Baron von Münchausen or Boys Own Paper?

Don’t expect pictures in this one…...it is, as you will see, a deadly serious analysis of what lies before me.

I am suffering with a case of very cold feet in the last 10 days, not literally you understand, but rather with regards to my ever nearing trek to the United States. Today it is 37 days off, and counting. I have had some misgivings about it before, as I previously mentioned. (February blog “I have a dream…”) The truth is that it really was just all a dream and then I suddenly decided to make it reality. Now some elements of it seem to be threatening nightmares instead. My family and friends will know, some to their pain and cost, that, some of my dreams are ill thought out with regard to their consequences, some are very carefully planned and executed ruthlessly, and some are just simple (though sometimes quite complex) fantasies that are best left locked in my head. This one seems to be a combination of all those three. It is true that the consequences of anything going really pear shaped could be disastrous both in expense and such things as medical care and flights and time and collecting the pieces (or ashes at worst!). It is true that it has been pretty carefully planned and so far executed ruthlessly to bring it about, and it is also true that there are fantasies as to how I had always envisaged myself making this trip and the fun that “we” would have and the stories “we” would accumulate to relate in coming years. The honest truth of this part though, is that the “we” is me in my early twenties, two stone lighter, no wrinkles, with long brown hair in a pony tail, hedonistic and full of adventure, and “her”, an ethereal, an ephemeral, a similar twenties beauty, an exciting, intelligent adoring sex goddess, my companion through the explorations of day and night, a soul mate and help meat, packed in close behind me on the pillion of my low, custom built, Arlen Ness chopper. Now do you see what I mean by the fantasies best locked in my head? The actual facts are that, when I was that age, I couldn’t ride a motorbike, I wasn’t hedonistic and adventurous, at least not outwardly, my hair, though long, was never long enough to tie back, and I was struggling to make it through medical school, even if I had some fantasies. Other little glitches in the picture were that I could never have found the time, let alone the money, and I have never recognised adoring sex goddesses until it was too late to realise that I had one in tow. So, now, grey, short haired, slightly portly(though definitely not fat!), I am still hedonistic but generally incapable (hot chocolate or Horlicks is about as hedonistic as I seem to get) even if I still yearn for adventure, I find I am embarking into a less than fantasy world alone. I cannot persuade the sex goddess of the last 33 years to leave home for much longer than a fortnight every two years or so, let alone ride pillion for 14,000 miles, and without compromising the whole balance of those 33 years, and, most essentially, the right of access to my workshop and garage, I cannot advertise for a suitable replacement ( who should, of course, fill the description of the above companion…..see my e-mail address if you’re interested, or form an orderly queue up our drive on one of the next two Saturday mornings for interview!) I have persuaded Wife and indeed Daughter to fly out for a week or so each, for a short part of the trip, but with Wife, it will probably have to be the beaches of California with the bike parked up and a decent hotel, and with Daughter, maybe we will hit Sturgis, where we can have a good fun time either together or doing our own things. Anyway, pleasant as I am sure those weeks will be, it still leaves at least 11 weeks of travelling alone. It is really on that subject that I have had some monstrous nightmares, made worse by V, my ex-sister in law, and then by Euan McGregor and Charlie Boorman, and finally by Eion Crighton, about whom, considerably more later.

Now, two weeks ago on Saturday, we went to the dedication of Amy at the Liberal Jewish synagogue in Nottingham. She is the daughter of J, my nephew,( he of graphic design and my fabulous logos fame) and his wife L. J’s mother is V. Well, we had all returned in the early afternoon to J and L’s house, a hobbit burrow in an ecological development 12 miles outside Nottingham, and we were sitting in their energy-gathering, enviro-friendly conservatory enjoying the sumptuous fare and drinking some very pleasant wine, when the topic of my imminent trip was raised with some interest. I heard myself going through the usual stuff, probably quite boring to most of the family by now….”Yes…about 14 weeks, it’s about 14,000 miles, …No, it’ll be anti-clockwise from Boston, sort of ‘sticking round the edge’…Yes, camping most of the time but motels if it’s pissing it down….I’ll be O.K. as long as I don’t drop it…..No, I’m going to try to avoid Tornado Alley”…Rustle of polite laughter.… Outside, between showers of light rain, the sun powered the water heaters and re-charged the electric cells, the grass grew quietly and lush over their roof , munching away at the carbon dioxide, the reed bed outside quietly sucked up the sewage and fed the remains into the pond, and the children played enthusiastically on the swings in the garden when suddenly, in this palace of the peaceful new age, in the silence that followed my brief exposition, and quite out of the blue, V said “Are you going to buy a gun when you’re over there, in case of trouble?” Well, that hit me a bit between the eyes, because, although I had not voiced it, or seriously considered it, it had crossed the distant recesses of my mind that I could encounter some such problem somewhere on such a big journey and where, as we all know from the films, everybody carries guns all the time and is not averse to using them. I had already decided to take my oldest cheapest watch, not to carry much cash, to record the numbers of my credit cards and make notes of how to contact my mobile phone provider in case I were to be mugged. I had already made a mental note to be a total chicken and give up without a murmur in the face of real and present danger, I had even ( and this is from one of the deepest dungeons of my mind) thought to carry a tube of K-Y Jelly in my leathers just in case “the worse than death scenario” were to rear its ugly head, but the thought of buying a gun had never really entered my head. I mean, it’s not the first time that this sort of thought of “what would you do if …had crossed my mind. If for example you caught a burglar in your house, if some bastard really hurt your daughter or wife, if your child was abused by some psycho-wierdo ,if you were threatened in the street by a knife waving youth, and, even years before, if a bunch of rockers turned up to wreck your youth club hop, if you were marooned alone on a desert island with ….., No, sorry, that’s from the other “what if” files. I had a flick knife when I was a teenager. I bought it in Italy when the family was on holiday and smuggled it home in the bottom of my suitcase. I had, in fact still have, my Senior Scout’s 7 inch blade sheath knife, but I never carried either of them in public. I have a shotgun and firearms licence and have two rifles and two shotguns. I have shot target rifles and shot many different pistols with the, now defunct, Lancashire Police Gun Club at their range in the multi-storey car park at the Blackpool Police Station. I carried a 9mm Browning pistol when on operational tour in Bosnia with the Royal Artillery, and beat off nine other reservist officers in a competition shoot at Chilwell when we were training before deployment. Now, however, someone was actually asking me whether I would carry a weapon on my dream trip….presumably being prepared to use it. I joked it off and replied “No, of course not, but I might keep a knife down my sleeping bag”. How stupid! Of course I wouldn’t. What the hell would I do with a knife in my sleeping bag, except perhaps nick my dick when I rolled over. I have always believed that you shouldn’t pretend to know what you are doing with a weapon if you really doubt if you could use it. I mean, almost anybody could probably take a knife off me, especially if there was more than one anybody. What a bloody silly reply to have made; do I really believe somewhere that I am potentially that brave or perhaps that stupid. No, nice smile, lots of gentle quiet talk, acquiescence and hope you get out alive the other end. Attack is only a last ditch hope for chickens facing an inevitable Kiev. Maybe then, and only then, just before I reach for the K-Y Jelly.

Now making matters worse, I have recently been lent a DVD of Euan McGregor and Charlie Boorman’s great trip, “The Long Way Round”. Truly this is fantastic stuff and really worth watching, whether you are a motorcycle enthusiast or not. For those of you who don’t know of it, it was produced as a television series and tells their story of a 22,000 mile mammoth trip from London to New York. Their trip took them across Europe, Eastern Europe, Mongolia, Siberia and southern Russia, across to Alaska and across the U.S to New York. They went on two BMW motor bikes, with helmet and bike cameras, and to their enormous credit, did the vast majority of it entirely unassisted, although they were followed and filmed by an equally intrepid biker cameraman from Holland. They also had a film producer and crew and support vehicles following them, although, admittedly some variable distance behind them. The cost must have been astronomical, only something that two film stars could have considered, although they visited several Unicef houses on the way round to promote the charity and, I believe, that the film has been sold with the profit to support them. Euan and Charlie are both highly experienced motorcyclists, far, far more skilled than I am, with many more years of experience including off road riding. They are also a lot younger, probably about 15 years younger. Even they had terrible problems, largely across Mongolia and Siberia, encountering deserts, mud, floods, rivers, broken roads, and significant breakdowns. They fell off numerous times, they helped each other out of the tricky bits, they supported each other, boosted each others morale, visited numerous homes where they were royally entertained, slept and fed, from Yurts to mafia style mansions. They were escorted by police security escorts across dangerous territories in Siberia through prior arrangement by the Embassy in London. They went on specialist bike riding courses, had specialist film input, specially prepared bikes and luggage carriers and lastly, before they went, they went on a full day’s firearms and escape and evasion course, in case they came across any real hostilities.. Then, while they were sat in a dusty lay-by in God-knows-where, a car drew up alongside them. The back window rolled down and a geezer, with smiley gold teeth, bad breath and a 5 day 5o’clock shadow, pointed a pistol at the cameraman and nicked all his papers, all his cameras, his passport and credit cards and all his cash, and drove off in a cloud of dust, never to be seen again. The point of this is that, if two film stars, known even in these remote parts, and supported by an entire team, can be ripped off at gun-point, what hope for the rest of us?

For two weeks, since watching this, my feet started to get cold. Here am I, at 60, and I am considering embarking on a 14,000 mile trip, and no help, no support team, no endless cash in case of trouble and nobody to boost my morale or share my Yurt with me. Am I mad?

Then, this last weekend, as if to add to my problems, I received the bi-monthly magazine of a British motorcycle group of which I am a member. I was fascinated by a front cover headline which read “75 year old conquers the Sahara”. This turned out to be the extracts from the diary of one, Eion Crighton, a 75 year old who decided to raise money for his favourite charity by riding his motorbike 7,000 miles over 5 weeks, from a well known motorcycle show in Peterborough to return to another show ground at Paddock Wood. Now, I have to say, that either, this guy is either incredibly fit and strong and capable, beyond anything that most really fit men are in their thirties, or he is incredibly stupid and inconceivably lucky, or he is the reincarnation of The Baron von Munchausen off on one last trip. I accept that my Harley is not the bike for this sort of trip, but he did it on what appears to be a 15 year old, beautiful condition Kawasaki 550GT, and what is remarkable about the pictures, is that it really isn’t very big and he isn’t smothered over in bags and additional kit over and above his standard panniers and top box. At one stage he says that he stopped to pick up 30, two litre bottles of water. Thirty mind! (There is now way I could load the Harley up with 30 two litre bottles…..they’d have to be hung on with binder twine from every available part, and I’d end up looking like a giant Harley with giant shingles.) He is also dressed in what appears to be a pair of jodhpurs, a scarlet leather jacket and World War II Commando boots. He looks like a sort of 1980’s Post Office delivery man, or a sort of gay Mad Max beyond Thunderdome. Whatever he’s taking, I could do with a few bottles of it! It certainly isn’t slivo. My guess would be ecstasy or LSD, but, who knows, perhaps it really is all absolute gospel truth. And if it really is, or, actually, even if it isn’t, good luck to him…it’s a ripping yarn! Whatever, this article does not belong in a motorcycle magazine. It really is the stuff of Boys’ Own Paper ( God rest it’s soul). Even Indiana Jones did not have any more to cope with! I have to quote some chunks of this, so, all credit to him, this is Eion Crighton’s own account, in his own words, copied here from the magazine, for which I don’t have permission, but I hope it helps to sell his book in due course when he finally publishes.

There are three episodes in particular that grabbed me (where I won’t say).

“My tank and two reserve tanks were virtually empty and at 1.30 a.m. I drifted into Cadiz on the smell of the fuel. I couldn’t find anywhere open and ended up in the docks where a kind truck driver told me where to find a fuel station that was open. I pulled in, put the bike on the stand and looked at the unleaded fuel pumps. Then I noticed an elderly man in the office looking at me very intently through what I thought to be armoured glass.

I had a funny feeling that something wrong was behind me and I turned slowly around. There were three chaps standing there, all of whom had knives and although they did not speak English, French or Arabic, they made their demands very plain. They wanted my wallet.

Now, I come from a Scottish family, brought up in Scotland with certain Scottish traits. Naturally, I refused and they became very hostile. In the end they made it quite plain that they intended to cut my throat. Now I have served in the forces, been trained by Israeli Commando Division and served in the Middle East, and working on what I had always been taught, three to one was a nice, safe bet for success”. (I mean, you just would feel confident with just those odds wouldn’t you ?)

“Our discussions came to an abrupt end. The older one said something to his colleague who took his finger across his own throat and looked at me. I told him to piss off. The next thing I knew, he lunged at me with a knife, which I managed to forestall from actually going into my shoulder and chest above my heart. Unfortunately for him, it meant that he was standing for that split second with his legs well apart. I managed to restrain his wrist and held the knife off, although it had already cut my shirt slightly”….(Must have taken his Captain Scarlet jacket off)…. “My knee, having been used to many similar troubles in dockyards round the world, seemed to have a will of its own. The poor chap gasped loudly and sank down in front of me, his knife falling from his hand as he clasped his nether regions.

To my horror, I looked up to see his colleague leering over me with his knife approaching my throat. I pulled back suddenly and the blade disappeared out of sight, under my chin! It must have been very, very close to my throat! Surprisingly enough this chap lost his balance and the next thing I knew was that my heavy motorcycle boot was in full flight and contacted the chap’s Khyber Pass. He shot forward, unable to save himself and landed, facedown on the concrete pump ledge. Poor chap!

I spun round, by then in temper”…. (No!...surely not!) …. “and lunged at the third one but he turned, legged it down the road and disappeared up a dark alleyway! I think it was the shortest fight I have ever had in my life and the first for about 5 years. The outcome however, had so amused me that my laughter kept me wide awake for the rest of the night over a very tortuous mountain route that I had to take in the dark”

Well, have you got the picture of this chap yet? But wait, dear Reader there is more to come! Away, to the Atlas Mountains in Morrocco….

………“About an hour and a half later I saw dust on the horizon. It turned out to be three vehicles of a desert patrol which was obviously not Moroccan because it contained some very badly turned-out troops, all badly disciplined and behaving more like pirates than I had ever seen in my life.

They were upset that I had filmed them”…. (Well, of course, you would take photos of them wouldn’t you!) ….“and forced me to hand over my three cameras. The films were taken out and the cameras actually thrown down on the ground. I was interrogated in very broken French, and every question was punctuated with a blow on my back with the butt of their guns”. (No multiple broken ribs then …clearly no 75 year old osteoporotic bones here!) “Cutting a nasty story short, I was turned around and permitted to return to Morocco after I had shown them my Omani Arabic service driving licence”. (Made all the difference that then?...must remember to get one of those for tight corners) “I am convinced that it had saved me from being interned in one of their prison camps for which I was obviously very grateful! It certainly gave me some credibility in their eyes” ( Seems more likely that the old wives tale that if you mess with a madman, you mess with the devil, may be a more rational explanation, but who needs rational with a tale this gripping!)

And finally, Indiana Eion, or Crocodile Crighton, as he surely must become known for these deeds of daring-do, exceeds all boundaries of courage and true British ‘stiffupperlipmanship’….choppers at dusk in Casablanca….say it again Sam!

“The next day I set off north again for Casablanca, reaching a small town some 100 miles north after dark and again finding a very nice hotel right on the beach. As I took a walk along the beach I saw two young lads coming towards me. They looked friendly and I had no reason to suspect otherwise, but, unfortunately, they decided to ask for my telephone and my wallet. What they thought was my telephone was, in fact, a combination knife set with some tools. I told them that they couldn’t have anything of the sort so they took out two large flick knives and became aggressive. I said ‘Look, I will show you but you won’t want it’. It took a while getting the knife out, which they thought was the telephone, and by the time I had got it out from behind my back, I had opened two blades, leaning down as I did so I pulled out my commando knife from inside my boot”…... (I don’t know how the hell he got through the immigration and Customs services with these, but clearly they must have recognised a true hero on a mission)

“I stood up and took a violent leap towards them, screaming as I did so and they backed off, looked at each other and ran about 20 or 30 yards away from me. Amusingly, they discussed the situation, put their knives away and came over with their hands raised towards me, apologising in French and saying that they wouldn’t take anything from me but advising me not to go into any of the quieter areas of town. We ended on good terms so I made my way back to my hotel.”(We need this guy…he’s the perfect answer to the knife culture of today’s youth…put him on the streets and he’ll play them at their own game, scare the living shit out of them and turn them instantly into good upright citizens or even baby super-grasses)

Well, there you are, that’s my problem, V asks me do I need to buy a gun, Euan and Charlie get threatened by a gun and Crocodile Crighton just finds it all over the place as easily as Casanova in Venice. Are you surprised I have got cold feet? Add to that, that it is two thirds of the distance Euan and Charlie covered, twice the distance that Indiana rode, and even though most of it is likely to be on tarmacked roads in a supposedly civilised country, it has the biggest gun culture in the world, maniacs carrying as much weaponry as the British Army who massacre entire High Schools, Hells Angel gangs who eat baby bikers like me or thrash their balls off with bicycle chains, and I’ve seen the films too…chainsaw massacres, things in sheets with scissors for fingers or nails like knives, The Mob who bury you in concrete for looking at a girl in a bar the wrong way….need I say more? AND, I’m by myself….I’ve gone off my head in the past because I was by myself! So, what is my conclusion from all this? Well, certainly not the double bladed knife in the back of my trousers and commando knife in my boot. It would be just my luck to drop the bike, stab my arse and wreck my already damaged right ankle. Probably not the pull your opponent in close and knee him in the balls approach either. I already have some arthritic changes in my knees , and I would probably try it on some thug who carries his double bladed knife in the front of his trousers. So, the pistol? Probably not. I am a doctor after all and although I am, of course, a lethal weapon with a pistol. I couldn’t bear the guilt of seriously injuring someone less skilled. No, it can’t be any of these things. It has to be safe, yet totally disabling, the skill of my life’s work, listening and talking…yep…I’ve got it…write a blog and bore them to death.

Best wishes,

Doc

Finally, a foot-note to Eion Crighton. Eion, if you were ever read to this, as I said, you are either, quite the most fantastic old man, or you are far superior blagger to me. You have my greatest admiration whichever it is. It is quite clear that this wasn’t the standard Saga Holiday package. Perhaps you can advise on future excursions which I might join…always providing that you ride as bodyguard of course. I am reminded of the Steppenwolf song, Born to be Wild…..”get your motor running, get out on the Highway, looking for adventure, in whatever comes our way” Ride safe, ride free old man!. I hope you can do so for many years yet.

Final, final footnote: This is the final word of advice from Eion to adventurous motorcyclists. “Make certain before you leave that your bike is in pristine condition and that your brakes have new pads, that there are no weak areas and that you are carrying spare cables with you. One last point I would say to anybody, is that it is dangerous to ride at night because the patrols and roadblocks will fire at you if you come at them with your headlight on at speed”

(Well that’s O.K. then. Perhaps, in addition to the spare sets of cables, a couple of dozen pairs of disposable underpants might prove useful; my dear late mother always seemed to think clean underpants were essential in case you found yourself in hospital. Night patrols and roadblocks eh? Well, it may not be cricket, and I still don’t think I’ll buy a pistol, but perhaps I do need to fix some sort of ex–military GPMG (general purpose machine gun) to my front fairing? I’m sure they must be available over the counter in Texas or Alabama if I ask nicely?)