Word Count - 302
It was the mid 1980’s. I was a motorcycle courier, with an urgent delivery that had to be in Edgeware by 8pm, and it was already 7.40pm.
The weather was foul - pitch black and pissing down with rain, and I was glad my BMW R80 had a full fairing to keep the worst off. I wasn’t hanging around, doing considerably more than the speed limit coming up to the Hangar Lane intersection on the North Circular. It was a nightmare of a junction, a crossroads with six lanes and traffic lights all over the place. The surface was slick with dropped oil and snaking lines of black overbanding.
I hit the junction at 50mph, the road was clear, the lights were green and I cracked the throttle open. That’s when the car to my left came from nowhere and decided it wanted to take a right turn. All I could do was hit the anchors, reacting by instinct, slamming the brakes on full. My BMW’s wheels both locked up, and torque reaction from the suddenly stopped shaft spun the bike around.
The middle-aged woman in the car hadn’t been paying attention, but she had a very surprised look on her face when she saw a large motorcycle overtake her going backwards with both wheels locked up and sliding across the slick road surface at around 30mph.
The bike slowed, and with perfect calmness I kicked it down a couple of gears and executed a perfect U-turn to carry on up the road. The lights were still green. It was all over in a flash.
Ten seconds and quarter of a mile later I had to pull over. I had the shakes. It hit me; how the hell had I just survived ? I should be dead. Instinct is a wonderful thing.
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