Gurriers (82 page)

“He won’t fuckin’ pull out in front of a bike so quickly next time!” proclaimed the biker. Christy, a peace loving individual, just gave him a nervous thumbs up while praying for the light to go green, taking a left turn that he hadn’t intended to when it did.

BMW bikers are best considered for amusement value. The vast majority of these are car drivers who are sick of traffic and who have the foresight and the bottle to see motorbikes as the solution to their problems. I suppose some amount of respect must go out to them for this and welcome to the two wheeled community. This community, however, is very much removed from the four wheeled one that they’re used to.

If you’re driving along in your fancy expensive car and you come across a motorist in a bashed up, smaller engined, older car that is worth about one tenth the value of yours you have definite bragging rights over him, such being the status symbol of cars. Not so with motorbikes!

These office workers, most of whom have very little experience on two wheels, seem to start out with the impression that bikers on inferior bikes would be happy to stay behind them on their big expensive machines because they are making such good time through the traffic. Good time in comparison to moving in the boxes that they were previously accustomed to - slow as fuck in comparison to couriers. Moving along the outside of traffic slowly and cautiously might be a world apart from being stuck in it, but in doing so there is a very real danger that you might also be delaying a courier coming up behind you by occupying the only gap available past the traffic at that point, and the wrath of delayed couriers is not something that any newcomer to motorbiking wants to incur!

When happening upon one of these donkeys a courier can either get annoyed or have some fun. Personally, I preferred to extract entertainment instead of becoming aggravated, though that could have a lot to do with the belief that I could have ended up as one of them had the dice of fate landed slightly differently in my life. If my first vehicle had had four wheels instead of two I might have stayed in the computer industry when my world
fell apart, only later realising the passion for two wheels that was now such a huge factor in my life and buying a BMW.

“There but for the grace of God go I!” I said to myself one sunny day in July ’98, smoking along Pembroke Road heading for the base, being beeped at by a BMW GS1150 whose rider I had scared the shite out of in order to get past him. I had been stuck behind him for an unforgiveable number of seconds on the outside of traffic due to traffic going the other way. He hadn’t even noticed that I was behind him! As soon as there was a gap in the opposing traffic I shot up his blind spot on the wrong side of the road until my front wheel was level with his right foot - knowing full well that he was on a good surface and moving in a straight line - and simultaneously beeped and screamed at the top of my voice. He slammed on his brakes and I was across and in front of him and out of the way of the number 18 bus going the other way that hadn’t slowed down or swerved despite the fact that he was only seconds away from hitting me head on. There were two car lengths between us before the BMW rider had composed himself enough to beep at me. I doubt very much that the notion ever occurred to him that the ruffian who startled him was thanking his lucky stars that he had avoided becoming like him.

Because of my bad behaviour, as with so many other instances, that nouveau biker would be sharper and more aware and less likely to smash himself up in the future, though I doubt very much that he would have thanked me for it had he caught up with me. Probably just as well that there was no chance of that happening!

I have to say that I enjoyed the summer of ’98 on the Super Four. As I approached my first anniversary in the job I felt that I was almost completely sculpted into a courier, complete with broken bits, adventure stories, bad attitude, gruff appearance and inconsiderate behaviour. I even had a little fling with a girl who wasn’t a receptionist. Jackie was a backing singer that had sung briefly in a band that Six Dave and Five Alan had played in a few years previously who came in to the local for a drink with them one Friday early in July.

She was a character and drop dead gorgeous and I truly relished being sung to in bed on weekend mornings. She made my twenty fifth birthday the happiest day of my latter life. She was, however, a free spirit and I was never going to be able to hold her down. She left me after only six magical weeks, the high point of which was having her steal the show at the wonderful session we had in Skerries. She came up on the back of the Super Four, laden down with her backpack while I had my courier bag sitting on the tank, sitting on the top box mark on the saddle that won’t come off no matter how much you scrub it. Pat Murphy had kindly taken our tent and sleeping bags in his van and we camped with about a hundred others on the stretch of public ground behind the hotel beside May’s. That night, very drunk, was the first night that I ever had sex in a tent. Probably the last also, because I was mortified when, just after finishing, a big cheer erupted from several of the surrounding tents. Bastards! Our northern friends never showed up, but I was told that it was like that every year.

When she left me Jackie did break my heart, which was actually a good sign that I was over the heartbreak of the previous year. It still sucked, but I had a much easier time looking to the future courtesy of my hardened heart.

I always got on great with Paddy, mostly because of his love for Elaine, whom I also had loads of time for. It used to swell me up inside to see a young couple so in love. The fact of the matter was that seeing Paddy so happy reminded me in some ways of the love that I had lost, which still hurt like hell, even after a whole year of wildness, adventure and other women. I had by this time accepted that I had lost Saoirse for good (which was not at all as straightforward as it might seem) but was still suffering the concept that I would never love a woman like that again (despite the many thousands of times I told myself that I had said the exact same thing to myself the previous times my heart had been broken). She was the love of my life and she was gone for good. That was the unhappy fate that I just had to accept or else drive myself crazy trying to deny.

It used to give me genuine solace, therefore, to revel in the sight of Paddy and Elaine enjoying the love of their lives in such blissful harmony. I recall looking at them together once in the pub and losing myself in a little tearful prayer that their love would have a happier ending than mine. I will never forget that prayer as long as I live.

I opened up to Paddy and he to me. Nobody got to know my softer side like Paddy (even Vinno) and vice-versa. He was the only one I told the full story of Saoirse to (even the bit about her being a gard). He was the one I quoted all my love poems to, inviting him to use them to impress Elaine. He was the one I wept drunkenly to once or twice when my heartache was too much to handle – either that or too much Guinness and grass! In return he opened up to me as the wonder of being in love gradually and beautifully took over his life. I was the one whose advice he sought on all matters to do with Elaine – advice I was only too happy to dispense. I was the one he whispered to with a grin that day in May when he had an erection for the whole morning.

“Can you fuckin’ imagine it, Sean?” He was all delighted and excited. “All fuckin’ mornin’! Jaysus – wait ‘til I get a hold of that woman later. .. I’m not messin’ either- there was no fuckin’ gettin’ rid of it! Must be in love to have a boner all bleedin’ mornin’ – wha’? Actually, now that I mention it I feel a bih dizzy. Would that be all the blood me head isn’t gettin’? There’s no need to fuckin’ laugh, Sean, this could be fuckin’ serious!”

I was the one that he asked whether or not he should move in with Elaine; he got a resounding and encouraging yes vote on that one! I was the one he confided in when she thought she was pregnant. He had a few nervy days over that one and needed my support, which, of course, he got 100 per cent. We went on the batter together when she got her period. He got quite emotional that night, he had sort of gotten used to the idea of the pitter patter of little feet. I (drunkenly) assured him that there was loads of time and that they would have plenty of beautiful kids in the future when the time was right. That’s one piece of encouragement that I will also never forget.

I was the one he told about that song. It was a happy old Louis Armstrong song called “The Sunshine of Love” that I had first heard him singing over in Le Mans when he was missing her. On that occasion he was told that it was only one week away and to basically relax and enjoy the biggest motorbike party on the continent with the rest of us. My advice was taken and he had a blast, but the catchy tune and meaningful lyrics
of the song stayed in my memory, where it still dwells for me to dig up and sing to myself at times (always thinking of Paddy when I do).

Paddy loved the song, anyway and he said he would sing it to himself inside his helmet about ten times a day thinking of Elaine and feeling his wondrous feelings towards her, as he threw his fast and light 250 around this city of ours.

Paddy did drive slow and safe when Elaine was on the back, but he went like a demon when the pressure was on. Being in a good mood all of the time would tend to make a man drive a little bit faster than usual anyway. Paddy was a good driver and a good worker at the best of times, but he got quicker and covered more work after falling for Elaine. Aidan also had a hand in that – looking after him because he was in every day, he rarely complained and also I suspect because he himself had a soft spot for Paddy and Elaine’s affair. I remember several occasions when Paddy had been thrilled with his cheque at the end of every week and commented to me that when things are going good inside a man’s heart everything else around him seemed to follow suit, as if in harmony. Looking at my own cheque one time I did have to agree with him. I was miserable at the time and was making fuck all!

Paddy was singing this song to himself on that fateful day in August, driving a bit too fast along Mount Street Lower heading towards town with his next pick-up on Clare Street. It was a dry bright day and the sun was making an appearance from a scattered blanket of white clouds that bore no rain. Traffic was light and he had a clear run up as far as the Merrion Square lights, which he had just noticed going green, about 300 metres ahead of him. He knew that these lights were a bitch to get caught at,
with the feeder light for outgoing traffic shortening his sequence as he headed in, so he powered on to make them before they went red on him. He did notice the car at the junction of Grattan Street waiting to turn right to head into town also but gave it no special attention since it was obviously going to wait until he had gone past before turning onto Mount Street.

Paddy assumed how another driver would behave. That was wrong – no matter how obvious it might be it is always a mistake to make assumptions. I recall hearing Shay saying to treat every single vehicle as if it is going to do the most stupid and dangerous thing it can on you. That outlook would have saved poor Paddy.

Imelda Farrington was not a patient woman and never had been. She had no tolerance for dilly-dallying or any other form of incompetence either from her family, her staff or the people she met in everyday life. If questioned about it, she would openly admit to being pushy and impatient, accrediting a large proportion of the success of her chain of clothes shops to these very qualities.

On August 12th she had her sixteen year old daughter, Ruby with her in the car. Ruby had her final year of secondary school ahead of her. Imelda had promised to bring her into town to look at autumn outfits, but had left herself 25 minutes late for a meeting with one of her suppliers in keeping that promise, 20 of which had been stuck in almost stationary traffic, as she had battled her way along Pearse Street. She had had enough of this bloody traffic.

By the time she had driven up Grattan Street to come on to Mount Street, she was totally frustrated and determined to get to Fitzwilliam Place without any more delays. A quick look right told her that there was nothing heading out of town and on glancing left all she saw was a motorbike. In her agitated state she made the tragic error of not pausing to calculate the speed at which the bike was travelling at or even the distance the bike was from the part of the road she intended to use to make her turn. Imelda Farrington pulled out in front of my dear
friend Paddy.

Paddy’s reactions were good, but fate had a cruel card to play in this case. Given that there is going to be a crash, the amount of injury sustained can be minimised with good and correct reactions, but two objects on a collision course will always be at the mercy of fate. Paddy braked and swung his machine to the left at the same time, aiming to get in front of the car while slowing down as much as possible in the process. This was good in theory and almost worked, but his front tyre was under huge stresses in a couple of different directions when it hit the – dodgy at the best of times – thick white stripe of paint marking the bus lane. To this day I don’t know why they don’t just sprinkle some sand over paint they put on road surfaces as it dries to give tyres more grip on it. Paddy’s tyre hadn’t got a chance and the front wheel lost traction, taking the bike down hard and to the left. Instinctively, Paddy shoved himself away from the doomed machine taking him at an angle to the right, wildly off balance with his head down, his arms flailing wildly and no control whatsoever over his legs due to the amount of forward momentum he still had.