Couldn't resist a piccy or two

[The Bede]

Mas viajes

... Had a Sunday morning call from Victor, a German 1150 pilot who lives in Nunez, Buenos Aires, with Graciela his Argentinian girlfriend.

... Why not take a spin out for a little light lunch? After a fairly boring 100km acros the flat-lands we found the little village of San Antonio De Areco.

... Real Gaucho grub ... Victor gets shutter finger

... The girls try their hand with a couple of the local playboys.

... Actually the old guys were fabulously entertaining. The chap in the cap was an Argy but has lived in Switzerland for donkeys, he was back visiting his mate in Buenos Aires. Like us they fancied a Sunday country nibble. Every time cap-man addressed Victor he would always start withe either 'zeig-heil' or 'sprechen ze deutsche? Hands-up Fritz!' Not a dry seat in the house

... F has more exams, I fancied burning a bit more gas, so the following morning I headed back off too Uruguay. Had a nice encounter (actually only one of a few) with the cops on the way up. Got flagged over near Gualeguaychu in Entre Rios Province, where the cops have a bad rep. Allegedly 122kph in a 100 . I'd been clocked on a fairly primitive radar set-up. The cop blurted the figure of 1200ArgiesPesos (£200 ) This sounded a tad 'suss so I hit the 'no hablo espanol' button.

License was checked and I was summoned to the Captain. 1200pesos Senor, Dolares, Euros, Libros esterlenos. Definitely a con, so I maintained my previous stance and only added occasional glimmers of vocabulary to try and move the stalemate a little. 'Solo tengo tarjetas senor' I have only credit cards! I heard the little monkey shout outside to the cop who'd pulled me, 'he's got no we've got to let him go!' He shook my hand politely before I left. Fifteen minutes, but not a peso exchanged hands

... Border formalities were mercifully quick at the bridge between Colon and Paysandu where I'd crossed a few weeks earlier. 15 minutes lid-off to lid-on. The Uruguayan customs agent barely asked a question and handed me an instant 12month tax-free import permit for the Prawn.

... Back into Uruguay for a couple of days tooling around.

... Holed up in a nice little colonial Hotel in Mercedes overnight. Took a stroll round the town, less pretty than my beloved Fray Bentos, but pleasant enough. Must have gotten pissed somewhere along the way , found this picture the following morning

... The nice colonial hotel ... Something very Prawn, Bede, San Jose Station

... Weather turns to shit, gas station lunch ... Quayside fishmarket in Piriapolis

... With darkening skies I decided to head cross-country to the Atlantic Coast, it's quite pretty and the map showed both curves and fuel stops. Avoiding the main highway took me through some nice small Urugauyan towns, I stopped in San Jose for the obligatory photograph. The weather turned quite nasty, cold, windy and wet, but I still enjoyed having quiet roads with bends in them and made steady cross-country progress to Piriapolis, a small resort town. I found a nice ocean front room for £12 and settled in to watch TV for a couple of hours, of all things, just to get a break from the weather.

... Whilst meandering out for a spot of nosebag, I spotted the unusual yellow, Chinese, 200cc twin outside one store on the 'prom' and was taken by two things. The combination 'Indian' front wheel and sports fairing , and secondly a little sticker on the windshield.

... I chatted briefly with the owner, who told me about the L.A.M.A.s a group of largely Uruguayan bikers who roam the territory on their 125s. I feel a lot of sympathy for these guys, they can't afford GS's and other heavy horses, Uruguay is financially speaking well strapped, but they get their shit together and organise rallies and gatherings. http://www.lamauruguay.com/

... I had a hell of a night, awakened at 0130 for a full on session. The evenings rigatoni wrought terrible revenge :flush

... Feeling grim I headed down the coastal 'auto-pista' to Montevideo. The weather was still pretty crappy with a showers and howling winds. When I got to the city I tootled around for a while, pausing for a coke and the occasional photograph

... Prawn, Bede and General Artigas, an all round South American good guy, in central Montevideo.

... I didn't feel like staying in Montevideo, I've stayed before and wasn't totally impressed. There was also lots of day left, so I thought I'd head on. I stopped up one more time for a cashpoint top-up. When I got out of the bank I found this heavily adorned 250 (big for these parts) parked up by the Prawn.

... Grabbed my snap and was about to head off when the owner returned. Jesol Grimau Friciello, secretary of the L.A.M.A.s. We chatted through my chin-bar and lack of spanish for a few minutes. I have been invited to join a LAMA gathering and Jesol handed me his card and a couple of LAMA stickers, shortly to be proudly added to the Prawns panniers.

... Took me over an hour find my way out of town on the wrong road.

... I followed a roundabout route north and thinking of heading back to Buenos Aires the next day I decided I'd head back to Fray Bentos for the night. Following Ruta2 north I passed through Rosario, there were some nice curves ahead, somebody had kindly put out some signs to warn me to speed up and enjoy them

... Good visibility right through the corner 80mph hard on the gas, left shoulder in* ....

... 'Nuff said?

... Scrubbing off speed as rapidly as possible, I mercifully* slithered and skated the Prawn round the gravel strewn corner with no more damage than the small, soft, lump left in my strides

*(Approached as a Left hand bend, the photograph was taken after the 'near-incident' hence the ... erm ... the photograph was taken!)

... Fray Bentos was much as I'd left it, except the Botnia Plant was now operating, it kicked into life shortly after my previous visit.

... This paper pulp mill has become the source of an international spat. The Argies objected to it's location across the river from Gualeguaychu because of pollution fears. The Urgy's responded that they had more to lose from it's location and that the plant posed no risk. Protestors have blockaded the Argie side of the bridge joining the two countries for two years.

... When it was started up the Argies were warned that the new boilers would niff a bit for a few hours, nothing dangerous and very temporary. How the Argy press howled 'noxious fumes descend on G'chu' on start up day, not a word of the warnings.

... Pissed off, and after more than two years of maintaining a border post in the face of an illegal blockade, Tabare Vasquez, Urgy President and decided to permanently close the border bridge between Fray Bentos and G'chu. More bleating from Argentina.

... Apparantly, thus far all the tests show the place to be as safe as houses. So news today (17 Nov '07) has it that all land crossings between the two countries were closed today (glad I didn't delay my trip, but then as they say "the art of a good rain-dance is in the timing" )

... As I paused outside the Grand Hotel in search of a room (far grander than my normally more modest lodgings) I was engaged in conversation by Fabrizio Vignali, the hotel manager. He keeps an old BMW 250cc single and a Matchless 650. He is also a talented photographer and has promised to send me some photos of his bikes. I'll post one or two later (EDIT - Here ya go ... )

Havana Nights (Fabrizio was GM of a hotel in Havana for 5 years)

BMW at the Red Gate

... I got the only hotel room left in town, what with the furore 'n all, in the Neuvo Colonial and after a freshen up I took a wander round town. I went back to Treinte y Tres, my little hole in the wall restaurant, to chew the fat with my friend Elisco, the Asador (Asado is a cut of beef)

... Bede, Elisco and ???? at the grill ... Which is a sight to cheer even the most jaded of carnivores

... Elisco serving Asado to Eduardo, local mechanic ... Might as well finish the bottle

... The next day I headed back towards Buenos Aires, after the kerfuffles of my October trip, the return leg across the border was also a dream. I got a bit of whinging from the customs agent who's re-admitted me that time(Noventa dias senor ) But I had a lady Aduana dealing with me and instead of 3 months, she gave me an 8 month Argentinian temporary import permit The Prawn is now good until July 2008, I however have to leave in 90 days

... I did get stopped on my way back to Buenos Aires, but only for a very routine document and no nonsense about £200 bribes. I remembered to wave cheerily at the speed trap boys on my way past

... Safely home for a late lunch





... More witterings as and when, cheers

 

[mike wright]

Great pics and write up! Thanks for sharing the expierences

 

[Dickieboy]

Brilliant posting John, look forward to the next instalment

 

[The Bede]

A Hoon in the Hills

It started with this, a rear gear box seal failure, a four to five hour job once the part gets to the dealer. That should be pretty simple, dealer calls BMW Argentina and we get the part?

Yeah right, owing to pitifully low, nay absent, service stock the part has to come from Germany to Buenos Aires, a city with Fed-Ex links to the entire planet. So I’m quoted ten to fifteen days for the part. A few choice words with BMW Customer Service and an ‘expedited’ delivery is promised, nothing like keeping a couple of $5 washers in the cupboard.

******* useless, the part still takes ten days (It was stopped in customs. Sounds like a good reason for keeping spares then). The dealer tells me the Prawn is ‘on the ramp’ and they’ll be right at it. Three working days later and after two weeks of total bikeless frustration I pay a visit in person, it’s time to break out of town so I need the bike not excuses.

A $5 gearbox seal right … detach the throttle bodies, half-uninstall the spotlight loom and split the caradan tunnel?

I am stunned, this really was supposed to be a rear gearbox seal replacement what the **** has been going on. Six hours labour they tell me. So why did it take three working days? The service manager says he wants the bike another day. I tell him he is out of luck I’m taking it that day.

Call me later, he says.

I call in later in person and leave with the bike. The technician is not happy, like I give a damn. I’ve had all the fine words and assurances and still I’m fifteen days off the road for a ******* $5 oil seal. Time to go.

OK I charge you for four hours?

OK you remember the warranty?

(Note to BMW: - Why don’t you take the piss out of someone else instead of your own customers, a CG125 would be a better bet for a trouble free life.)

Still I finally have my bike back. I give it a test run and, apart from re-setting the suspension from ‘wallow’ to ‘chalfont-pounder,’ everything seems fine.

0830hours the next morning I hit the road destination San Luis, there’s rumoured to be a hill there and I’m tired of the flat pampa that surrounds Buenos Aires. Ruta 7 all the way, it’s a long grind, long grinding straights and enough long distances without fuel stops to keep the mental arithmetic ticking over.

But patience is rewarded after a mere 700 kilometres, over half-way to Chile, I get a view of distant hills.

One hundred kilometres later I reach in San Luis and find a cheap and nice hotel room for the night. It seemed like a nice enough town, and I took a little wander to soak up the atmosphere and a cool drink in warm twilight. I got as far as the hippy tat market before the ol’ Kodak Instamatic gasped it’s last, at least until the battery gets recharged overnight.

It beats the official mugshot of me sitting at a pavement café table with a litre of cool Warsteiner, looking really smug. And it must suffice in lieu of a picture of me sitting equally smugly in a nifty little restaurant called Rocco with a portion of pig and a noggin of ‘tinto.’

(Note to my Doctor: In my defence I had only eaten a sandwich that day and it was a scrupulously lean and tender roll of pork, stuffed with the healthiest of freshly prepared vegetables and I drank lots of water with it and may not have finished quite all of the modest serving of grape...)

I’m crisp up in the morning, panniers stuffed rather less neatly than the last night’s pork roll, I’m ready to head out of the hotel at the first toot of a sparrows sphincter. I’m looking for gas and after ten minutes of aimless bumbling I find a station on the edge of town where I can load the Prawn with ‘FangioXXI’ and a ‘doble’ espresso for me. I need the road to Lujan, where I can join Ruta20 for the run to Mendoza, 420 kilometres total.

The closing stage of Ruta20 from Villa Dolores to Villa Carlos Paz had been quoted to me as being beautiful by a number of drivers and riders. I’m sure that pictures can be found on ADVrider. Originally my plan was to visit Cordoba and I’d taken this roundabout route to get there on specific recommendations from reliable sources.

First I find the road to La Toma and get snarled for ten minutes. Then I find the road to Trapiche and tie myself in knots for another five. A series of confusing road signs, or more likely poor observation and interpretation, lead me up several wrong roads before I finally find Ruta 146 to Lujan. The early part of an early start evaporated in the rising heat of the hot day to come.

Another long straight run marks a monotonous start to the rising temperatures. The hills still seem remote and distant but provide a terrific gawp factor. I just want to get stuck in.

When I looked at the map later, if I’d stuck to my original error and taken the equally straight autopista route via La Toma, I’d have been quicker and closer to the scenery … damn good excuse to go back and do it again!

It’s 200 kilometres before the terrain I’m riding shows any sign of getting significantly bumpy. At some point mid trek I decide to follow one of the many dirt tracks that parallel the route to try and get a little variety into my riding diet. Unfortunately I couldn’t track for more than a couple of kilometres before encountering one of the frequent dry arroyos (creeks), which cross the track. The arroyos are fenced to stop livestock wandering in the dry season, I double-back a couple of hundred of metres resigned to the asphalt grind.

Might as well stick to the highway!

I reach Villa Dolores and stop for fuel and water I can sense that I’m getting close to some better riding. I’m teasingly rewarded with more and more rugged terrain, bigger dips, the frequency and degree of the curves in the asphalt gently increasing.

At Villa Carlos Paz the real fun begins the route crosses the hills I’d been gawping at and down the other side to Cordoba, one of Argentina’s largest cities. There’s 130 kilometres of hillside curves, ascents, descents, and switchbacks. Bikeland.

A lot of the curves are open visibility, after 5000km I’m finally getting an opportunity to get rid of the chicken strips on my rear tyre. Perhaps too late, it’s already visibly squaring off and showing the early signs of white-line wiggle.

I’ve just come from that way…

… I’m heading off this way …

… when I can tear myself away from the view.

Kilometre after kilometre of luscious views and scrumptious curves keep me busy and happy. The road surface is generally good and traffic is light so I can make the most of this opportunity. But this might be ‘up there’ with the Nurburgring for biking grin factor, whether you’re a plodder, a super smooth swooper-tourer, or a race ace, this throws every type of corner at you that ever exists.

Real bullet holes, .22RF at a guess!

Somewhere around two thirds distance through the fun bit I run across a pair of Argentine bikers on their way to a rally in Mendoza about 300kms west.

Raul (left – 650cc V-Twin Honda cruiser) and Juan (right – 185cc Honda Streethawk, love the single-shoe drum brake!)

An amiable pair of fellas, I was quietly impressed by Juan, with no ‘proper gear’ to speak of and a breathless 185cc he still packs his stuff onboard and gets on with it. They had ridden from Santa Fe to the East that morning, a distance of 250kms already. We all bade each other ‘suerte’ and continued our respective journeys.

After a super twisty descent to complete the new world Nurburgring a fast dual carriage spirited me the last 20kms to Cordoba. I followed the signs to ‘centro’ cruising the streets with no real idea of where I was, in search of a reasonable hotel. I was tickled to find the Cordoba cops using Russian combos.

I’ve never seen the point in a combo, too wide to take advantage of the motorcycles traffic busting power. But why not mount an MG34 on the front of one of these and enjoy the highway at your leisure? I saw a couple more of these scooting around Cordoba, tres chic!

I found a modest hotel across the street from the old market and dropped my panniers off. In side my armoured Cordura and leather exo-skeleton I’m drenched after 20 minutes slow progress through the sun-baked city streets, but I didn’t bother to strip out of my riding gear. Despite the heat I headed straight back out to the hills again again, pausing only for fuel, a cold drink and a sandwich on the way out of town.

Advice from the hotel directed straight back out on the short autopista to Villa Carlos Paz, the map showed Ruta38 to be an extension of the twisty hill route of earlier. At the junction I followed the signs to Cosquin and La Cumbre hoping to find clear sections of the twisty road that I’d enjoyed before.

Best laid plans and all that, this stretch turned out to be the Costa Azul a local scenic resort area. There are river beaches and occasional lakes in the area. The route was lined with camp sites, hotels, restaurants, gift stores and all manner of things touristy for several kilometres before I saw any clear road. When I got to the clear sections they lacked the extra grin factor of the morning ride. The spaces between small towns increased a bit and I pressed on for a hundred kilometres enjoying a pleasant enough ride with some nice views.

Seeking pleasures more diverse I headed off up a signed track to a small village to dusty up a little. Dirt, gravel, patches of sand, a couple of sharp and steep ascent/descents and not another soul in view, but some great views.

I took a break after about 10 kilometres to breath it all in for few minutes and drink some water to replace bootfulls of lost perspiration. Hot place, hot day.

I rumble up the dust on my way back down the track. There’s still not another soul insight though the ruts and wheel tracks showed this to be well used trail connecting some small hamlet to the tarmac. When I reached the black ribbon I gave it my best efforts to enjoy the curves before the pressure of building slowed things down again. As things started to congest a bit I drop off into a little lakeside carpark and watch a couple of jetskiers enjoying a watery hoon for a few minutes.

Late afternoon draws into early evening as I get back to the autopista and blast back into Cordoba, a last chance to blow out the cobwebs. As I trundle the last couple of kilometres to the hotel through the busy hearts of the city I come up alongside 1000cc Varadero, the rider passes me an invitation card to a rally in Cosquin over the coming weekend.

A few more blocks, the concierge opens the garage shutter and I run the Prawn into it’s overnight park. **** I’m hot. I’m dripping inside my gear, melting. I grab a handful of water bottles from reception and squelch my way to my room. I can feel the icey fluid hitting hot body core with every greedy glug, warming and escaping almost immediately under pressure through every pore of my body.

Shower, smoke and rehydrate. I feel good, it’s been a long time since I’ve had such a good days riding. I reflect for few minutes in the air-conditioned cool, then it’s time for some clean threads and a stroll out for a pint and a bit of nosebag.

On an imposing corner a few blocks later there purports to be a pub, all Chrissied up just like ‘home.’

Just like home … ?

Fancied something with a bit more local flavour so after another couple, just to be polite, I resumed my pursuit of a feed. Just a couple of blocks from the hotel I find the huge Las Tinajas ‘tenedor libre’ a buffet. But the place looked familiar, I’d eaten at a near identical place in Rosario. Outside of Las Vegas, this place has to be the biggest buffet I’ve come across, a cavernous temple to gluttony, 20pesos (£3) fill your boots.

Thirsts slaked I call it a night after, a light salad and a glass of mineral water. Grape juice is good they say …

A good nights kip and I’m back on the road around in good time in the morning. Instead of taking the straight autopista all the way back to my honey, I thought I’d try a twistier route that would make a more interesting 800km run. As I reached the outskirts of the Southern edge of the city, I bimble up alongside a rumbling Harley at a set of lights. We exchange nods and greetings and I tuck in behind as the Harley pulls off from the lights.

The two bikes track together for a kilometre or two, exchanging odd snippets of conversation at traffic-lights and hold-ups. When we get to a toll stop I see him engage the toll-collector in a brief conversation, I take my turn and get waved through, my toll has been paid by the total stranger ahead.

A few more The Harley pilot flashes his indicator and gives a little thumb and forefinger signal which I reckoned meant coffee. We pull onto a forecourt together and make the introductions. Manuel is a Spanish architect living in Cordoba, over a coffee tells me on his way to a rally in San Luis via his friend’s house in Rio Cuarto. I get an invitation to the rally and to lunch at his friend’s house.

As we get ready to head on to Rio Cuarto, where our paths will diverge, we stop for the obligatory photograph.

What is it about Harleys?

Actually Manuel’s bike is a nicely turned out 96” Dynaglide. For once the Prawn was not the rubber-neckers centre of attention.

We rode together the remaining 120kms to Rio Cuarto making slower progress than I’m used to, especially round the corners I’d been looking forward to, the Harley’s ground clearance was threatened by the most timid of curves, but it made a change to cover a few kilometres in company. We shook hand and parted company at Rio Cuarto, I promised to e-mail the photo of him and his bike I’d snapped after coffee.

Middle of the day already and there’s 600 Kilometres back to Buenos Aires, enough blather it’s time to cover some ground …



… more blathering next year.

 

[Aidan1150]

Great stuff John. I eagerly await the next installment.

Navidad feliz.

 

[Popeye]

another page turner, keep em coming

 

[GS TRV]

great stuff indeed

makes Dan Walsh seem very tedious

 

[Shep]

Fantastic stuff, keep it up

Shep

 

[Deleted account W]

Top job Mr Bede. Thanks

 

[The Bede]

Saturday Night ... Sunday Morning

Saturday night, I feel like shit. Earlier I’d felt like popping out for a curry, but a rising tide of sweats, nausea and aching malaise already had me feeling like the morning after aftermath of a big night out at the Raj. I phone my daughters ‘better cancel tomorrow’s lunch plans I feel like hell, I’ll call you in the morning if I feel any better.’

Half a supper half-eaten and early to bed but I can’t settle. Like a polyester maggot I make a sleeping bag cocoon on the sofa in front of lacklustre late night telly, maybe I doze, maybe I dozen’t.

Sunday morning could be it’s seven, I’m definitely awake, the Roman candle heartburn that’s been burning inside me all night is flaring inside my chest, barbequing it’s way through my ribcage, front and back, hot enough to char-grill the furniture.

Shit, shower, cup of tea the usual morning routine, but this thing’s bugging the hell out of me. I pace the house looking for an escape route. This isn’t indigestion it’s ******* angina again and perhaps I should get checked out. The door’s right in front of me I stare at it blankly, I fumble with the phone for a moment then I tell myself that it’s just panic and I need to calm down.

My mind races, this is an important week the pressure’s on to get lots of stuff done, I’m due back in Buenos Aires on Friday and I don’t want medical help, help means delay and I want to speed up towards my objective not slow down. I mustn’t be ill, I mustn’t be ill, repeat the mantra and I won’t be ill. Any route to denial, like where’s the pain in my arms from my previous event, it must be indigestion, why haven’t I got any ******* Rennies?

It’s after eight thirty, perhaps closer to nine and I’m drenched in sweat. OK I need help but I just don’t want it and I’ve mentally twisted a molehill of implications into a mountain. **** it let the mountain come to Mohammed I can wait.

It’s after nine o’clock, I must be some kind of ****** this is panic run amok. I sit on the arm of a chair with the phone in my hand not dialling. Finally I can’t stand it and I call a cab, who wants to be the fool who calls out the whole cavalry when they just need a good fart?

The gravel crunches in less than ten minutes. I lock up and with false calm I take the rear seat, John Radcliffe hospital I tell the cabbie. The panic subsides a little but the pain in my chest doesn’t. It’s like a hand grenade has exploded inside me with full force, but miraculously it has only expanded an inch or two. I’m feeling sick with it. I ask the driver to drop me at the A&E entrance.

The waiting room is close to empty at a quarter to ten. I guess they’ve already had time to hose away the Saturday night blood and vomit. What’s the problem asks the receptionist?

I adopt a cheerily positive tone. ‘I’ve got some pain in my chest, I had an angina incident last year so I’m sure I just need a bit of re-assurance. I don’t think that you need to phone Didcot (power station) to warn them of an impending jumpstart just yet!’ She takes my details and directs me to take a seat. I rock forward in it trying to shake the pain.

I’m only rocking for a few moments, ‘John Tremayne’ calls a nurse. I stroll down the waiting room as casually as I can and try to restart my bonhomie. ‘Just a twinge, but I thought I’d better get checked out following a bit of a do last year.’

She sees straight through me and determinedly guides me through the maze of machines and trolleys in the clinical area. ‘Are you feeling hot, when did it start?’ The questions come rapidly and leave little room for my line in imagined witty bollocks.

‘Let me help you off with your shirt and I want you to lie on the couch here.’ I’m down and on a sheet-draped trolley in a matter of moments and an oxygen mask is placed over my mouth and nose. ‘This will help you feel better just try to breathe normally.’ Sticky back pop-studs go onto my chest and wires are attached, ‘could you just keep still for a minute I’m just going to check your heart for you?’

In less than a minute the attached machine spits out a sheet of squiggly traces. The nurse glances across it and strolls out of view to show her colleagues. I hear the spiel ‘46 year old male walk-in, disturbed night chest pains since around 7am, smoker …’

The patter of feet replaces the patois of jargon, my trolley is surrounded by cheery scrubs and concerned faces. The nurse is in charge of me at least ‘I’m just going to take your shoes and socks off’ more sticky pop-studs and wires are attached to my ankles ‘keep still for me for a minute please John.’ The machine spits out another sheet of squiggles and the faces line up behind it, I watch their focus switch from the sheet to me, from me to the sheet.

The bright overhead light is shaded by the silhouette of a head and shoulders, a shadow faced male voice takes over. ‘Mr Tremayne my name is Jerry Smith, you’re suffering a heart attack but you’re safe now we’re going to get you sorted out.’ And then emotion took over, I had to just let go for a moment. I started to choke on my answers as I tried to keep pace with a stream of questions. Hopes and plans dissolved in a rising tide of warm, salty, self-pitying tears…

‘Oh shit!’

I was aware of everything that happened as it happened, but now recalling the detail of the events that unfolded isn’t easy. I rapidly found some sense of relief and strength and the tears dried themselves as quickly as they’d arrived.

I was surrounded by a smoothly whirring machine of nurses and doctors, individual but collectively inseparable parts of my life support mechanism. Trousers and underpants were replaced with a regulation arse-crack hospital gown. Tubes were inserted and fluids drawn for rapid analysis and different fluids added as if to make up the volume. More wires were attached between me and machines. A tablet that tasted like it stung was placed under my tongue. A nurse with a fluorescent orange defibrillator bag never left my shoulder. ‘Don’t swallow that tablet John.’

They say there are no atheists in a fox-hole and this was perhaps as close as I’ve ever been to anything resembling battle, but the outcome was entirely down to me and a group of strangers. I never felt a moment of self doubt or fear. I was answering the constant questions truthfully as I ‘fessed up the hedonistic details of life lived with self-destructive determination.

‘How much do you drink?’
‘Gallons!’
‘How many units is that per day?’
‘I dunno ten plus, unless I’m at a party or on a bender of course, then it’s more.’
‘Smoking?’
‘I’ve cut the tobacco back, but several joints a day!’
‘How many?’

When you’re in a hole stop digging, but if you’ve started clearing a cess-pit you might as well get to the bottom. It was a long way down but, apart from the occasional raised eyebrow, there was never a word of criticism or admonishment for any of the wilful exercises in self-harm to which my body had been subjected by it’s negligent owner. Your body might be a temple, but mine has been an amusement park. Jerry Smith even offered up some positive spin.

‘John your life is going to change, but you’re clearly not obese and your diet is good, we are going to get a good few more years out of you yet, decades!’

He left my side to consult a colleague in surgical scrubs and a nurse took his place. ‘This is morphine it’ll help the pain.’ The syringe looked impressively large, I’d have taken larger, but it must have been big enough because I don’t recall the pain subsiding and it had.

A portable X-ray machine was wheeled up and focussed top dead centre on my breast bone, everyone stepped away. Smile, click and they all fell back into position at my side. This was a very well oiled machine.

Jerry Smith’s colleague stepped forward and took command of the skirmish. ‘Hello John my name is Mark Monte I’m the senior cardio surgeon.’ He explained that the blood supply in the front of my heart was blocked, that they were going to take me into a specialised ‘angiogram suite’ where they would pass a tube up an artery from my groin up into my heart to have a poke about and get it running again. The risk factors were obvious; do it and enjoy the promised decades, or wither away. ‘I need you to sign a consent form for the angiogram and, in case we can’t fix you up with that technique, for a bypass procedure under a general anaesthetic.’ I signed and printed, a nurse shaved half of my groin.

It was just a few minutes before they wheeled me into the angiogram room and transferred me onto the scanner table. The two surgeons were scrubbed, gloved and robed in thick radiation proof gowns. My torso was screened off and an X-ray scanner bridged my chest. An impressive bank of large LCD monitors faced the surgeons position. ‘Everybody ready?’ asked Mark Monte. They were.

‘How about the patient?’ I could sense a smile behind the mask. ‘I’m ready,’ I replied.

‘X-ray!’

I was given a stream of instructions to variously put my arms behind my head, to lay them across my chest, to lay them by my side as they manipulated a series of tools into and inside my heart. Pain free I watched the real-time X-ray images in awestruck fascination. After a few minutes Mark told me they’d found the blockage, a blood clot, and they were going to break it up, use a small balloon to open the blood vessel and then put a metal cage in place, a stent, to hold it properly open. I gave a glazed-eyed ‘amazing’ by way of reply.

The arm moving instructions continued and I complied. With reassuringly calm demeanour Mark told me ‘John we’ve found another constriction so I’m going to put another stent in place for you.’

As far as I was concerned he could re-plumb the whole blood pump, I was simply bowled over by the whole process. Not only was he painlessly putting new parts into my heart and restoring the essential blood supply, I was watching it happen and simultaneously continuing to use the same organ to keep me alive while he did it!

The surgical mask didn’t fool me for a second, the man was grinning like the Cheshire cat and so was I. And how do you pass your Sunday mornings?

After a final ‘inflation’ of the stents, the tube was withdrawn from my leg and the hole in my femoral artery sealed with a collagen plug, which required quite a bit of pressure and was the only uncomfortable part of the entire procedure.

‘We’ve filled you up with blood thinner and anti-coagulants so we need to physically block the hole to stop you leaking away’ he explained with a wink. I couldn’t think what to say so I clapped. The assembled team of doctors and nurses all laughed and I regained my composure sufficiently to say thank you.

They kindly put ‘before’ and ‘after’ X-ray frames onto the monitor bank so I could see the restored blood supply, which prompted more delighted and effusive thanks. It was only just after midday, I’d been in the hospital less than two and a half hours. Un****ingbelievable.

I was transferred to the Coronary Care Unit and given over to the care of the young and very lovely Maria, my designated nurse. She hooked me up to an ECG a blood pressure cuff and a rubber finger puppet that somehow monitored my blood-oxygen saturation level. I tried to lift my head to have a gander at the technology and got a mild bollocking for my trouble. ‘Head flat for the next few hours, until we’ve got the plug in your leg properly sealed.’

‘How am I supposed to …’ she cut me off mid sentence.

‘You’re not supposed to do anything and it’ll only take a moment to staple you down by the ears if I have to, do as you’re told!’ It took me about a nano-second to melt compliantly into her pretty smile. I goofed out on the morphine for a while.

When I came to Mark Monte was at the bedside with Maria. ‘We’ve just checked your plug and you’ve sprung a bit of a leak, we’re going to clamp it down.’ I could just see that there was a lump about the size of half an orange in the periphery of my line of sight. A clamp was applied which was to be relaxed progressively over a period of a few hours.

Maria fed me a sandwich as I lay flat and then a cup of tea through a straw. ‘Ah bless’ she said, ‘your eyes are like pin pricks from the morphine, lie back and enjoy it love.’ No complaints from me, goof time again.

The rest of Sunday afternoon was a dreamy blur. By six-ish the clamp had been removed and the bed electrically inclined so I could peer around the ward, a dedicated eight bay coronary unit. Unbeknownst to me I had walked my heart attack into the ‘super-regional’ cardiology centre, a piece of luck I probably hadn’t deserved. I was periodically checked and re-checked including blood samples.

Dinner was shit, but I was fed a pot full of drugs large enough to satisfy both my therapeutic requirements and to ward off any hunger pangs. I was introduced to Joanne my designated night nurse.

It was a rough night, the best of the dope had worn off and a couple of other patients were having a tough time of it. A chap called Dennis was wheeled into the next bay, a 37 year old trucker from Basingstoke. He had a second attack at some point and became the centre of much urgent activity. He was wheeled away somewhere. Happily he was wheeled back in later.

An older guy across the ward bellyached his way through the night. I heard one of the nurses, obviously frustrated, telling him ‘what’s all the fuss about Neville we’ve got people in here far sicker than you and they’re not making any noise.’ I wished him a few uncharitable thoughts and then felt immediately guilty.

The night was punctuated by machine alarms and whenever they fell silent the automatic blood pressure cuff gripped my upper arm and dragged me back to more unwanted wakefulness. By the time I was settled it was time for Joanne to hand the nightwatch-nurses stick to Joanne, my new day nurse. ‘We’ve got four Joannes working in this unit,’ they explained.

Monday was to be my next big day, ‘after the Doctor has given you another check up we’re going to get you into a chair,’ Joanne explained. More checks, more blood and more sudden arm gripping from the blood pressure cuff.

Sometime shortly afterwards Jerry Smith arrived with an ultra-sound scanner. He showed me the grainy pictures of my heart valves and the area affected by interrupted blood supply. ‘There’s scarring there,’ he explained, ‘you can see how the lower part of the heart muscle is beating far less healthily than the upper part.’ He sensed the obvious anxiety his comment was causing. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told me, ‘it’s normal at this stage and there’s a lot of life in this ticker yet.’ Given his record of making sound clinical judgement calls the previous day I found myself re-assured.

Mark Monte came to check on me mid-morning and given my more compos-mentis condition he gave me the full skinny on my condition, treatment and prognosis. I’d had a heart attack, they’d patched up the blood supply and although there was a quite a bit of damage done my heart had more than enough spare capacity to absorb the injury.

Then he got to the bit I wasn’t expecting.

It would appear I have other dodgy blood vessels in my heart. He intends to treat me with medication, to give my heart time to recover as fully as possible from this episode and hopefully to improve the other iffy bits. They will make a decision in the summer whether or not to do further angioplasty, or … We didn’t discuss the ‘or.’

… ‘But you must change your lifestyle now.’

I must have gulped. We talked pretty candidly for a few minutes. ‘You can fly in two weeks provided that you follow all of your prescribed program of medication and rehabilitation and if there is the slightest problem you seek immediate assistance’

I gulped again.

‘Do we have an understanding?’ The man has a stare like an FBI lie detector. I had to instantly digest everything we’d discussed and everything he’d just told me, any doubt and I’d be sussed in a nano-second.

‘Thank you,’ I almost choked on the words. I meant them and I knew how seriously he had listened. He also knew I’d be happier when I could get back to my girlfriend Francesca, who is herself very ill with serious kidney problems.

‘Good man, we hope to have you out of here on Wednesday, but I’ll see you before then and then I’ll see you in the early summer.’ He turned and left. Even if I had been permitted to move around I would still have stayed rooted to the spot.

Later that day I was allowed into the bedside chair. I was allowed a bucket wash standing up whilst still wired to the monitors. I felt better for feeling clean. Later, after being connected to a radio monitor, I was also allowed to walk the ten metres to the loo and back, so no more peeing in a bed-bottle. Mark Monte’s words kept rattling round in my head.

Margaret, a rehabilitation nurse came to spend an hour with me. She talked me through the re-hab process. ‘It’s important’ she said ‘to allow your heart to rebuild properly, it will literally add years to your life.’ She left me with a user’s manual to a dodgy ticker to help me negotiate the tightrope to proper recovery.

The ward was quieter overnight on Monday and despite the constant tugging of my cables I got a fair night’s sleep. I had some chest twinges on waking which were un-nerving. A Joanne gave me the once over and some guidance on when to panic and when not. I napped a while longer.

When I awoke again the nursing shift had changed over and my day Joanne told me I could use the proper shower and stroll around the ward a little. When I was coming back from that very welcome shower she collared me with a ‘give-up-smoking’ pamphlet. I sat in my chair and we started talking about smoking, drinking, drugs, stress, thrill seeking and then I lost it. I sat by the bed and wept, wept and wept and wept.

This pretty nurse with wisdom beyond years had led me to the realisation that the key to my own survival was staring me right in the face. Me. All the bits of Me that race hell bent for everything that I race hell bent towards. She drew the curtain round my bed space, fetched me a cup of tea and left me to it.

It took a while to get myself back together, but I felt a lot calmer and more optimistic for having been in pieces. Joanne popped back with a lunch tray and two phone numbers of people who could give me some post event counselling once I was back out on the street. ‘Margaret the re-hab nurse is going to call you next week and follow-up on our conversation,’ she told me.

I thanked her. There had been something very cathartic in leaving me to surrender to my own emotions, however PC, however Guardian reader, however big-girls-blouse a thing that thing had been.

Mark Monte came by later that afternoon, I was reading my users manual and he grinned. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘failing any relapses you’ll be out of here tomorrow.’ I suspect he’d spoken with my day Joanne before his round.

Whilst gently perambulating the ward I chatted with Charles, an American engineer he was working in Britain with the UKEA decommissioning a nuclear power installation. A fit man of fifty who had lived a healthy and wholesome life he’d collapsed after he got home from his morning run. He flat-lined and the first thing he knew about it was coming round after his angioplasty procedure. His wife had kept him alive until the ambulance reached him. I suspect she faced a tougher road to recovery than he did.

Joanne asked for my mobile radio monitor pack. She cleaned it meticulously before passing temporary ownership to Charles so he could use the real lavatory and get progressively more mobile.

Tuesday night was a brisk night for business, but it kept me mentally occupied and almost seemed preferable to stewing away in bed trying to get to sleep in the green fluorescent glow of the omnipresent monitor screens. Wednesday couldn’t come soon enough.

When the morning did come I started to get quite nervous. I had absolute confidence in the support network that had surrounded me and the thought of venturing outside its immediate reach was more daunting than I’d imagined.

Mark Monte had the day off and two different doctors did the ward round. I was pronounced fit for discharge, cue to exchange arse-crack gown for my own clothes. The unit staff was all busy with patients when a wheelchair arrived to take me to the Transfer Lounge. I popped my bag on the chair and walked …


Epilogue

I had wanted to take and post some photographs of the wonderful people who helped me in my time of need. I was asked not to do so and accordingly all names have also been changed.

To medics everywhere of every rank and function who selflessly go about their work in the service of total strangers …

You are all amazing human beings I thank you and salute you.​

My UK friends have kindly taken me under their wing since my discharge just four days ago. It is quite an adjustment to go from determined self-reliance to necessary dependence, I am grateful for their help and friendship.

My plans for further bike travel in South America in 2008 have now necessarily had to change. I need to rehabilitate and I have a sick girlfriend to take care of when I shortly return to Buenos Aires.

I’ve had loads of fun writing the journey so far and I thank you that have followed it. I’m sure I’ll find plenty of other stuff to post on in due course but sadly this trip and this thread is done.

There will be further bike bound Tossery for this Bede. I am hopeful it will be this year and, in part at least, in the company of you fine band of Tossers.

Plans are being formulated for the Prawn to return to the UK and for a new Prawn to take it’s place in the summer. I am grateful to: -

BMW Motorrad UK
Cordasco Motohaus, Buenos Aires

I am in awe of North Oxford Garage BMW for their amazing support and service.

Thank you,

John

 

[GS TRV]

Get well soon dude

ta for the update

 

[enabb]

Glad yer still here to write about it

Speedy mend to you and your lady

 

[Popeye]

As you say it would appear that you managed to minicab it to the right place at the right time. Makes you wonder what the outcome might have been if this happenned mid Atlantic or in BsAs.

Can only wish you and F the speediest and fullist of recoveries.

They don't do patches for yet do they ?

Take it easy fella and keep posting

 

[Timolgra]

If ever a thread deserved a 'bump' it's this one. Lovely prose Mr Bede

 

[Devon]

If ever a thread deserved a 'bump' it's this one. Lovely prose Mr Bede

I forgot what an honest, well written thread this is. Thanks for the bump Tim and glad you are still here enjoying your Noel traditions Bede

 

[mr_magicfingers]

Just discovered this amazing thread. Having read the last entry I'm sitting here wondering if there's an update anywhere on your progress John, I hope both you and your girlfriend have recovered well and are out and about doing at least some of the things you enjoy.

Best wishes,

Justin.

 

[Devon]

Just discovered this amazing thread. Having read the last entry I'm sitting here wondering if there's an update anywhere on your progress John, I hope both you and your girlfriend have recovered well and are out and about doing at least some of the things you enjoy.

Best wishes,

Justin.

Update here: http://www.ukgser.com/forums/showthread.php?t=213436

 

[mr_magicfingers]

Update here: http://www.ukgser.com/forums/showthread.php?t=213436

Many thanks.

 

[mechcanico lee]

Brilliant post!!!

Well written, informative and documented with photos to boot, trip of a lifetime....i am jealous, pity about the health issues and scares but you have "kept going wi head down " as we say up North.

I am wondering how i could afford to finish work for a few months a do something like that.

Great stuff Bede well done