Some time later that particular Triumph spat me off after picking up a nail in its rear tyre, thereby rendering its linear stability somewhat suspect in a certain bend, which was, most fortunately, in very close proximity to one of Sydney's major hospitals. This, of course, made a severe physical wreck out of yours truly and, acting under the laws of probability, I became another of those "major accident in the first two years" type of riders.
The way I look at it though is that if I hadn't been injured some other poor sod would have been, and much better me than him/her since, due to my massive psychological instability, I am much more able to shrug the entire episode off as some sort of bad dream (although my Pseudo-leg continually reminds me that its not a bloody dream, let alone a flamin' dress rehearsal).
Now, the point I'm getting at (believe it or not) is that, despite all the trauma of severe injury and the struggle of recovery and rehabilitation, I still love motorcycles with a bright and burning passion. I also find that the gods have allowed me to continue to suffer from the dreaded psychological disorder of contrasuggestability.
You see, when Dear Pater came in to visit me where I lay in the emergency department of St Levi's (the Jewish-Catholic hospital) he grunted at me "You ought to get a hitman onto the bastard who sold you that bike. He's bloody ended your life."
Well, contrasuggestability has caused me to continue to strongly consider Michael "Cycle" Collins as one of the most sincere blokes to walk the surface of this glorious orb. And as far as ending my life's concerned, I reckoned he started it for me when he introduced me to the wonders of ownership of large sports/touring motorcycles.
Thanks Mate!
Peter Smith Mr Smith p135