I had been in my local pub watching the legendary Silverstone 1979 500cc grand Prix bike and I was on my way home on my Honda CB250 do my best impression of Barry Sheene chasing Kenny Roberts. I lay the bike on a bend in long sweeping left on a road that I knew well, clinging to the side as Barry when I saw something that Barry would have never seen; a sheep rule the road. It is amazing how quickly the human brain reacts in such a situation, sending automated instructions to certain muscles while simultaneously making life and death decisions instant. In a millisecond I messed my underwear and decided that my best option was to recover a little and try to round the sheep, and put the bike down hard again and try to go around the rest curvature hoping there was nothing in the other direction. My heart was in my throat and my lunch was in my pants.
I lit up the bike and went around the sheep, but I could not place it back in time to prevent the hedge on the other side of the road. I left the tarmac still upright, and the nice smooth curve of the earth where the road met the campaign converted my forward motion into vertical motion very effectively. My trusty steed and I went straight up in the air, I fell on my back, and as I lay on his back watching in horror the bike seemed to hesitate in the air above me for a second before crashing on me. The speedometer unit aligned perfectly with my face and smashed straight into my nose. I'm soaked me with gasoline leaking from the fuel tank and I really thought the heat of the exhaust pipe would ignite the fumes and save my parents some hospitals and crematoria heavy bills.
I pushed the bike over me with a grunt and slowly stood dazed and bleeding. I looked at the road to see the sheep looking at me, ears forward with a look a little surprised on his face while chewing rhythmically grass. He did not move. I pushed the bike up and put it on its stand, and removed my helmet and looked in a mirror to assess the damage to my face. My nose was on my left cheek and I was bleeding profusely. I carefully grabbed my nose between the fingers of both hands and slowly pushed roughly in the middle of my face (those who know me say my judgment was slightly), can I gently squidged a kind of nasal form as is a piece of clay. I had many other varying severity of injuries but I had survived remarkably well in the circumstances. Believe it or not the bike was passable even if the handlebars are not at right angles to the front wheel and the front wheel itself was more circular. I ignored the urge to light a cigarette and headed home.
A week later, I got a lift to the pub on the back of the motorcycle Noggin my companion when I saw the same status of sheep in a field. Well, they certainly were related anyway. I signaled for Noggin to stop so I could take my revenge. I stepped quietly on the door and slipped slowly behind grazing sheep. I trot off for a few yards as a rugby player about to convert a try, and I came to the sheep I hurt my back foot and as strong a kick as I could in the rear end . This proved to be a mistake. I was wearing training shoes and it was like hitting a big woolly rock. The sheep trotted forward a few steps, then looked at me quietly imperturbable before plunging his head again to graze. I swear his eyes turned red for a second before he turned away. I fell to the floor clutching my right ankle and rolled around in agony screaming my whole vocabulary of swear words. When I opened my eyes Noggin stood by me ready to give the coup de grace. "You know you drive in sheep sh * t you not?" I was, and I had torn all the ligaments of the ankle which meant I spent the next 11 weeks on crutches. Beware the woolly demon.