At the age of 19, at 6am on a Wednesday, I crashed a yellow Honda VFR400 at 135mph on the M25.
She was called “Sparky the Flying Banana”. Don’t. Just, don’t ask. My mother named it.
I had no injuries. I walked away with a sprained wrist. Which is, quite frankly, preposterous. I’m really not sure how I got away with that one, but I did. It was the second of only two crashes I’ve had, and the catalyst that led me to joining the IAM, the Institute of Advanced Motorists, which in turn I completely swear blind has saved my bloody life. But more on that later.
I’d borrowed the bike from my ex-boyfriend. (Note the “ex” in this statement…”) My Virago 535 was playing up again and I was in Croydon and needed to get to work. I’d never ridden a sportsbike before. This was in the days before the new M25 cameras. And I was 19.
I remember it being 6 o’ clock in the morning, and the motorway was empty. It was slightly drizzling, and then stopping, on and off, and the road wasn’t exactly wet. More of what I’d call a Top Gear “Mildly Moist”. I remember being in the outside lane doing about 90, and then I remember thinking “I wonder how fast this thing goes?”
135mph, apparently.
It had a speedo which had been converted from kph to mph, so how accurate that 135mph was, I really couldn’t say. Not very, I suspect. But I remember watching the needle climbing up to 130, where the numbers stopped, and then climbing right off past, and off the clock just a tiny bit. I remember clearly thinking “That’s gotta be reading 135”.
The next thing I remember is coming over the crest of a hill and seeing the stationary traffic in front of me.
At that speed, gentle slopes in the road become hills.
I got on the brakes as hard as I could given the damp road. The brakes mostly ignored my attempts because they were fairly shot. The ancient Bridgestone tyres had so little tread left that they looked a fair bit like racing slicks, and generally gave up any attempt at grip fairly early on.
I came screeching up the middle of the traffic and took out five cars on the way down. It was like playing pinball with a motorcycle. Ping, ping, ping off each car. What with the bangs, the tyres screeching, the brakes screeching, and me screaming, the cars that were just about to start moving heard it coming, and stopped. I was lucky enough to have a clear space in the outside lane to fall into, and the bike had a clear space in the next lane in to fall into. I remember sliding along on my arse watching this yellow VFR undertake me and thinking, “F*ck. That’s going to be expensive.”
I was left lying on the floor in the outside lane dazed and confused and searching around wondering where the hell the bike had gotten to.
You know how you get all those helpful people surrounding you after a crash asking if you’re okay? Well I had multitudes of them. I’m very grateful, but at the same time, they got in the way and I couldn’t see the bike. I remember thinking, “Look I’m standing up, I’m clearly breathing. Let me see the damn bike and see how bad this is.” Non-bikers really don’t get that. Bikers always understand. Your first thought is never going to be anything but; “Where is the bike, how bad is it, and how much is this going to cost?”
It was pretty bad. I’d written her off. She was in lots and lots of little yellow pieces. I stumbled over and started picking them up. Someone else came along and helped me get the bike back up and wheel her over to the hard shoulder.
Looking back at this nowadays, I’d like to point out that that if this had have been a “smart motorway”, I’d probably have survived the crash only to get squashed by a lorry because the red Xs weren’t put up quick enough. Its pretty unlikely I’d have managed to come off just in the right place to get to one of those fairly pointless refuges they have, which are entirely too far apart. But I digress.
Once I was on the hard shoulder and the bike was upright, the next thing that I noticed was that my left wrist bloody hurt. I remember thinking “Sh*t! This is my favourite jacket. I need to get it off before the paramedics arrive and decide to cut me out of it.” I got it off just as the ambulance arrived. I’m very glad I did. All these years later it’s still my favourite jacket. I wore it down the pub just a couple of weeks ago. It’s quite a special jacket, it was handed down to me and I have to hand it down in turn in the future.
I was attempting to get my boots unzipped in case they decided to take scissors to them too, when I was unceremoniously bundled into the back of the ambulance.
I got checked over, pronounced still alive, and told to go to the hospital for my wrist. I told them I’ll get the bike recovered first, and rang my mum to come out with the van.
She gave me a bollocking for not having a restrictor kit in the bike, and demanded to know if I had it with me. I didn’t. I could hear her down the phone loading up the ramp straight away so we could get the bloody thing off the road before the old bill arrived and decided to start sniffing around it, and potentially noticing that fact.
She then gave me an almighty bollocking for crashing it. I was sitting on the back of the ambulance holding my phone away from my ear and getting shouted at as the old bill turned up. Believe me, I am far more scared of my mother than the police, so I ignored them. I think she must have rung the ex-boyfriend, because before I had a chance to talk to the copper, I somehow ended up on the phone to him. And the process was repeated, only louder. Something something, “You’ve written off my fucking bike!”.
The copper then sat down next to me and started asking me questions about what had happened. I told him I didn’t know. Must have slipped on the white line maybe.
“How fast do you think you were going?”
“60mph officer”
“Are you aware the 40mph variable speed limit was up?”
“Urm…”
“So how fast do you think you were going?”
“40mph officer”
“That’s better.”
I think on hearing the two phone calls, my fortunately very patient copper had decided I’d had enough shit for one day. I am eternally grateful to said copper.
I do wish all the decent ones would stop leaving the police and joining the railway. Because I can tell you now, that is where they’ve all gone.
Mum came and got the bike within half an hour, and the old bill who were getting a bit jittery at it sitting at the side of the road for so long, and threatening to send out their own overpriced recovery, eventually helped load it into the van. I was then dragged down the hospital by my mother where they diagnosed a hairline fracture and put me in a plaster cast.
We went and dumped the bike at a friend’s house to get it out of the way, who fortunately raced the things at the time and had a load of spare parts.
I was stuck in that plaster cast for a week. I managed to take a pair of sewing scissors to it and chop off just enough on the palm that I could still operate a clutch. Mum conceded after about 2 days and let me back on the Virago 535, which incidentally used to be hers and was the bike she used to take me to school on. I can’t remember exactly, but I think she’d had it down the workshop and got it sorted. All she remembers about the crash is being annoyed with me for getting oil all over the floor of her van, which happened to be a Mercedes. She still complains to people that if she had a pound for every time “that bloody yellow bike” went in the back of her van, she’d be a millionaire.
Riding around with a plaster cast is challenging. I felt like Nelson. I had my arm mostly tucked into my jacket, only taking it out to change gear, then putting it back in and riding one handed. My mother made me wear a single oversized skiing mitt over the hand, which I still argue to this day was completely pointless. And she argues was better than nothing.
We spent the week bodging the VFR back together with yellow cable ties, yellow gaffa tape, the odd part nicked off my friends racebikes, and hopes and dreams.
Within a week, we’d spent 100 quid and she was rideable again.
I went back to the hospital and got an x-ray. Turns out the fracture they thought they saw was scarring of some sort from a very old hairline fracture I’d done as a child falling off monkey bars. All I had was a sprained wrist. I got the cast off, got given a horrible beige coloured glove to wear, which I predictably did not wear because my bike gloves wouldn’t fit over it, and my mother took me round to collect the VFR.
I called the ex and told him the good news. He told me I could give him £500 and give him the bike back.
I told him to get f*cked, gave him £400, lost the ex, and kept the bike.
I think I got a good deal.
I rode that bike for the next 6 months and eventually sold it for £600. I mean yeah, it did end up in the back of the van a helluva lot, but it also took me around all the local IAM clubs. My mother told me in no uncertain terms that after that little stunt it was time to get some proper training, and dragged me along to do just that with the Institute of Advanced Motorists.
I found some of the IAM clubs were pretty awful. You turn up at 19 on a smashed up sportsbike whilst being female, and you’re going to get judgement. You shouldn’t, but you do. I won’t name and shame the clubs that judged because I’d like to think over the years that has changed, but needless to say I didn’t join any of them. Some of them completely ignored me and only talked to mum when we went along. I felt like they were writing me off as just another kid on a sportsbike who’s going to do something else stupid. A lost cause. Some of them were even off with her. Miserable old dinosaurs who don’t like women on bikes.
My mother is an ex motorcycle instructor. She’s done the Wrynose Pass, the Hardknott Pass and the Nurburgring. She’s now got RoSPA Gold. She’s trained with i2i. She can’t work an iPhone or send an email, but she can ride a motorcycle better and safer than anyone I’ve ever met. She makes some of these men look like fools. She’s nearly 70 years old and still rides a Yamaha FJR1300 in all weathers that even I can’t hold the weight of. And if she feels like it, she can still make sure I won’t keep up with her on my Ninja. Currently, she is out with a group of IAM riders touring Europe. She rang me yesterday from the top of a mountain, although I did still have to explain to her how to get FaceTime to work so she could show me the mountain. Basically, do not judge this woman.
It wasn’t until we were about 5 clubs in that we met an observer who asked me why I wanted to join the IAM. I remember simply pointing at the bike in answer. He smiled and said “fair enough”, gave me some books to read, and asked me when I could come out for the first lesson.
He is also currently at the top of the mountain with my mothers group.
I have never looked back.
Joining the IAM is the best thing I’ve ever done with regards to motorcycling.
It taught me where I was going wrong, taught me to analyse mistakes, and it taught me a colossal attitude shift that is going to serve me well for the rest of my life. No matter who’s fault an accident is, it doesn’t hurt any less and it wont make you any less dead.
It’s all well and good being the one who’s got right of way, but you can’t exactly use it from a hospital bed.
It’s such simple stuff they teach really,
Good observation - looking out for, and predicting, other road users mistakes so you can get out of the way
How to use your brakes safely in all conditions (with and without ABS).
Being in the right gear for the speed so you have maximum engine braking and acceleration always available.
The list goes on. But mostly it gives you the chance to put all of this into practice with someone behind you on a radio giving you step by step instructions, and occasionally shouting at you for taking the wrong turning!
I go back to the IAM as often as my schedule allows for a “check up”. To find out what, if any, advice has changed. It sometimes does as they learn new things and better ways of doing things. And to find out what I’ve forgotten and what I need to relearn. I take the BikeSafe course run by the Old Bill every now and again as a refresher. I also get onto any and all free courses the fire brigade run, such as Biker Down.
It’s on my list to do RoSPA at some point, but Mum reckons the IAM are better, so I haven’t quite got round to it. But I’m sure I will one day.
It still costs around 250 quid to do the IAM, and it is worth every penny. I’d advise any motorcyclist to do the course.
Take it from me and Sparky the Flying Banana, my smashed up yellow VFR400.
Extract from Faiths brilliantly entertaining book, 'A Journal of Bad Decisions Made In and Around London...Most of which involve Boats (or Motorcycles)' which is available here