Decisions

It's true what they say about decisions; they come back to haunt us. One of the worst decisions my uncle Owen ever made was allowing me use of his green, 150cc Lambretta. Not as iconic as ‘Vespa scooter of Il Dolce Vita fame’ but quicker, he used it to go on fishing trips and to take himself to Stamford Bridge to watch ‘Chopper Harris’ do Chelsea’s dirty work.

Nagged by his wife, my sainted aunty Mavis, who took pity on me for the wretchedness of my commute from Wandsworth to Fenchurch Street in the heart of the City of London, and the fact that I was newly married and struggling, he handed it over reluctantly. When I handed it back it was a wreck. He didn’t talk to me for several years, only forgiving me as he lay on what he thought was his deathbed. After fifty-odd years of rolling his own he’d been advised to stop smoking cigarettes. Thinking the decision to stop would kill him, it nearly did.

I remember my first accident well. Steaming round a corner in Victoria during the morning rush hour I was surprised to see a bowler-hatted man in hesitation mode. I didn’t hesitate to hit the brakes but there was not enough space for the front of the Lambretta not to clobber him amidships. Down he went. Off I fell. I was even more surprised when he sprang to his feet and sprinted to the nearest pavement. How a black cab didn’t get him or I we’ll both never know. Safe on the pavement he raised his funny hat, smiled, mouthed ‘Sorry about that’ and sped off to catch his tube. Picking up the dented and scratched Lambretta I stopped cursing and drove warily on.

My best ever accident was in the evening rush hour on Wandsworth High Street. Near the town hall I was duelling with two car drivers who seemed inclined to make a sandwich out of me. As they had a weight advantage I had to brake and it was wet. Fortunately they’d both passed me when the skid maximised. Down I went. My scattergun effect on the surrounding, speeding traffic would have looked comical from the air, but God bless those London drivers. As I threaded my way through them I received nary a scratch.

The Lambretta was not so lucky. Sliding along the road and spinning like a top did it no good whatsoever. But do you know, I ventured out into the middle of the maelstrom, retrieved it, wheeled it to the side of the road and it started first time. Thinking no more about it and ignoring the slightly buckled front wheel it got me home.
The worst decision I’ve made for a while is one I made last Thursday. I decided to rent a studio in Kata, Phuket and the deal includes a new set of wheels. The connection with events all those years ago is ironic rather than iconic. The bike is a streamlined 150 cc scooter, model Mio Amore, but the name was coined in Tokyo. Yamaha make great bikes but isn’t it sad that they have to resort to lifting names that are synonymous with Italian-made two-wheelers? Well I think it is.

But it is a bike. It goes like ordure (shit) off a sharecropper’s clod buster, a sharp spade the Irish call a shovel. Nought to a hundred in about nine seconds but we’re only talking kilometres. Hills? Yes it does hills. And so far as my use of it is concerned, this is a good thing.

Do you know Kata/Karon Beach? It’s a sort of paradise. They say that James Bond rested-up here between scary trips to spiky islands where a man brandished a golden gun. Kata, Karon and neighbouring Patong can only be accessed by scary roads or by boat. To get in and out, hairy hill roads are involved, roads that look to have similar gradients to the A39, the trunk road between Devon and Somerset. The A39 features Porlock Hill and like that monster these Thai roads feature unusually explicit signs. In Thai and English they shout ‘Danger!’ ‘Slow down!’ and for God’s sake ‘Use low gear!’ What they keep to themselves is probably more important.

At this time of year, Phuket and elsewhere is subject to the prevailing north-easterly monsoon. Like typhoons blow, monsoons rain. Rain? Dear Lord, and how. But it seems to be official policy to ignore it, to act as if torrential rain was just one of those things. The fact that it can bucket down several centimetres as you cross a road seems to be no big deal. And probably isn’t. But, my dears, in my opinion the one sign that I would have liked to see, hear or feel before I biked across from Karon to Patong the other night was ‘Don’t go tonight. Change your mind. Tomorrow will be fine’.

Dear Lord, the journey of just seven kilometres was unbelievable. Dressed in light trousers and a blue, short-sleeved shirt I was as physically and mentally unprepared for danger and hardship as I have ever been in my entire life. The moment I felt the first drops bang into my face, splat onto my glasses and ping off my helmet I should have turned around and fled the scene. But no. I decided to blast on with the rest of the mainly four-wheeled traffic. Spray? I’ll say.

The downhill bits were the worst. Tarmac spread on steep slopes obeys the law of gravity and eventually slides downhill. Cracks form and widen, and I didn’t see one of them! Bang, crash, wobble, wobble, fright after fright. One thought I remember well. ‘Did I pass wind involuntarily just then or was it something worse?’

On a dry day at the bottom of the last hill before Patong there is a water feature. It has all the attributes of a permanently burst water main. On a dry day one should approach this feature with caution. On a black and super wet night one should only approach it in a military hovercraft.

Having reneged on a decision to never again drive a two-wheeler, my friends may want to know if, upon my arrival in Patong this year, whether I made a splash or not. I’m not telling until the insurance assessor has submitted his report and if my claim for a new, blue, short-sleeved shirt is approved.