on my full-face helmet to help get some air. I figured some slow riding through the quiet farm lanes would give me time to relax, think, and regain that 'edge' so frequently required when riding. Little did I suspect.
As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it-it was that close.
I hate to run over animals and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact.
Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels can take care of themselves!
Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing the oncoming 'Beastly Bantam' with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, 'Banzai!' or maybe, 'Die you Bantam riding, heathen scum!' as the leap was spectacular and he flew over the handlebars and impacted me squarely in the chest.
Instantly he set upon me. If I did not know better I would have sworn he brought twenty of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light t-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage!
Picture a large man on a weedy, smoking, oildrippin BSA Bantam from the workshops of the dammed (No, NOT Philips prepared!), dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and leather gloves puttering maybe 25mph down a quite country lane and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing.
I grabbed for him with my left hand and managed to snag his tail. With all my strength I flung the evil rodent off the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw.
That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept gardens and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser. But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary pissed-off squirrel. This was an evil attack squirrel of death!
Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands, and with the force of the throw swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact he landed square on my back and resumed his rather anti-social and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him!
The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him. I was startled to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Buggered Bantam can only have one result. Wheezing and a massive backfire. This is what the Buggered Bantam is made for, and she is very, very good at it. The engine gasped and popped as the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Buggered Bantam screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in - well.I just plain screamed.
Now picture a large man on a weedy, smoking, oildrippin BSA Bantam from the workshops of the dammed (No, NOT Philips prepared!), dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel torn t-shirt, and only one leather glove roaring at maybe 20mph and rapidly accelerating down a quite country lane on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder.
With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle - my brain was just simply overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little affect with a Bantams massive, awesome and totally useless rear brake.
About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is a Llansilin trained attack squirrel of death and he came around my neck and got IN my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed partway and he began hissing in my face I am quite sure my screaming changed tone and intensity. It seemed to have little affect on the squirrel however. The rpm's on The Beastly Bantam maxed out (1500 RPM and I was not concerned about changing gear at the moment) and her front end started to drop.
Now picture the large man on the weedy, smoking, oildrippin BSA Bantam from the workshops of the dammed (No, NOT Philips prepared!), dressed in jeans, a very ragged torn t-shirt, and wearing one leather glove, roaring at probably 25mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel's tail sticking out his mostly closed full-face helmet. By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse.
Finally I got the upper hand. I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked. sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of, so to speak.
Picture the scene. You are a village bobby used to the occasional 'word' with the kids and warning about a bold tyre. You and your partner have pulled off on a quite country lane and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork (sleep off the pies cadged from the 'Hand').
Suddenly a large man on a weedy, smoking, oildrippin BSA Bantam from the workshops of the dammed (No, NOT Philips prepared!), dressed in jeans, a torn t-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing one leather glove, moving at probably 30mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.
I heard screams. They weren't mine...
I managed to get the Bantam under directional control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking (shoe leather) and skidded to a stop in a cloud of burning two stroke oil smoke at the stop sign at a busy cross street.
I would have returned to confess (and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. But for two things. First, the bobbies did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. One of them was on his back in the front garden of the house they had been parked in front of and was rapidly crabbing backwards away from the police car. The other was standing on the pavement and was making the sign of the cross towards the police car.
So the bobbies were not interested in me. They often insist to 'let the professionals handle it' anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I swear I could see the squirrel, standing in the back window of the police car among shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery, and shaking his little fist at me. I think he was sticking up his middle finger. That is one dangerous squirrel.
And now he has a police car.
I took a deep breath, kicked the kick start a zillion times in a second, made a right turn, and sedately left the neighborhood. As for my easy and slow drive home? Bollocks. Faced with a choice of 30mph tractors and cars and inattentive drivers, or the evil, demonic, attack squirrel of death...I'll take my chances with the main road. Every time. And I'll buy myself a new pair of gloves.
PS Using the Sunbeam for the next few weeks in case I get recognized!
