I had always loved vehicles… cars, bikes, and as a child and into my teens I satisfied myself as much as I could by riding my pushbike all over London. My parents would have gone mad had they have known how far I’d gone. Hyde Park, 7 miles from my home in Poplar through the busy City and West End traffic, along with regular trips to Greenwich park for the long hills and high speeds that could be achieved riding down them. I even found myself at the foot of Grenfell Tower once, not knowing my role and the tragic future of this block as I rode around the old Kensington Leisure centre with my friend looking for some local girls who we had met the previous weekend at a swimming gala.

I couldn’t wait to drive and ride, so inevitably a few months after my 16th birthday, with my provisional motorcycle licence issued, which allowed me to ride a 50cc moped, I found myself looking at all of the wonderful motorbikes in the showroom of Eddy Grimstead’s motorbike shop in Barking Road, East Ham. There were a number of models on offer, but I was pretty taken with a bright green Kawasaki AR50, a small bike fashioned on the popular larger GPz models that were all the rage in the mid-80’s. A week later, my uncle John, himself a long time motorcyclist came with me to check the bike over and act as my guarantor for the finance I took out on this brand new £600 bike. A few days later, he went to East Ham and picked it up for me and rode it home, so he could teach me the basics of riding in the small quite square of council houses we lived in, in Saltwell Street Poplar.

At last I was free… albeit restricted to a measly 32mph flat out, maybe 34mph going down a hill with a wind behind me. But I went everywhere, within the reasonable distances of such an underpowered bike. I began to find my way around London, initially through the routes I used to cycle into the West End, generally the bus routes, but gradually finding new and exciting bits of London to discover. One of my very first rides, with a friend who was older and had a much (slightly) more powerful 125cc bike, was a ride to Oxford Circus the night the big fire occurred on the Underground. My new found freedom also allowed me to chase fires much further afield.

In July the next year, I was 17 and started to learn to drive, I still had my bike, but it took a rear seat as the world of car driving came into my central focus, soon to be relegated to an occasional ride as I worked my way through one old heap of a car to another. By 1987 I had joined the London Fire Brigade, the tiny green Kawasaki was long gone… into the arms of a joy rider I assume, as the last time I saw it, was when I parked it in Great Titchfield Street in the West End to go to work. And for the time being I’d had my fill of riding a bike. But an itch still needed to be scratched and it wasn’t long before my ‘grown up’ Firefighters salary was burning a hole in my pocket and after securing my first decent car I began to think about bikes again. Now I was 19, I was no longer restricted to a tiny moped, so bought myself a rather shiny but ‘old man-ish’ Honda Benly 125. It was pretty sedate to be fair, but at least you could get a bit more of a move on, to a more respectable 65mph.

By 1991, I had moved out of my parents house and was living with my soon to be wife in our first house in Dagenham. Tired of being stuck in traffic on the A13 going to work at Poplar Fire Station, I decided to take my full bike test. This was a year after the change to bike tests where examiners would stand on street corners ‘observing’ the motorcyclist on a pre determined test route. Instead, I was fitted with a two way radio and had the examiner follow me, I had no worries, I was followed around the Roads of Grays in Essex by the examiner, and managed a pass.

Money was very tight at that time, The Mortgage rates were through the roof and my entire monthly take home just about covered the Mortgage, I was doing a little bit of part time work as a removal man but managed to get a reasonably decent motorbike, a Honda VT500E, from a bike Shop in Ilford. I loved it, the VT500 was quite powerful for what it was and I started doing motorcycle courier work as a part time job, which improved the financial situation a little, but was hard work in the winter. Even though I was only in my early 20’s, I ‘d often come home wet and frozen stiff and the best I could do was creep in and straight into a hot bath to thaw myself out.

From then on I had a range of bikes some good some bad. I bought an old BMW R80/RT, an ex Police bike with it’s fairing keeping me relatively warm and dry, a few smaller bikes after that as the BMW, was costing me more to keep the road than I could earn. But the bike was still a commuting and work thing for me. In 1994 after my first Daughter Charlotte was born, knowing London really well by now, I decided to do the Knowledge of London, to become one of London’s Black Taxi drivers. This was going to take a few years and the regular two wheeled form of doing so was a small Honda C90 ‘step through’ moped. I got myself one, a Yamaha version in fact, but it took all of a few weeks and a close encounter with a City of Westminster dustcart, that I pulled out in front of, expecting the type of acceleration I had become accustomed to, before I changed by mind. I lost a lot of money in the quick transaction, my wife lost her mind, but I found myself back on a ‘big bike’ to finish the Knowledge. Unable to fit the customary clip board for maps and notes of routes, I purchased a magnetic tank bag with a plastic map window and used that. Throughout those three years I found myself on a Honda CB450N, a Suzuki GS450, a Honda FT500 and another Honda VT500. Try as I might, 28 years later I can’t fathom why I just didn’t stick with one bike, I don’t remember any of them particularly failing, maybe I just needed a change… a similar theme with cars and bikes through my life.

In 1998, I finished the knowledge and all of my time was initially spent driving my Taxi when I wasn’t on duty. But that, and the traffic soon become an issue and it wasn’t long before a solid Kawasaki GT550, that was quite new and supremely reliable found its way into my garage. I ended up keeping that for several years until promotion to the senior ranks of the Fire Brigade, with the very long hours and the requirement of a lease car fitted with blue lights saw the bike gathering dust, so it was sold to one of my LFB colleagues who ran it for years afterwards.

Back to Biking

In 2012, I decided it was time for a bike again, I had a bit of money in the bank and after watching Ewan Mc Gregor and Charlie Boorman in ‘Long way Round’ and ‘Long way Down’ decided to buy myself a BMW R1200GS Adventure bike. A fantastic machine, and at last a bike just for the pleasure motorcycling. Days off, or warm Sunday’s would see me out for hours through the country lanes of Essex, Suffolk and Cambridgeshire, usually ending up with all of the other bikers at the High Beech tea hut in Epping. I enjoyed that and decided when I retired in 2018, I’d take this biking up as a proper hobby. After a couple of years, increasing shifts in the fire service saw the bike parked up more often than not, so I decided to sell it and keep a smaller runaround bike ‘just in case’ which itself after months of little use also got the elbow.

In 2018, I finally retired from LFB. After buying myself a nice car and making plans for a kitchen extension, my efforts turned to a new bike. Another GS, the even more adventurous GSA or the sister bike the RT, the touring version the Police use. I had a shortlist and then got an insurance quote, this is where it all went wrong. They wanted over £1000 to insure the bike, because my previous no claims discount had elapsed, and basically they treated me like an old man who had come back to biking after a 20 year lay off. It had been just over three years, the longest gap I’d ever had without a bike, which pretty much painted me as a newbie to the insurers.

I wasn’t prepared to pay that, despite me having the money, it was a matter of principle, especially as I was insuring a new, expensive and powerful car for around half of that price. I compromised with my principles and got myself a tidy little Honda NC750X, as reliable as ever, but not at all exciting and physically a bit small for me as I’m not the smallest person. A year or so later, I saw a wonderful Suzuki V-Strom 650, physically much bigger, more exciting despite the 100cc smaller engine, a wonderful bike that I enjoyed immensely for the next three years.

Me and my fantastic Suzuki V-Strom.

Roll on to June this year (2023), the summer stared beautifully and the days were long and hot. Sitting in the living room one day, scrolling through my phone, perfectly happy with the Suzuki, I came across an advert at a local Triumph motorcycle dealer that had a very reasonable priced and well equipped BMW R1200RT for sale. It jumped off the page at me, the perfect bike, the perfect colour and accessorised to within an inch of its existence with every possible addition. All of a sudden, I found myself getting dressed in my bike gear and instantly sweating in the 28º heat unlocking my bike for a ride over to look at it, knowing I now had gained 5 years of my no claims discount back.

It didn’t disappoint. I took it out for a test ride and I was in love. A much improved engine and engineering from my previous GS, essentially the same bike underneath but with different suspension and body. It was awesome and by the time I got back, I was sold on it. We had a deal on the Suzuki and within a few days, the bike was mine. I loved it and any excuse through June and early July of this year, even when the weather turned in early July, I was out on it. My only regret was that I’d taken 5 years to buy one because of my principles over paying for the insurance.

Sunday July 16th 2023

The day before we went off to Spain on Holiday. Everyone was busy getting ready and packing, the weather had cleared up some what and it was a sunny day, not too hot so perfect for riding. The bike had been put away for the holiday, it had no petrol but what the hell, it would only take a few minutes to uncover it and stop up the road to fill it with petrol. I planned a route on the inbuilt navigator device and set off for a couple of hours of riding through the lanes of Essex while everyone was getting ready with their several changes of clothes per day for holiday.

I was riding along Ockenden Road in Upminster, just past the Stubbers Outdoor centre and on a long lazy bend, not going too fast, just a relaxing Sunday ride. Ahead of me was Pike Lane, a small country lane to my left. I noticed a white Vauxhall Mokka edging out and typically scanned to see if the driver had seen me, she was looking left I was to her right, the car still edging forward. I instantly hit the brakes, still looking left she accelerated out of the junction just as the fantastic Brembo brakes on my bike brought me to a very rapid and controlled stop… thank you bike, you did your job brilliantly. The last meter or so until she hit me passed in slow motion. I saw her coming, still looking left, but even though this played out slowly, second by second in real life, it was too quick for me to hit my horn or do anything.

With a sickening and violent crash that I can still hear and feel, she had hit me, although she was going slowly, she was accelerating so the car was under power. I was in the air and I knew I was hurt, I didn’t feel anything but the violence of the collision told me so. I hit the ground and rolled, somehow remembering in all of that I was on a bend, I kept rolling until I was out of the opposite lane. I laid there, somewhat winded by the impact but I was alive and had no screaming pain. The lady, an elderly lady with her grandchildren in the car was out of her car and looking at me… in silence as I recall. I scream at her. “WHY DIDN’T YOU SEE ME… WHY WASN’T YOU LOOKING”? “I AM MEANT TO BE GOING ON HOLIDAY TOMORROW”. I guess my thoughts were coming out in words. I recall asking her to call the Police, she replied that Police won’t attend. “They will fucking attend, I am hurt, I need an ambulance”. I didn’t know where I was hurt, I couldn’t feel pain but I somehow knew by the sheer violence of the impact I wasn’t going to get up and ride away.

Another car and a cyclist stopped, I remember asking the cyclist to take photographs, (the one at the top of this blog is one that he took on his own phone). I seemed to have amazing clarity of what was happening and a business like calmness as I got myself up onto my hands and knees. I seemed determined that I was a completely innocent party in this and worried about blame and denials. I was up against the verge and for some reason the lower grass verge opposite looked more welcoming. I think by then my leg hurt but I manage to crawl across the road where I laid down on my back in the grass.

My wonderful new BMW R1200RT, the day I brought it home, not knowing it would all end for me just 3 weeks later.

I laid there, feeling hurt but not knowing quite how badly. My left leg hurt, but I was in shock and methodically moved every part of myself, head, neck, arms, hands, legs and feet, felt my body, drew in some sharp breaths to check my torso, all seemed well apart from a severe pain in my groin I didn’t really want to think about. I decided I needed an ambulance, so got took my phone from my pocket dialled 999 and asked to be put through the the ambulance and with a sigh of resignation awaited to there the words so often heard on Ambulance Documentaries “Hello Ambulance, is the patient conscious and breathing”? “Yes, it’s me, I have been knocked off for my bike”. I suddenly realised I didn’t know where I was, and despite people saying “It’s Ockenden Road, Pike Lane”. I told the operator to hang on while I opened the ‘what three words’ app on my phone. I gave her the three word location and she acknowledged this before asking me about my condition, I ran through it, told her I had been a Firefighter so understood first aid. I hadn’t lost consciousness, I wasn’t bleeding, I could move all of my limbs but my groin was really painful. She reassured me an ambulance would be en-route but might take up to 30 minutes, I wasn’t bothered, I felt fine considering the impact and reassured nothing was broken.

All of a sudden I heard sirens, “Blimey that was quick” I thought but then a Police van arrived from Pike Lane, the Police got out and came over, I explained what had happened, where the other driver was, now in floods of tears admitting it was her fault to anyone who would listen bless her. They were soon joined by other Officers in a car, one young Cop decided to do an initial survey of me. We went through the same checks, I moved everything and he confirmed everything was in the right place and my protective clothing, although scuffed was not badly damaged, indicating I was probably relative fine underneath. Again the leg was a problem, but I settled down and tried to ring Joanne.

Her phone went to answerphone twice, so I rang my Daughter Abigail, my middle one and the preferred calm voice in chaos. She was at home with Charlotte my eldest, Joanne and my youngest Imogen, unknown to me, had gone to Tesco’s for a few last minute holiday bits. Abigail found me on ‘find friends’ and said she’s ring Joanne and that they were on their way. What seemed like a few minutes of quiet jovial chit chat with the Police (Surely I am not that bad, I feel pretty good) Abigail and Charlotte turned up. They both came over and reassured me, Charlotte formalising what I probably now knew myself “That’s it, you are never riding a bike again”

Not long after Joanne arrived, she was obviously worried and after reassuring herself I wasn’t dying, went off in search of the driver to give her a piece of her mind. The Police Officer detecting what was about to unfold, diplomatically steered her back to me with “some questions” to take her mind and her anger away from the other driver. Poor Imogen, her face red from crying was looking at me nervously over her Mum’s shoulder. The same Officer, then told me the Ambulance was likely to be a couple of hours and would I consider being transported in the police car or lying in the van. The car I know was a non starter but the van maybe?

Pushing myself up on my elbows supported by Joanne and the Officer I tried to move. Then I knew what was wrong with me, the pain in my groin was instant, violent and dizzying. I heard a scream that I realised was mine and fell back onto the grass in search of relief. I then realised I wasn’t going to be walking way from this but with the miracles of modern medicine maybe I would get to go on holiday still…. although deep inside I think I knew.

As it happens, an ambulance became available nearby and was with me soon after this. I relaxed a little as the paramedic did a much more thorough and professional version of what I and the Police Officer had done, she confirmed I hadn’t broken any of my limbs but was worried about my pelvis. At this point despite my protestations to the Police that the little bit of oil that had escaped from the damaged bike couldn’t be washed way by the Fire Service and would need absorbent granules, much to my distress and to the delight of the Police the Pump Ladder from Hornchurch Fire Station arrived. With continued joviality, the Police took great delight informing them “One of your old Guv’nors is lying on the grass over there” I soon had some familiar faces grinning at me. “Fuck me Guv’nor, what have you done” and the timeless standard “You can’t park that there” Whilst pointing at my bike in the middle of the road.

I was soon painfully manoeuvred onto a spine board and into the Ambulance, they offered me Entonox for the pain, or something a bit stronger, but I declined for the time being as I felt fine as long as I didn’t move and still really didn’t want to give in to this being something serious.

Hospital

What I hadn’t considered what that Sunday 16th July was one of the Junior Doctors strike days. Initially when the strikes first started in March, their fight for improvements to their shocking pay and conditions were big news, but now the walkouts had increased in number, the headlines had quietened down somewhat. I wish I’d have realised as the Accident and Emergency Department didn’t need me adding to the pressure.

I arrived at Queens Hospital Romford in the ambulance after a slightly longer than anticipated ride due to an accidental diversion on route. They had managed to remove my motorcycle boots and kevlar lined jeans without much pain, so I was wheeled into a cubicle and immediately attended by a nurse who stuck a cannula into my arm should it be required. An older Doctor, hovered a round the cubicle and after the handover from the paramedics demanded an X-ray and CT scan for me. I was given some pain killers intravenously, and settled back wondering what was next.

The A&E was remarkably quiet, probably due to most people recognising it was a strike day and taking care, unlike your’s truly, not to bend or break themselves. After a while, when they were happy I wasn’t about to keel over, they moved me to another cubicle and then out of the main receiving area to the ‘Majors’ departments where this time I got a little room to myself, very nice. I then waited…. and waited… and waited. After a couple of hours, Joanne pulled a nurse and asked what was happing. “Oh, we are just waiting for his X-ray and CT scan to be authorised”. OK, we bought that, but my pain was getting worse and the slightest movement of my left leg induced a loud uncontrollable scream. I was not good, the holiday in my mind was now long gone, although Joanne still held hope.

After what seemed an age, a middle aged casually dressed man walked in… “How are you…”? he asked. “I don’t know, I’m in pain, but no one has seen me” I replied. “What no one, have you had an Xray and CT scan”? “No, I’ve been lying here for hours”. His next few words were not in any medical text book, but suffice to say he wasn’t happy. I told him that I had been told that I was waiting for an X-Ray and CT scan to be authorised. This pleased him even less. “For Christ sakes, you are a trauma patient, they don’t need authorisation for that, this is ridiculous”. He examined me, which hurt, and then apologised profusely saying he was going to make a call now and would come back to see my once the imagery was done. he said he was the head A&E consultant and I should not have been left here like this.

Outside of my little room I heard another very salty conversation that he was having on the phone to someone, fortunes were read and promises obviously made as within a short time I was taken for an X-ray, brought back and then taken for a CT scan. During this time, I managed to talk Joanne into going home for a bit to get some food for herself as she’d now been with me for about 7 hours. The consultant never came back, a couple of critical cases had come into A&E that required him twice to do his stuff in Resus, so again I was left waiting.

Finally a new consultant came in to see me, it was well past 10pm by now, I was miserable, bored, scared to move and inevitably concerned. He told me that I had fractured my acetabular, the ‘socket’ of the hip that the ‘ball’ of the femur fits into. But it was a “Stable fracture” and in all likelihood would not need surgery. However, he had sent the images to the trauma team at the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel as they are the regional trauma centre and he wanted a second opinion. “It will all move very quickly now, if they are not happy, you will be transferred by ambulance on blue lights and they will carry out surgery”. I should have been filled with dread, but by now I was so desperate for treatment and relief, I actually didn’t care.

He eventually came back to me well past Midnight, told me RLH were happy and that he’d arrange for me to go up onto a ward. My holiday was now gone, but a plan had been hatched at home that the Girls would go away for the week as planned and maybe Joanne could join them later in the week… She never did. I was placed in a side room in Amber B ward. I felt sorry for the three others in the side room as the circus arrived at 1am. I felt awful, I had accepted I was now quite seriously injured having been told so by the Consultant and the shock now hit me. I was dog tired and just wanted to shut my eyes. It was noisy, even after my own fuss and bed transfer had calmed down… other noises were all around me. People talking , moaning, coughing, although the others slept quietly in my little room. I had my EarPods and quickly scanning ‘sleep based’ playlists on Spotify found ‘ten hours of calming rain noises’ and off I went into what was a surprisingly good sleep until a Nurse woke me up at 4am to check my blood pressure, heart rate etc. I fell asleep again and eventually woke up as the ward came to life around 7am.

I needed to have a wee, so having spotted the cardboard bottle next to my bed, made an attempt. Now the pain was real, almost any movement caused pain like I’ve never known in my groin. It was as if someone was putting a red hot poker into my groin. Even now, just 15 weeks later, I can remember it but can’t believe it was real compared to the dull ache that still persists today. I persevered and frankly half pissed myself in the process. I ate breakfast, had a new consultant and his team come to see me, to confirm it was a stable fracture and that conservative management of the fracture was all that was required… basically leave it to heal. I was having paracetamol and codeine intravenously and between movements felt quite comfortable.

Day turned into night and into another day of the same, I now had my iPad, so Netflix got a bashing, the man next to me who had had a stoke and lost his voice apologised for not being able to talk, but Terry opposite me and John in the far corner, both older chaps in their early 70’s were good company despite their issues being worse than mine. Every now and then an unexpected movement would see me turn Amber ward Blue, much to the delight of my compatriots in the beds opposite.

On Tuesday afternoon, I had been visited by the physio, that hadn’t gone at all well. They couldn’t even lift me from the bed the pain as so intense, my good leg was uncontrollably shaking after the attempt, this the physio told me, along with the immediate cold sweat, was an involuntary reaction to the pain. Just after that, I was informed that the fracture clinic at the RLH wanted to see me, an ambulance had been booked and I was due there at 11am the next day.

I managed a slow and painful bed bath and had help getting dressed on the Wednesday morning expecting the ambulance to arrive for me soon. That didn’t happen and I had to ‘google’ the private ambulance provider ring them to chase it up. They eventually came and along with a stop at another hospital I was delivered, on a stretcher to the RLH fracture clinic, who were not expecting me to be bed bound, so had to hastily arrange a cubicle for me. I was seen pretty quickly and then left while the junior registrar went off to consult with someone, then she came back. “You are fine, the fracture is stable, you can go home” She told me curtly. “Go home”!!! I cried, I can’t even move with the pain. “Well go back to your hospital and get them to help you with drugs to control the pain” was her parting comment.

The Ambulance took another 90 minutes to get to me, then because it was rush hour we had another 90 minute ride back to Queens in Romford. “Bollocks to this, I am going home, even if it kills me. I can’t take much more of this” I thought. That night, when everyone was asleep I torturously worked through the pain, gritting my teeth not to cry out, trying to get my leg moving. It worked, it wasn’t pretty but with the curtain pulled around me (to keep the light out I told them), I gradually got my knee lifted and practiced sliding it very slowly up and down. I had made some progress so went to sleep.

At breakfast time, the Ward Manager, a modern name for the Matron I assume, did her rounds and was asking after everyones condition as if we weren’t there. The man next to me had gone home and another new chap Tony was in his place. She was business like and commanded respect, we kept our heads down like naughty schoolboys, daring not to attract her attention. “What about bed three” She barked at one of her understudies in tow as she glanced sideways at me. A timid nurse muttered a reply to her and she responded with “Has he been to the toilet… No? Give him an enema”. I wasn’t having that, the body works in miraculous ways, despite having eaten quite healthily since Sunday, it was now Thursday morning and despite my now much better routine with the wee bottle, nature had made no other calls on me. Even with the mild laxative (that I may or may not have taken) every day.

I had no idea how I’d sit on a bed pan as I could not sit up, the prospect of somehow lying prone on one, especially having had an enema was not a pleasant one. I decided I was getting up. I held my breath, took my mind somewhere else, albeit it rapidly came screaming back into place as I moved. But swallowing any verbal response, I swung myself out of the bed, John over in the corner looked at me wide eyed, and mouthed a WTF. Terry was just staring in anticipation of my imminent collapse but I had done it and was able to bear the pain as immense as it was. This was just before the physio was due to visit, so I knew I could make progress.

An hour later the physio visited and I stood up in agony but masked it well, the obsessive objective now was HOME four big letters front and centre. “Whoa, slow down, slow down, we need to take your blood pressure as you haven’t stood up in days” cried one of the physios. But now I was at an odd angle and the pain was awful. I needed to stand to relieve the pain, it was actually OK to stand. Lying or standing was fine, it was the bit in between that hurt… a lot. My blood pressure was inevitably through the roof along with my heart rate as I stifled my need to shout out. Everyone eventually calmed down and I was put in the chair, but with the prospect of the enema still hanging over me. Joanne came in to visit as she had every day and was really pleased to see me up in a chair. I felt better, just before lunch having discussed pain management I was offered a tramadol tablet as morphine really hadn’t helped me when I had tried to move.

Tramadol hadn’t helped either, but Christ it wasn’t pleasant. Within 15 minutes I felt a bit sick, then lunch came, everyone tucked into lunch but it was all I could do to shut my eyes, take breaths and take tiny sips of water as wave after wave of nausea passed over me. My lunch went cold, but that was better than seeing it again and thankfully the awful feeling passed after about an hour. So when Joanne came, she was immediately despatched to get me a Subway from downstairs as I was now ravenous. Later that afternoon the nurse returned with more Tramadol, I told her where to go and she admitted she’d had it once, several years ago and swore to never touch it again…. I agreed.

That evening just around shift change I decided it was time to put my plan into action John had gone home that day, after 11 weeks the poor sod, but that inspired me more. I called a nurse over and asked for a walking frame. She went to get it but them glanced up and the board above my head. “Stephen, you are only to go from the chair to the bed, not to walk” Not to be outdone, I tried it on a bit more with some of my best charm. “Nurse, I don’t know about that, but I had the red walking Frame earlier” I lied, I’d seen them when they’d tried to get John walking earlier in the week. I don’t know whether I convinced her or she was too busy to answer, but she brought it and left me to it. I pulled myself up out of the chair, that experience again was delightful, but once up, I was OK. I tried a tentative step and it worked, then another and another… It was actually fine. The whole very painful issue was the journey between lying flat and standing. The RLH were right, the fracture was well capable of bearing weight it was the muscle and ligament damage that was my problem. To the surprise of Tony and Terry, I shuffled away toward the toilet in the corner. “Gentlemen, I may be some time….” and I was, but I had ticked the first of my ‘going home’ boxes, I’ll spare the details but the enema was no longer required and I told any member of staff who came within earshot of me the rest of that evening.

I woke up early on Friday morning, full of excitement about what I had decided was my departure day. I got out of bed, even the very small self-powered moves of the day before had got the blood flowing again and had inspired me. I took myself off for a wee and to brush my teeth without using bottled water, I’d now done with the bed bottle and then shuffled my way out of the side ward and did a complete circuit of the central oval corridor of the ward on my walking frame, in anticipation of the visit from the consultant and physio. The consultant was first, sat in my chair I went to stand up, more to prove a point than anything else, but he waved me down. I told him I was up and moving, had walked the ward and of my proud toilet achievement. he agreed that as long as the physio was happy, I could go home.

When the physio’s came round, I (painfully) hopped up (ouch) “Style its out Stevie boy” I cursed under my breath and they were delighted to see me walking toward the end of the bed. “Wow, you’ve done well… how come you have the walking frame” Not being a grass, I told a little fib “Oh my Mrs saw it in the corner and brought it over last night so I could go to the loo” “Oh, OK…” a long contemplative pause, that scared me… “OK, how do you feel about trying some crutches then” She replied. “I’d be delighted, let’s go for it” And we did. I walked around the ward, they took me to some steps and I walked up and down them, then they took me out onto the fire staircase and I managed a flight of them up and down” They were impressed. “As far as we are concerned, you are done here. Keep these crutches, we’ll tell your nurse and they’ll write your discharge letter” I was ecstatic, Never did seeing the inside of my own house mean so much to me, it felt like a lottery win and after some inevitable delays by 2pm I was on my crutches and saying my goodbyes to the lads in my side ward and the wonderful nurses.

Home

Joanne’s car was out of the question, an Audi A5 convertible, I’d never be able to get down that low. My own car is also low, the best bet was Abigail’s, a small Mercedes SUV, smaller than both our cars but it is quite tall being a SUV. She had thankfully decided to stay at home and Joanne’s parents had booked flights to go to Spain with Charlotte and Imogen. I breathed fresh air and felt warm sun for the first time in five very long days. Getting in the car wasn’t as easy as I expected. I couldn’t bend my leg at all really, so had so fall into the seat then using my upper body strength (Thank God for that Gym membership since retiring), drag myself up across the centre armrest toward the back of the car to get my leg into the footwell without bending it.

But I did it, I reversed the procedure getting out and with real relief, that almost brought me to tears I was home, the dogs we fussing around me and I had Joanne help me into a much needed and refreshing shower before lying on the sofa and just being so thankful to be home. I watched TV until my eyes went square and was spoilt rotten by Joanne and Abigail. That night, using the technique taught to me by the physio, good leg, crutch, crutch, bad leg.I got upstairs and never has my own bed been so welcome. Joanne was worried she might bump into me in the night, so slept in Charlottes bed and I drifted into a wonderful and much needed sleep. And boy, did I sleep in those first days, I guess it was my body working to recover, but in those early weeks, even in hospital once I blocked the noise out, the sleeps were among the best I’ve ever had.

Then we got down to business. Whilst in A&E on the Sunday, during the mind numbing wait, I informed my insurance company, on the Monday the insurer of the lady who hit me rang me and admitted full liability. I must admit, that has made this process so much easier and stress free the two ladies dealing with me, Becky the claim manager and Hannah the specialist handing my medical issues have been brilliant. Within days, Becky had paid for my motorcycle clothing and the lost holiday, a week or so after getting home the bike had been written off and they had paid me for that and I also sent them the purchase orders for the work I had booked in for August but would now be unable to complete, and they covered that with no argument, each time the money was in my account within a couple of days.

The recovery however was frustrating. Ten days after the accident I was back at the RLH as an outpatient. The fracture clinic was busy and I waited about four hours to be X-rayed again. I was told, it still looked OK, but healing was still only starting and I was to go back in another six weeks to see how I was getting on, I may yet need surgery and I was to continue with the self administered blood thinning injections for those six weeks, my stomach now looked like a bruised dart board. I was hobbling about on the crutches just fine, but the pain in my groin was still a joy to behold. Hannah my medical specialist having come from a physiotherapy background, hinted that I probably had soft tissue damage to the ligaments caused by the force of being thrown from the bike. The impact had fractured the bone, but being thrown off had caused me to pretty much do the splits very violently… that description alone should give you an idea of where the pain was and how much it was hurting.

I started exercising at home, it wasn’t easy, but with my set of dumbbells reduced in weight I returned to upper body strength training and with an adaption of a Bulgarian squat, I was able to isolate my bad leg but kept exercising my good leg which was now doing the work of both legs. The visit to the Outpatients confirmed my mobility and ability to manage so well despite the injury was in no small part down to my existing strength that allowed me to use my good limbs upper and lower to cantilever and push my body up and down, in and out or whatever was required.

Recovery.

On the 18th August, I had a longe planned reunion with some old colleagues planned, I had managed a few short drives by then, don’t worry my car is an automatic, but decided to go by train alone. Joanne reluctantly dropped me at Upminster station where I got a train to Limehouse before transferring to the Docklands Light Railway to get into Canary Wharf. I managed to get down from the platform but the walk to the pub was not easy, I really began to feel it. But I was soon in the spirit of things, telling my story over and over too much piss taking and soon knocked a couple of pints back. I was talking to one old colleague and suddenly I felt a bit weird, it was a warm day, about 25ºC and I hadn’t eaten much. All of a sudden I really needed to sit down and stumbled over to a bench but I knew I was going. I was going to pass out and managed to lower myself to the ground before losing consciousness.

I quickly came round but felt awful. Bless them the fella’s should’ve left me on the floor but got me up too quickly and sat me on a bench. Not done, my body let go again and although I think I remember everything I almost felt like I was asleep, I could hear all of the fuss around me but wanted to be left alone. “Jesus his eyes have rolled back…. get an Ambulance…” were the distant cries I heard. I was soon awake, someone was on the phone to Joanne and she wanted to speak to me. I assured her I was alright and that an ambulance had been called but to be fair I felt as ill as I’d ever felt. The ambulance service, from the description thought I was having a heart attack, so an ambulance and paramedic car were there in minutes, it seems like seconds but I wasn’t really with it.

The paramedics put me on an ECG and quickly ruled out a cardiac event, but with me on crutches having explained by accident to them, the immediate worry became a blood clot on my brain or in my lungs. So I was soon back at the RLH, this time in the A&E and not in the fracture clinic. But what a difference, most of you will know that the RLH is a leading trauma centre. I was whisked in without delay, seen immediately by a doctor and hooked up to everything. I had a CT scan on my brain within about half an hour and once they were happy I wasn’t going to turn up my toes, it all calmed down and joined by Joanne and the girls again… how much more was I going to put them through…. I was sat back out in the waiting room. I was called in to see another Doctor who gave me the news. “The good thing is we don’t know what caused you to faint” was his odd opening line… “which is reassuring because we are happy your heart is fine and have scanned you and there is nothing sinister, so although we never know what might cause someone to faint if there isn’t an underlying issue, we can only assume with your description of your accident, the walking, the heat and a couple of beers, your body called time… too much too soon”.

I was relieved and happy to be on my way home with no more than a ‘take it easy’ but something had changed. I had processed the accident pretty well I think and was positive with my progress, but now I was terrified. When I got home I remember thinking “I am home, home is safe, I never want to go out again. Not to drive, not to work, not on holiday, not to the pub, I just want to stay in here, in my nice safe house. That just isn’t right, I had dealt with lots of things in my life, nothing I ever saw in the Fire Brigade ever got to me, with the exception of the Grenfell Tower fire which made me and continues to make me so very, very sad. Charlotte had been diagnosed with breast cancer at the end of 2020 and fought it through 2021 until being given the all clear early in 2022. My dear old Mum had sadly passed way earlier this year in February. All of these challenges I took in my stride and as awful as they were I kept walking my path.

But this had absolutely shattered me. I was terrified about what had happened, I had never been badly injured before, but regretfully processed and acknowledged my accident and injuries. I had also never been really ill before. Of course I have add colds and bugs like everyone else, and couple of times heat exhaustion at fires had left me feeling a bit groggy, but this came out of nowhere and for the first time as an adult I felt really vulnerable. I spoke to Hannah my medical specialist as I thought this needs logging as part of my whole case of injury and recovery, she had suggested previously that I might need some counselling but I was reluctant as I had come to terms with the accident. This time I agreed, she put me in touch with a lovely Spanish lady Gema, who has been speaking to me every week since and has now got me to see it all for what it is… the accident, my newly increased lack of tolerance for bullshit, the fact I am quiet snappy now, but mainly talked me through my feelings of vulnerability after the fainting event. Suffice to say, I’ve been out, I am back to work, I’ve been to the pub all of which were completely fine and I now accept I tried to do too much to soon on August 18th and my body just told me it was having none of it.

Physically I am probably 90% there. The wonderful Hannah again came to my rescue and arranged private physiotherapy for me. A month ago I was getting around, I no longer used the crutches but was still limping badly and struggling to bend down, still cantilevering using my good leg. I could bend my knee or my hip but not both together, so putting on socks and shoes was impossible and to get trousers on required me to use my Mum’s ‘grabber’ a long stick with a handle and a set of ‘jaws’ which she used to use to pick things up from the floor bless her. Now, I can do all of those things, I exercise most days, either at the gym where the upper body routine had been joined by leg extensions, leg presses, hip abductions and leg curls. Or at home where I do half an hour or so of cardio now that I can move and bounce around a little bit more. In fact it easier to say what I can’t yet do, I still can’t do a left leg lunge, trying to lift my weight on the bad leg just isn’t quite achievable yet and I can no longer get up from the floor without using my hands, something I was very proud to be able to do still in my fifties. But I’ll get there. I am booked into to spend five day at the Wonderful Firefighter charity rehabilitation centre in Littlehampton in January that will hopefully be the final stage in my immediate recovery.

The bad pain has long since subsided, the physio was brilliant and gave me some great exercises that brought about tangible daily improvement in my movement and reduction in pain. But the groin still has a dull ache whenever I move and the imbalances of the past few months mean I suffer hip pain in both hips and my lower back if I sit down for more than 20 minutes, thus this Blog has taken me about 8 hours to finish. My consultant has told me the injury has already caused some arthritis in my hip and that I am now at a higher risk of needing a hip replacement when I am older. Mentally I am different. My entire 31 years in the fire service gifted me with a wisdom, experience and a grateful outlook on life that being exposed to years of other people’s suffering brings. But I still had a boyish innocence that I was bombproof and nothing could get me. That has now gone, along with my patience and tolerance to a degree. I accept I will never ride a bike again. I promised my family, but that is something else I feel has now been spoilt. My driving has changed as a result of the accident, so riding a bike would really be no fun at all now. That is what I am really mourning now, something I loved has been taken away from me.

Thank you for letting me share my story, stay safe, be lucky and God Bless. Steve.