Patience of a saint...

Its not easy to be my husband.

Admittedly, he DID refuse to marry me, until I bought him a new Gixter – but that was seven years ago, and I needed a passport. And a skydiving license.

By now, all debts having duly been paid, one would have thought that he’d have made his excuses, and retired to a remote underground location, where I could never, ever get in touch with him again.

Our day in the quarry, may give you an inkling of the situation:

There are only a limited number of things, that causes me to raise from bed early, without the need of class A drugs: the prospect of riding my bike, and the prospect of skydiving.

The fact that its pouring with rain on a ‘bike riding day’, seems to affect everyone except me.

“Come oooon, lets GO! Rain is GOOD! It makes mud, which is fun –– and riding wet is a whole new adventure!

Getting wet is sexy! Fancy being drenched in fluids that drop STRAIGHT OUT OF HEAVEN!!

Pleeeeeze!”


I’d like to say that he responds gracefully to my boisterous pleading, thousand-kisses-cajoling, shameless promises of carnal pleasures beyond his wildest imagination… but his reaction usually resembles more that of a steer, being herded into the ring: reluctant and resentful, but ultimately defenceless.

By the time I’ve whipped the entire household into a frenzy of excitement over the MARVELOUS RAINY day ride ahead, he knows there is no way out.

Joining me because he couldn’t beat me, does NOT feature however: this bull is going down fighting all the way.


Thing is – I would honestly leave him to his warm bed and Wilbur Smith – if I could perform for myself, the myriad of tasks that he executes so effortlessly… as if born to do it!

Which is why I ADORE men! How feminist ever live life without constantly being amazed at how much better the world is, thanks to men, I will never understand!

I’ve tried lugging the bikes onto the trailer myself. With results varying from the sublime (bikes on, but trailer irrevocably wedged behind a wall) to the ridiculous (bike wedged under the van, on top of me).


By the time we pulled up at the disused quarry, I was bouncing round the interior of the van, like a puppy rearing to be let out.


It was at THIS point, faced with knee deep mud, gaping wide ruts and crumbling inclines, that fear suddenly turned me inside out.

A handful of teenage boys were ripping up the earth, flying through the mud at breakneck speed, all but de-limbing each other at every turn. Crazy grins split their faces.

Sh*t. I really should grow up. I’m too old for this. Should REALLY leave this for the boys! Wish I was into shopping and interior decorating instead.


I was careful to control my fear, bury it deep down my dry throat – animals can smell fear…


“There you go, honey. Enjoy. Be safe!”

I could SWEAR his words were laced with sarcasm, but perhaps I was being cynical.


After many years of playing with boys and trying (but failing miserably) to emulate them, I’ve learnt how things work:

1. If scared – beat the crap out of someone/something until you win – or you’re dead
2. If failing – beat the crap out someone/something until you win – or you’re dead
3. If in doubt whether 1) or 2) applies – beat the crap out of something anyway.

Which is why I jumped on the DR, opened the throttle and sped off - discovering to my joy, that it ACTUALLY works!!

If you hit a ditch that surely MUST high-side you – just open the throttle! The bike pulls itself out of trouble, as if by gen-u-ine MAN magic!

Back steps out, out of control: open the throttle!

Steep incline crumbling under your wheels: open the throttle!

Fight! Fight! Fight! Until you win, but don’t, under any circumstances, stop.

Unless you’re dead.

Which is pretty much, what I wished for, moments later.


How was I to know how deep the innocuous looking puddle was?

It would have been marginally less humiliating, if at least I ploughed through the ditch, perhaps being flung through the air.. or something.

Instead, I watched in horror as the DR’s front wheel just disappeared, and was sucked to an almost standstill. Trying to steady it with my foot, met with a whole lot of nothing and with measured inevitability, the bike followed my foot, and landed on top of me. Again.

B*ll*cks!

Only ONE thing can possibly be worse than the situation I was in: The prospect of STAYING in it, for a prolonged period of time*…

*How wrong could one be...?

I had, in my blind bravado, strayed way beyond the point where I was visible (or hearable) to anyone who may have been interested in rescuing me.

Amazingly, the bike also seemed to have found a piece of hard road, under the mud, and was now pinning my ankle to it, with that all so familiar screaming pain of bone being crushed.

(I tried to explain the pain to a friend once, saying its like being smashed with a sledgehammer on the foot – only, there’s no letting up to take another swing… it just sits there… crushing away merrily, testing the limits of your endurance)

Good old heavy, lump of a STUPID carcass of a useless piece of shit DR!!




By the time ( a looong time later) my husband, and three other blokes had managed to drag me and the bike out of the mud, I was wishing I could rather stay pinned down, for say, another 99 years or so:

What I didn’t know, was that the WHOLE area I was in, was a huge, two foot deep mud PAN. Which meant, as hubby pulled up on the other bike, and walked closer to try and help me – he sank UP TO HIS HIPS in mud!

I believe that looking into the abyss of hell itself,
must be less bone chilling, than having looked into his face that day!


***********



On the flip side – the DR, despite being entombed in mud, laying on its side, kicked into action – no problems!

Needless to say, I laid off harassing him for a while. Okay, a little while…

He did, however, collect on all the promises I made – and then some.

Maybe that’s why he keeps doing it?!