Gurriers (25 page)

In hindsight I can almost recall a little tingle that could be explained as a faint echo of Shay’s warning about the big flap but that’s hindsight for you. I believe that the brain will always place a warning memory of some sort into the recall of traumatic events. I can’t say for sure about the warning but I’m 100 per cent clear about the traumatic events that did actually occur as per Shay’s advice to me that morning.

It was about two miles out from Stillorgan, just past the left turn onto Foster’s Avenue and before the slip road for UCD where the road is wide open (four lanes wide actually) and dead straight. The traffic was moving well considering how heavy it was. I was in the first lane behind a Transit van doing about 65, which was holding me in position a reasonable distance behind him. I ended up drifting away wondering what Saoirse was doing, engulfed by the usual wave of misery that I was getting used to these days. I was mercifully brought back to reality by the V-twin roar of a Bros 400 being driven at full throttle between the traffic.

I instinctively veered right slightly even though he didn’t need any more space. He proceeded along the space between me and the van driving between ten and 15 mph faster than me, and then through the gap between the Transit and the car in the lane beside it without hesitation or deceleration leaving me feeling oddly inferior.

I remember thinking to myself, should I be going that fast through the gaps? Was that the way all other couriers drove their bikes? Is that the competition? Then so be it!

I wound the throttle open to the max and aimed my bike on a diagonal course for the same gap the other courier had taken, with the corner of the flap peeled back where it had failed to make contact with the Velcro of the bag. As I cut across the line of the wind coming down the length of the van, I was at the
perfect angle for this wind to find purchase under this corner and almost instantly fill the flap with such force that it could only rip away from the bag and follow the route of the wind up my chest and over my head, blinding me completely in an instant. An instant that will remain with me until my dying day, such was the magnitude of the terror that consumed me therein. Instant blackness on a motorbike moving in traffic at high speed should have its own word to describe it. If it did, the word would be the word I screamed in that instance of absolute horror, “Yeearrgh!”

I feel as if my first instinct to grab the flap with both hands was overruled by my biker instincts, which demanded my right hand kill the throttle and apply front brakes immediately, leaving the left alone to reclaim the sense most vital to the driver - his sight! Instincts aside, I was sure that I was dead. The only possible outcome in my mind was a horrible crash. I could taste the terror feed on the panic, as my left hand failed to pull the flap from my head, such was the force of the wind that held it. I remember shifting my weight while I was blind and still under full brakes visualising myself maybe possibly by a long shot guiding myself through the gap that I had originally pointed myself at.

Due to deceleration, coupled with the distance put between me and the wind-directing van, the left hand’s second attempt at removing the flap was a success. It felt like being born again to see after being plunged into such horrific darkness. I grabbed the clutch just in time to stop the engine from conking out and banged down three gears before letting it out and proceeding to drive with the traffic which seemed to be just coming on regardless – blissfully unaware that the biker amongst them had been so close to killing himself. The only car that appeared to have been aware of my peril was a Renault spacewagon that had been behind me and braked with me.

As I shakily brought my bike back up to speed he moved his spacewagon into the space beside me in the first lane and gave a friendly little beep on his horn to get my attention. When I looked at him he stroked his forehead across the top of both
eyebrows and flicked his hand away from him as if he was flicking away sweat, to let me know that he appreciated what a close call I had just had. I intended to lift up my left hand and hold it out to show him how much I was shaking (which was lots) but my hands had welded themselves to the handlebars. So the best I could do was a nervous nod. He pointed at me and then the roadside and then made a smoking gesture to advise me to pull over and have a smoke. This was a good idea, but being within a mile of RTE I decided to have a much needed smoke when I got there. I managed to prise my left hand off the bars long enough to point vaguely to the right hand side of the road to gesture my intentions; he nodded and decelerated – gesturing to pull in front of him. I accelerated into the space and continued to accelerate, giving him a friendly two-beep salute and putting on my right indicator for my turn onto Nutley lane.

It wasn’t until I was dismounting outside the main TV building – having been directed there by the security guard at the main entrance – that I realised how shaken up I really was. My left leg buckled under the weight of my body, as I attempted an awkward slide off the bike to the left, being so hindered by the stinking box that had caused that whole nerve-racking experience, and it took two rapid stabilising hops, as I dragged my right leg over the saddle. to prevent me falling over completely.

Even after I had both feet on the ground I felt decidedly wobbly. My legs were like jelly and my right hand shook like a leaf, as I reached over to take my keys from the ignition. I felt too shaky to even take out my cigarettes and longed just to find somewhere to sit to get my weight off these wobbly legs. Quickly realising that there was nothing outside the TV building, I made my wobbly way through the revolving door into RTE for the first time ever.

The reception area was a huge, cold, tiled room that stretched off to my left for about 40 feet and my right for about 20 as I jittered my way out of the revolving door.

The reception desk was a good 20 empty feet in front of me and stretched about half way down towards the exit at the left end of the room, beside the life-size bronze statue of broad
casting legend Eamonn Andrews. Beside that there was a fancy stairway and then the tinted glass front that came all the way up to the revolving door.

The only thing that decorated this bare expanse was a brown leather two seater sofa, about five feet down from the revolving door, which faced the reception desk across the width of the room. Soft brown leather! Perfect! Two shaky steps later, I was perfectly positioned to flop loudly into this answer to my prayers. Only then did I remove my helmet, which was much trickier than usual due to the extent of my still shaking hands.

Placing the helmet beside me on the sofa I lay back and attempted to relax my frantically tense muscles, only vaguely aware of the people and activity around me.

“Are you all right there?”

It actually took a couple of seconds to sink in that I was the one being asked a question, which had been posed by one of the three uniformed middle-aged ladies that sat facing me at different stations along the reception desk. I wasn’t sure which one had asked it and they were all looking at me so I directed my answer at the middle one. The shakiness in my voice was multiplied by the extra volume applied to be heard across the room.

“N-n-not really. I, er…” I had intended to say that I had almost been killed but choked on the words as the full force of the image took over my brain.

“Are you Okay?” The one nearest the Eamonn Andrews statue sounded concerned as opposed to the “Can I help you?” attitude of the first question. A volcano of self-sympathy erupted inside me and it was all I could do not to burst into tears on the spot. I managed to nod a reply, not being in a position to attempt to speak for fear of blubbering.

“What happened, love?” The one on the far side sounded even more sympathetic, but her question demanded a vocal reply.

Time to pull yourself together, Sean. “Dri-ving al-ong and this,.” I pulled the flap off the bag, which was in my lap, and
bringing it up over my head minimised the amount of talking required, “blin-ded me.”

“Oh, Jaysus, did ye fall off?”

“No. I reacted well and saved myself.” I managed to reply. Then I took a deep breath and pulled my shoulders back. Rapid blinking and a throat clearing cough followed while the lady in the middle put things into perspective for me.

“So ye go’ a bad frie?”

“Yeah, yeah that’s it. Just a little bit shaken up. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

“You stay there as long as ye want, love!”

“Thanks. Ah! Do you have something there from the news-room going into Merrion Street?”

“Don’t you be mindin’ that, love. I’m goin’ to get ye a cup o’ sweet tea – that’s what you need!” The lady on the right was already out of her chair.

“Thanks but I haven’t got time.”

“We’ll make time for ye,” said the lady in the middle. “You get onto yer radio an’ tell him that yer envelope won’t be ready for five minutes. Go on! Cup o’ tea an’ a smoke – that’s what you need. Do ye smoke?”

I nodded.

“Well, there ye are. Go on, call in!”

She was right. By the time the other lady got back with my tea, I had radioed in the delay, making sure that the radio was at a low enough volume for none of the receptionists to hear Aidan’s reaction to the delay that they had “caused”.

The fake delay presented me with more than one lesson that day. The obvious lesson was that Aidan didn’t know what was going on out on the streets unless he was told. He knew where I was being delayed but he had no idea why, apart from what I told him. The second lesson was not to bother Aidan with details of events that were happening to me out on the streets. If the receptionist had not told me to tell him that the envelope wasn’t ready, I would have told him that I had just had a scare and was going to have a smoke to settle my nerves.

As I enjoyed the much needed cigarette, it occurred to me that that would have led to me having to recant the whole story over the air and possibly landed me in Aidan’s bad books also. This was very much easier. I was at the mercy of other people – the victim of the delay as opposed to the perpetrator. Much as I hated lying I sold myself the notion that this wasn’t really a lie; I was being delayed, I was just saving airtime by not bothering him with the details.

“Four Sean.”

“Go ahead, four.”

“I have RTE on board.”

“Roger. I’ll put a quarter waiting on tha’ as well. You header on into two.”

That’s what a quarter was! Quarters waiting meant a quarter of an hour waiting time. I was going to be paid for my little break. Lovely!

“Roger. I’ll call ye from there.”

Eleventh commandment my arse I thought, slipping the bike into gear and sped away.

I did tell Aidan what happened the next time I was in the base. I also insisted that he find me a new bag. He reluctantly sent Frank on a mission to find one while he covered both bases. Ten minutes later Frank returned with a new bag. When I took it off him he held out his hand for the old one but didn’t get it. I threw it in the bin.

The next time I saw Shay, was at the door of the base the following Monday morning – him being on the way in and me being on the way out. I saw him heading for the door and held it open, making sure to start talking while he was still a couple of steps away because of the pace he moved at.

“It happened, Shay, just like you said.”

“Wha’?” His head seemed to stop first with the rest of him giving the appearance of reluctance to brake. A little pang of foreboding hit me: my lack of confidence generating uncertainty at the prospect of delaying this tornado. I had a story to tell,
though, and I carried on in a loud-ish voice, employing my new bag as a visual aid to mime events.

“The flap over the head that you warned me about. It happened with that old bag on Thursday afternoon.”

“Jaysus. Ye didn’t fall off, did ye?” He turned automatically towards my bike to scrutinise the damage.

“No, but it was close.”

“Where’d i’ happen?”

“Stillorgan dual carriageway.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Were ye goin’ fast?” “About eighty.”

“An’ how come ye had the bag in front of ye?”

“I had a big box tied onto the back.”

He was looking ominously towards the hatch and shifting his weight from one foot to the other again, as if bursting to go to the toilet. I had had my fill of his attention and he was about to accelerate away. I was only going to get one more sentence from him before he would be gone.

“Well, there ye have it, kiddo; warnin’s aren’t given ou’ for nuttin’. That’s why they’re well worth listenin’ to!”

And he was gone, leaving me standing in the doorway for the briefest of moments absorbing the impact of what he had said. It would certainly serve me in good stead never to forget that particular little nugget of philosophy.

He didn’t forget about me, though. He put the word out that there was a beginner looking to buy a second hand top box. Within a week I had a bashed up old box bungeed onto the back of my saddle. It was the best 20 quid I ever spent!

I noticed that there seemed to be a slight edge to things on Friday, as if everything was a tad more urgent. Aidan’s high pressure tone seemed even more emphatic in a way and I heard more “directs” going out over the air. Directs are extra urgent jobs where the client pays more for the courier to go straight there without taking on any more work. Of course, in reality the courier will look for more work and usually get it. Nobody goes anywhere with just one job on board, it’s simply not worth it, even at the higher rate paid for directs.