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My free writing repository. It started out as my Nanowrimo site but since that got thoroughly derailed by circumstance and apathy, I'm converting this blog to one where I will post my short stories, scenes and whatever else doesn't quite fit on Intellectual Poison or any of my other blogs.
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
Nuts to Tank, The Tale of Two Balls and their Friend, Dick, Meeting Tank, the Gas Tank
Two balls sad journey with their friend, the Dick, that ended with a horrible collision and the worst damn nausea ever imagined. But, as with all good stories, there is a silver lining. A story that was requested during one of the most fun business calls ever today with Ryan in which we somehow got on the topic of accidents and I disclosed this little tale, albeit without all the details and Ryan just really liked to say Nuts to Tank alot, in fact, I think he said it a good half dozen times. So Ryan, this one's for you. Also, note that this isn't a continuation of the chapters below, this blog has just become my free writing repository.
It was back in the winter of '91 or '92 and I had been living in Capetown, South Africa for about 8 months by then. It was New Years Eve and I had stopped off at a party bar on the outskirts of town to hang out with some of my co-workers from the health club where I worked.
It might have been that day or another but the bouncers were particularly irritating and stupid and booted me out because I happened to be wearing sweats instead of dress casual slacks or some nutter crap. It didn't matter to the big, fat, veiny necked door knob bouncer that I'd already been inside, had already been drinking with my mates upstairs on the balcony overlooking the entryway, it didn't matter that half my pals were yelling down at him that I'd been up there, he accused me, to my face, of lying to him to get in. At which point I laughed at him and told him it was a nice spot but certainly not worth trying to lie my way in and I'd make sure to pass along the anti-American attitude of the place. Which was no idle threat, this was in the last few months before the first elections where Nelson Mandela completed his transformation from young boxing phenom to political prisoner and symbol of oppression the world over to president of the same country that had imprisoned him, it was a damned amazing time to be there, to be sure.
Anyway, my night there was over but that was fine, I had several parties to go to that night and I probably should have gotten rolling before it got dark and I had more drinks there. Note that I had had a drink but was nowhere near inebriated or even impaired, I was in superb shape and weighed around 180 pounds at the time, you do the math. I was fine. And I knew it so I swung a leg over my speedy little crotch rocket Katana 550 (easily the fastest and most fun motorcycle I'd owned to that point) and began my short ride home. One quick stop at a bottle store to pick up a fresh fifth of First Watch Whiskey to be added to my backpack with my Nerf football (an oddity in South Africa and every kid kept trying to throw it underhand rugby style until I would demonstrate how far you could huck the thing overhand).
Sufficiently replenished with fun juice, I wheeled back out on the road towards my flat in Seapoint, a few towns down the road through Greenpoint, Moiullepoint and Three Anchor Bay (map of Capetown is available here). Not very far, six or seven kilometres at the most. And, since I was in a good mood from seeing my friends, I was buzzing along at a decent clip but not recklessly. The roads through the towns were four lanes wide and, since they drive UK style, I was on the left hand side of the road, close to the center line where the through traffic was supposed to be, the leftmost lane was reserved for people trolling for parking spaces.
As I passed through Moiullepoint I glanced down at my speedo to make sure I wasn't carrying too much speed. When I looked up, an old man in his little Nissan had changed lanes from the slow, parking spot trolling lane to the through lane. And he'd come to a dead stop with his blinker on to make an illegal u-turn to get to a parking spot on the opposite side of the street. With only an instant to react I jerked the bars left and shifted my weight as sharply as possible in an effort to clear his rear bumper. With another three feet of space between my bike and his car, I would have made it. But, as it happened, I did not get by him and rammed into his car at about 45 kilometres an hour or just under 30 mph.
Unlike my next motorcycle accident where I'd taken the painful lessons learned to heart, I did not rise up on my footpegs, did not have time to clear myself from the bike and my body basically went into and then over the Katana. Initial point of impact? Nuts to tank, followed in very high speed motion stop imagery by left knee to handlebar. A short fifteen foot flight later I had flipped over once and landed on my right ass cheek with all of my weight and impact force. At some point in the action I removed an inch long, half inch wide swath of skin from my ankle and received a few other very minor cuts.
After a moment's assessment of the extent of my injuries and seeing my once beautiful Katana laying in bloody ruins, I turned my rising fury on the asshole old man who had gotten out of his car on the other side of the street and looked like he'd crapped himself.
Picture an out of control American biker throwing his helmet on the ground and screaming all manner of curses at this stupid old man for breaking the law and nearly killing me. He wouldn't come near me, he wouldn't cross the street and its a good thing because I probably would have kicked him until he was dead. Regardless of the fact that my injuries were going to start hurting badly any moment once the initial shock of the accident wore off.
The police showed up, assessed the accident and immediately assigned all blame to the asshole old man. Which was all well and good but my bike was wrecked, my body was in a growing and alarming amount of pain and he was standing there looking like he was guilty for drinking the last of the milk.
One of the cops sat me down, told me to stop screaming at him and tell him what had happened. Sitting down was a bad idea because it compacted the space that my balls had to swell into as they had taken the immediate brunt of the impact and were going to be screaming bloody murder at me very, very soon. But sitting was a good idea from the perspective that I became very lightheaded and might have fallen down.
My ankle was bleeding decently well and my left knee was swollen up pretty good with an already purpling bruise spreading over it. Seeing the blood left me weak and I started to feel nauseous. After getting all the information they needed and waiting with my while the tow truck came to haul away my ruined cycle, they offered me a lift home.
My flat was on the second story and it took me a good fifteen minutes to slowly get myself up the stairs. My flatmate was gone for the holiday and all of my friends were already out getting pissed at parties so I had no choice but to settle in and deal with my injuries on my own.
It took an eternity to get out of my clothes and examine myself. The damage was comical in retrospect but horrifying in that moment. Imagine a rectangular bruise about four inches high and about ten inches wide, now imagine that bruise starting on one thigh and ending on the other thigh with your balls and dick right in the middle. Now imagine having been kicked in the nuts thirty or forty times. Now imagine a couple of kicks into your knee. Now imagine how much fun it was to not only go to the bathroom but how much fun it was to actually get to the bathroom. I had to use a chair for support as I had no strength in my knee at all and the nausea was all but overpowering and the chair made a good place to rest on the journey.
It sucked badly and I was feeling pretty damned piss poor by that time. I happened to pick up my backpack and feel the weight of the bottle of whiskey in it. I opened the pack incredulously and saw that the bottle was completely intact despite having been on my back the entire time through the accident. It was a miracle! A ten minute round trip to the kitchen and back and I was settled on the couch with an open bottle, a large tumbler and the remote control.
Ten minutes later, I'd given up on the tv. Four channels to choose from and all of them sucked (and yes, this was with cable). So I turned almost all of my attention to that big beautiful bottle of amber fire water. Part of my attention had to be focused on my injuries as several were screaming at any given time. Strangely, the most painful one was the small slice of skin removed from my ankle. If the slightest breeze blew it was like setting fire to my leg.
One large glass of whiskey in, things began to feel a little better. A puff or two on my bubbler with some of South Africa's finest ganja completed the medication and I was able to doze off for a little while. Until the fireworks celebration for New Year's started going off on Lion's Head, the mountain right behind my flat. I lay in bed feeling each explosion as a seering pain through my body but was too tired, too sore, too weak to get up and drink more whiskey. I think that might have been the longest night of my life.
Two balls sad journey with their friend, the Dick, that ended with a horrible collision and the worst damn nausea ever imagined. But, as with all good stories, there is a silver lining. A story that was requested during one of the most fun business calls ever today with Ryan in which we somehow got on the topic of accidents and I disclosed this little tale, albeit without all the details and Ryan just really liked to say Nuts to Tank alot, in fact, I think he said it a good half dozen times. So Ryan, this one's for you. Also, note that this isn't a continuation of the chapters below, this blog has just become my free writing repository.
It was back in the winter of '91 or '92 and I had been living in Capetown, South Africa for about 8 months by then. It was New Years Eve and I had stopped off at a party bar on the outskirts of town to hang out with some of my co-workers from the health club where I worked.
It might have been that day or another but the bouncers were particularly irritating and stupid and booted me out because I happened to be wearing sweats instead of dress casual slacks or some nutter crap. It didn't matter to the big, fat, veiny necked door knob bouncer that I'd already been inside, had already been drinking with my mates upstairs on the balcony overlooking the entryway, it didn't matter that half my pals were yelling down at him that I'd been up there, he accused me, to my face, of lying to him to get in. At which point I laughed at him and told him it was a nice spot but certainly not worth trying to lie my way in and I'd make sure to pass along the anti-American attitude of the place. Which was no idle threat, this was in the last few months before the first elections where Nelson Mandela completed his transformation from young boxing phenom to political prisoner and symbol of oppression the world over to president of the same country that had imprisoned him, it was a damned amazing time to be there, to be sure.
Anyway, my night there was over but that was fine, I had several parties to go to that night and I probably should have gotten rolling before it got dark and I had more drinks there. Note that I had had a drink but was nowhere near inebriated or even impaired, I was in superb shape and weighed around 180 pounds at the time, you do the math. I was fine. And I knew it so I swung a leg over my speedy little crotch rocket Katana 550 (easily the fastest and most fun motorcycle I'd owned to that point) and began my short ride home. One quick stop at a bottle store to pick up a fresh fifth of First Watch Whiskey to be added to my backpack with my Nerf football (an oddity in South Africa and every kid kept trying to throw it underhand rugby style until I would demonstrate how far you could huck the thing overhand).
Sufficiently replenished with fun juice, I wheeled back out on the road towards my flat in Seapoint, a few towns down the road through Greenpoint, Moiullepoint and Three Anchor Bay (map of Capetown is available here). Not very far, six or seven kilometres at the most. And, since I was in a good mood from seeing my friends, I was buzzing along at a decent clip but not recklessly. The roads through the towns were four lanes wide and, since they drive UK style, I was on the left hand side of the road, close to the center line where the through traffic was supposed to be, the leftmost lane was reserved for people trolling for parking spaces.
As I passed through Moiullepoint I glanced down at my speedo to make sure I wasn't carrying too much speed. When I looked up, an old man in his little Nissan had changed lanes from the slow, parking spot trolling lane to the through lane. And he'd come to a dead stop with his blinker on to make an illegal u-turn to get to a parking spot on the opposite side of the street. With only an instant to react I jerked the bars left and shifted my weight as sharply as possible in an effort to clear his rear bumper. With another three feet of space between my bike and his car, I would have made it. But, as it happened, I did not get by him and rammed into his car at about 45 kilometres an hour or just under 30 mph.
Unlike my next motorcycle accident where I'd taken the painful lessons learned to heart, I did not rise up on my footpegs, did not have time to clear myself from the bike and my body basically went into and then over the Katana. Initial point of impact? Nuts to tank, followed in very high speed motion stop imagery by left knee to handlebar. A short fifteen foot flight later I had flipped over once and landed on my right ass cheek with all of my weight and impact force. At some point in the action I removed an inch long, half inch wide swath of skin from my ankle and received a few other very minor cuts.
After a moment's assessment of the extent of my injuries and seeing my once beautiful Katana laying in bloody ruins, I turned my rising fury on the asshole old man who had gotten out of his car on the other side of the street and looked like he'd crapped himself.
Picture an out of control American biker throwing his helmet on the ground and screaming all manner of curses at this stupid old man for breaking the law and nearly killing me. He wouldn't come near me, he wouldn't cross the street and its a good thing because I probably would have kicked him until he was dead. Regardless of the fact that my injuries were going to start hurting badly any moment once the initial shock of the accident wore off.
The police showed up, assessed the accident and immediately assigned all blame to the asshole old man. Which was all well and good but my bike was wrecked, my body was in a growing and alarming amount of pain and he was standing there looking like he was guilty for drinking the last of the milk.
One of the cops sat me down, told me to stop screaming at him and tell him what had happened. Sitting down was a bad idea because it compacted the space that my balls had to swell into as they had taken the immediate brunt of the impact and were going to be screaming bloody murder at me very, very soon. But sitting was a good idea from the perspective that I became very lightheaded and might have fallen down.
My ankle was bleeding decently well and my left knee was swollen up pretty good with an already purpling bruise spreading over it. Seeing the blood left me weak and I started to feel nauseous. After getting all the information they needed and waiting with my while the tow truck came to haul away my ruined cycle, they offered me a lift home.
My flat was on the second story and it took me a good fifteen minutes to slowly get myself up the stairs. My flatmate was gone for the holiday and all of my friends were already out getting pissed at parties so I had no choice but to settle in and deal with my injuries on my own.
It took an eternity to get out of my clothes and examine myself. The damage was comical in retrospect but horrifying in that moment. Imagine a rectangular bruise about four inches high and about ten inches wide, now imagine that bruise starting on one thigh and ending on the other thigh with your balls and dick right in the middle. Now imagine having been kicked in the nuts thirty or forty times. Now imagine a couple of kicks into your knee. Now imagine how much fun it was to not only go to the bathroom but how much fun it was to actually get to the bathroom. I had to use a chair for support as I had no strength in my knee at all and the nausea was all but overpowering and the chair made a good place to rest on the journey.
It sucked badly and I was feeling pretty damned piss poor by that time. I happened to pick up my backpack and feel the weight of the bottle of whiskey in it. I opened the pack incredulously and saw that the bottle was completely intact despite having been on my back the entire time through the accident. It was a miracle! A ten minute round trip to the kitchen and back and I was settled on the couch with an open bottle, a large tumbler and the remote control.
Ten minutes later, I'd given up on the tv. Four channels to choose from and all of them sucked (and yes, this was with cable). So I turned almost all of my attention to that big beautiful bottle of amber fire water. Part of my attention had to be focused on my injuries as several were screaming at any given time. Strangely, the most painful one was the small slice of skin removed from my ankle. If the slightest breeze blew it was like setting fire to my leg.
One large glass of whiskey in, things began to feel a little better. A puff or two on my bubbler with some of South Africa's finest ganja completed the medication and I was able to doze off for a little while. Until the fireworks celebration for New Year's started going off on Lion's Head, the mountain right behind my flat. I lay in bed feeling each explosion as a seering pain through my body but was too tired, too sore, too weak to get up and drink more whiskey. I think that might have been the longest night of my life.