Open Writing

My final day in Peru saw me loading my bike on to Carmen's brothers new pickup truck for the journey to the airport. As the Venezuelan Airlines DC 10 soared into the clouds above the Andean peaks en rout to Caracas, the capital of Venezuela, I brokered conversation with the 30 something man sitting next to me. He identified himself as a 747 pilot with Air France, that's a jumbo-jet to you and me. He had flown the Paris-Lima route and was on his way to Caracas to join a crew for the return flight to France.

The world's airlines have a reciprocal arrangement to provide free travel for each others aircrew staff between different airports. I was well into an absorbing conversation as we flew over Colombia when the chief steward came to inform him that he would be leaving the aircraft in Bogota to board another one for the final leg of his journey. This aircraft was about to take on a full complement of fare paying passengers. He did tell me that most accidents occur during takeoff and landing and that English was the international language between crews and air traffic controllers. Aircrew employed by airlines in Latin America who only spoke Spanish were forbidden to fly outside the region.

I assembled my bike in the air-conditioned airport of Caracas. Walking through the automatic doors was like entering a furnace. The capital is situated twenty kilometres away accessed by a motorway running up a mountainside. I sought accommodation for the night and hailing one of the huge Chevrolet taxis outside the airport I was whisked away to a hotel which I would not myself have chosen but realised the driver was probably getting a' cut' for delivering me to its door.

A cement factory lay next door and another factory making I know not what occupied the other side; the hotel making a nice sandwich filling. Oh, there was also the matter of aircraft with their undercarriages visible skimming the rooftop. Yes; I was staying directly on the flight path. Still, that's better than being underneath them on takeoff.

After a cleanup I made my way down to the bar. Hearing an American accent I was soon in conversation with a young Californian traveller. We soon had enough empty beerbottles on the checkered tablecloth to play a game of chess. This was all due to our mutual desire to avoid dehydration but it may also have been something to do with Roger, the hotel barman who provided a very efficient conveyor belt system for a ready supply of booze without a word being uttered. I reckon he was also on commission.

After a mere cup of coffee the following morning I set off for four days riding before meeting my flight deadline back to the UK. After a pleasant ten kilometre coastal ride the road suddenly began to snake its way up the mountainside disappearing into the distant mist. For several hours I climbed, suffering dehydration for lack of an adequate supply of liquid. This coupled with the absence of any access to a foodstore soon had me suffering cyclist's 'bonk'. After eight hours of hell I eventually reached a plateau; 2600 metres above sea level. One of the longest and toughest climbs I have even undertaken. Reaching a fork in the road I turned my wheels in an anti-gravity direction towards Caracas, 100 kilometres away. I was soon descending off the tree covered mountain and had quickly covered 40 kilometres when the equatorial darkness suddenly descended.

A hotel emerged out of the blackness of the night. I dismounted and booked a room as the receptionist viewed me quizzically. Completely shattered I showered and lay on the bed to test its firmness. Next thing I knew it was breakfast time. The receptionist charged me by the hour; 80 Bolivars, about 25 pence an hour. At this point I noticed couples coming and going. A little later I read in the South American Handbook: "Many small hotels do not cater for singles or couples staying more than a few hours". Following breakfast I continued on my rapid descent to Caracas. It was a quiet Sunday morning in marked contrast I understand to the congestion suffered on the other six days of the week; so serious that only 50% of private cars are allowed into the centre on anyone day by reference to alternate odd and even number registration plates.

My quest to return to the airport could only be met by riding on the hard shoulder of the motorway unless I was prepared to retrace my steps. I played the innocent foreigner and did manage to make considerable progress as I plunged towards the coast before being picked up by the police and bundled into a taxi for the remainder of the journey. So ended 1987-1991.

After my trip to South America I continued to have a major involvement on the racing scene in both time trials and road racing. Our holidays had usually been under canvas and we usually took our bikes with us to undertake some daily excursions from the camp site. We had a particular soft spot for a location close to Dolgellau in Central Wales which we had discovered in 1976 and to which we had returned time and time again long after our son and daughter had' flown the nest'. It has proved to be an ideal base for both cycling and walking. On 9th November 1989 at around 1645 hours I was riding through Halifax town centre as I had done for fifteen years on my way home after finishing teaching when I suddenly found myself laying in the road outside the County Court feeling extreme pain all over my body but in particular, my head. I am propped up against a tree in a sitting position. I am vaguely conscious of many people around me in the rapidly fading light. An ambulance arrives. I am stretchered into it. I whisper my name, address and telephone number. I hear the ambulance siren sounding as it speeds in the direction of Halifax General Infirmary. I am conscious of being wheeled into the hospital. I develop cramp in my leg; so painful that hospital staff have to stop me falling off the trolley. It is then that I became aware of Mary and Suzanne Ogden looking down at me. I undergo an examination in the Casualty Department. Grazed right leg; broken collarbone and a head injury. It is the latter which overrides the pain being inflicted on me by the other two injuries. My head is perpetually spinning. I cannot stop it. It is like suffering a thousand headaches; all happening at the same time.

I spend a week in hospital followed by a further eight recovering at home. The experience convinced me of the value of meaningful protective helmets for cyclists.

How did it happen? A young woman turned right and brought me down. Her car bonnet grill hit my right leg. She swept me up into the air and I landed on her car bonnet. I smashed her windscreen with my shoulder. She could not see where she was going. She braked. I was thrown off the bonnet hitting my head on the road. Key witnesses state that I was clearly visible; wearing a florescent cross-strap and with my front light functioning satisfactorily.