BZZZZ ……. BZZZZZ ……. BZZZZZ……. BZZZZZ…….BZZZZZ…….BZZZZZ…….
The noise crept insidiously into a now-forgotten dream. It inserted itself into my sleeping torpor and was woven subtly, deceitfully into a subconscious alternative reality and was finally exposed but only when my wife’s elbow dug sharply into my right lower ribcage! “Your ‘phone!!”
Aaaahhh – so that’s what the noise was! I dragged myself half upright, pretended quite manfully to be sentient and picked up the phone from the bedside unit whilst my long-suffering and ever patient wife made it quite clear (despite pulling the duvet away from me and wrapping it skillfully around her head) to the opposite wall that I was a complete and utter idiot for setting it to buzz if it didn’t actually attract enough of my attention to drag me from the comforting arms of Morpheus when somebody had the temerity to call me!! Which was, in retrospect, quite ironic really as I’d set it that way in case I got a call in the middle of the night and could take it without disturbing her sleep! I digress…
“Mmmm…… hello?”
“Adrian, good morning! It’s John, South West Blood Bike Controller. You OK?”
(Actually, I should interrupt this story briefly to say that the jauntily voiced controller probably wasn’t named John but, since I have an appalling memory and have slept more than once since then - and the controller’s real name isn’t, of itself, particularly germane to the gist of the story – let’s go with “John”, shall we?)
“Ermmm …… yes, John! Good morning, I’m fine thank you.” I strongly suspect that John was not in any doubt whatsoever that he’d just woken me from a deep sleep and that my early morning bonhomie was a façade of false alertness, but we both very conveniently and silently let that point drift slowly and subtly away along with the remnants of my dream and drowsiness …………
“Adrian, the rota shows you on duty today and I have an urgent sample to go from Royal Devon & Exeter Hospital to Southmead Hospital, Bristol. Are you OK to do this?”
BAMM!! There it was! The moment my life changed forever ……. well, for the foreseeable future at least! At my age, “forever” is a fairly fluid concept and always seems to have a more rhetorical than realistic ring to it. Regardless, it was then - and has remained since - a seminal moment. The seemingly casual use of that word “URGENT” instantly moved, in my mind at least, the conversation onto a completely different level. This was it – my first REAL assignment as a volunteer Blood Bike rider and it wasn’t one of the many ‘regular’ samples/tests/results runs! Yes, sure, I’d done a few hours collection pot rattling outside a couple of supermarkets; yes, I’d done a (presumably satisfactory) assessment ride; and yes, I’d done an introductory/familiarisation ride with my ever-patient mentor and shadowed one of the regular runs from South Devon Kidney Unit to Royal Devon & Exeter hospital – OH, and yes, I’d even suffered the trauma and gross indignity of what I now term my ‘mud wrestling’ contest with the Yamaha FJR blood bike on the wet, muddy track when exiting the Powderham Historic Vehicle Show! (The FJR won on a points decision, by the way!) But, this was different – completely different … this was - to sanitise slightly a crude Americanism – ‘stuff’ getting real! THIS was my first real solo run and it’s an URGENT!! There it is again, that word. It kept ringing in my head as I struggled to achieve some semblance of the cool, calm and rational approach that I knew I needed to maintain in order to get this – my first “shout” - completed quickly, safely and satisfactorily. I struggled to gulp down the strong, hot black coffee that now constituted the entirety of my breakfast. I struggled to find and gather up my bike gear, but most of all I struggled – and utterly failed - to comprehend how an early August morning could appear, to all intents and purposes, to somehow have been exchanged for a mid November day! Nevertheless, within a few minutes I’d managed to get some semblance of calm and order into the process, get most of my bike gear on, get myself into my car and get out and on the road towards the secure unit on the outskirts of Exeter where the bike is kept.
WHOA, WHOA - wait a minute, wait a minute! “CAR”? Did I just read “…get myself into my car …”?? WHAT?! I thought this was meant to be about a ‘biker’? Y’know, one of those tough, real-world people – guys and gals – out there in high necked, long backed Goretex suits; pinlocked visors, and aquatex gloves and boots! “Real” bikers ride in all weathers don’t they? Well, yes, of course they do. But I gave up considering myself as an all year, all weather biker a LONG time ago. Of course, back then I didn’t have the benefit of modern textile gear - does anybody else out there remember Belstaff and Barbour waxed cottons? YEUK! And Derri Boots? HAH HAH HAH! Well then, if you do, then I think you’ll have a very good idea of why I gave up on all that stuff a long time ago and decided to keep my bikes clean and myself dry!
So – back in the room! Many people will, I’m sure, remember this year’s late July and early August weather which featured a series of summer storms that rattled in from the south and west – a result of unusual and unseasonal Jet Stream activity – and produced destructive amounts of wind and rain, damaging crops, buildings, and even some parts of our beautiful coastline. I’ll (probably) remember them for a completely different reason – assuming the appalling memory that I may have mentioned before allows it! I’ll remember that this, my first real world, real life Blood Bike run should have seen me basking in the bright golden sunrise of a warm August morning and not battling force 8 south westerly winds and rain of near biblical proportions! Even the car journey down to the industrial estate base of the unit, where the Yamaha FJR is securely stored, proved challenging. Torrential rain lashed viciously against the windows and stood in deep, dark, dangerous pools by cambered road sides, fed constantly by streams of runoff blown by winds that carried yet more and more lashing rain. Even on high speed the car’s wipers struggled to cope with the rain, blown in by the storm force winds. It was hard to believe that we were in August, but we were and these were the cards I’d been dealt so it was time to stand up and be counted. Or, more literally, sit down on a motorcycle seat and make my meager efforts count for something.
Considering the conditions, I reached the unit in reasonably good time and nervously went through the process of checking the bike. As riders we have standing instructions and checklists to complete before (and after) taking the bike out – it would, self-evidently, be foolish, counter-productive and highly embarrassing to get part way through, say, an urgent run only to find the bike overheating from lack of coolant or seriously compromised through low oil levels, etc. My initial checks complete, I cautiously wheeled the FJR backwards out of the unit and into the lashing rain.
I should, I think, take a moment or two here to explain a few things that might put some context around my ‘relationship’ with the FJR. I alluded earlier in this piece to my “mud wrestling incident” with the Yamaha at the Powderham Historic Vehicle Show and the incident has a relevance to that relationship. I’d managed to drop the bike at very slow speed when trying to turn onto a really muddy track to exit the field where SWBB had been promoting the charity and its work to the general public. There was absolutely zero chance of me alone being able to pick that bike up from the position it had adopted resting on the crash bungs and sturdy panniers. I MIGHT have just about managed had the bike and I been on solid ground but, in those conditions, I was deeply grateful – if mortally embarrassed – to have the assistance of a number of my colleagues and a couple of members of the public to actually assist with getting the machine upright and into a position where I could remount and slither out of the (literal and figurative) mire! The only damage from the drop had been to my personal pride and that was recovered – to some extent - once I’d got the bike home and washed, cleaned and polished it! But, the incident was highly illustrative of a few important (from a personal point of view, at least) facts about me and about the bike :-
ME – I’d struggle to righteously claim, at best, a height of 5ft 5 inches (1.625metres for the imperially challenged!) and an inside leg measurement of 30 inches. I’m 73 years of age and, whilst in generally good health, reasonably fit and able, I am, shall we say, never (again) going to be bench pressing my own body weight – which, for the sake of illustration, is around 9st. 7lbs or 60 kilos.
FJR – various technical specs suggest that the bike’s seat height is at least 31.5 inches and (wet) weight is around 637 pounds or 289 kilos.
From what I can see, the fuel tank alone removed from the bike and filled with 25 litres of fuel would be the equivalent of about a third of my total body weight!!
OK, so the stats and figures are all well and good in and of themselves – in the real world I’m fairly used to manhandling and manoeuvring big, tall, heavy bikes as I own a collection of Hinckley T300 Triumphs, including a ’93 Tiger 900 – but, I was standing in an inch or more of mud on an incline, dressed in full bike gear in the midst of a manic melee of vehicles all eager to burgeon their way out of the place and – OH, THE SHAME OF IT – in front of all my new-found colleagues! It was a comically embarrassing moment that I hope never to repeat! And I’m definitely with Martin Luther King on ‘hope’ :- “We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.”
So, yes, the FJR is undoubtedly something of a personal challenge for me and particularly so when manhandling or manoeuvring it backwards down the slope and out of the storage unit to a spot where the sidestand leans the bike far enough over to allow me to get my leg over the saddle but not quite so far that the bike’s weight is difficult to lift upright once I’m actually on it! The conundrum presented by these conflicting requirements is made slightly worse by the fact that the bike is one of those on the fleet that has been adapted to carry an approved blood box. This means that the bike has a large metal plate fixed directly above the pillion seat with a substantial, rigid styrene box strapped firmly to it – not exactly an easy obstacle to overcome for a ‘little auld fella with short legs’ but comedy gold, for sure, when my foot gets caught up in the straps……. I wouldn’t be either surprised or bothered if secretly filmed footage of me struggling to get on the bike one day appears on some social media channel!! It would probably be edited and set to ‘Keystone Cops’ type music with lots of stuttered repeats, and end with a shot of me finally sitting on the bike and breathing a huge sigh of relief through a sweat laden neck buff!!!
So, with all that firmly in mind as background, you can, I hope, imagine the raging tumult of thoughts and emotions roaring through my head on my first formal, solo, URGENT “shout”. Despite the howling wind and lashing rain I was already sweating and the effort required to thread through the early morning commuter traffic in Exeter did little to calm my demeanour in any way. Nevertheless, I made it to the Royal Devon & Exeter and, Daniels Box in hand, I dripped my way up to the samples collection point on Level 2. Why did I ever think it would be a good idea to climb the stairs in all this gear? Actually, it’s often quicker than using the lift and, anyway, it was an opportunity to get the circulation going in my legs, after all, I had a journey of around 80 miles and an hour and a half – at least – in the saddle of the FJR ahead of me and, in the prevailing weather conditions, that meant I wouldn’t be voluntarily stopping for anything or anyone other than traffic signals, so a bit of exercise now might be deemed highly worthwhile!
The lab technician at the collection point calmly searched for, found and handed over the bagged and sealed samples and signed my receipt book form. I was nervously shuffling around and almost ready to shout “hurry it up, man!” at him but, of course, for him it was an entirely normal, probably utterly boring, routine handover. It was ME that needed to learn that “URGENT” and “EMERGENCY” had two distinctly different and highly contextual meanings though admittedly not, at that precise moment and clearly not to this nervous, virgin wannabe Blood Bike volunteer rider on his first solo run! Now hurriedly retracing my steps back to the bike I was trying to mentally calm my thoughts and decide on the best and quickest route out of Exeter and onto the motorway taking into account the heavy, morning rush hour traffic.
I eventually made my way onto the northbound M5 and joined yet more heavy traffic but now much of it was travelling at speeds well in excess of the mandated limit – and that despite the black skies, lashing rain and that blustery storm force wind that seemed capable of moving the not inconsiderable weight of the FJR sideways at a whim. I should say at this point that the FJR is incredibly well behaved in these awful conditions and I very quickly became highly impressed at how stable, calm and predictable the bike was despite the bleak prevailing conditions and the bike’s side profile of an acre of solid, high quality plastic. Once under way and at a reasonable speed any sideways movement, however dramatic or sudden, seemed to almost ‘self-correct’ – it was as if the bike had been pointed on a chosen path and knew how to keep or regain it. I was impressed and comforted and the bike’s ‘self-confidence’ allowed me to concentrate on my speed and the surrounding traffic, much of which seemed utterly oblivious of the increased vulnerability of a motorcycle in such adverse weather conditions!
Having already ridden the bike a number of times I was well aware of what I’ve come to think of as the “HI VIZ” effect – the phenomenon where car drivers seem to suddenly see the high-viz-fluoro livery and headlights in the rear views and immediately think “POLICE PATROL”! There is so often that brief panic reaction and tell-tale puff of smoke from the exhaust as a car driver in front lifts off the accelerator and tries to get quickly back down from 75 ish+ mph to something much closer to the actual legal limit. This often means that, as I’m using the FJR’s Garmin sat. nav. as a speedometer and running at no more than an indicated 72 mph (at which point the FJR’s speedo is indicating at least 6 mph more) I’m swiftly pulling out to prepare to overtake and ever so S L O W L Y pass the now rapidly slowing car. It’s then that the driver sees the “BLOOD” signs and decides it’s safe for him/her to resume his/her previously chosen speed and, on more than one occasion, this has happened while I’ve been alongside in lane 2 or 3 and the car has accelerated away from me on my inside, leaving me “stranded” in an overtaking lane with the usual ‘headbangers’ rapidly closing down on me at speeds clearly in excess of 80 mph! It’s not a comfortable position in which to be and, yes, even in the high winds and lashing rain, there was more than one car or van driver willing to try to visually inspect the tread depth and design of my rear tyre (why else would he/she get SO close?) and brake hard behind me rather than plan a controlled roll-off to allow me to carry on at a safe – and lawful – speed. I do now muse on this phenomenon fairly often as I find it quite ironic that my personal safety is so often, so carelessly and so comprehensively threatened by selfish, speeding drivers. There’s an odd irony, too, in that one of the things that was so frequently emphasised and re-emphasised on my recent IAM Advanced qualification rides, assessments and test was that “safety is paramount and should not be sacrificed” yet all my efforts to be safe and stay safe are meaningless to some of the motoring morons that are self-evidently ignorant of the vulnerability of a motorcycle rider, especially in such adverse weather conditions. I suspect that the inherent safety, capability and comfort of so many modern vehicles simply allow – encourage perhaps - a sub-conscious detachment from the driver’s personal responsibility towards other road users and not just to him/herself. Whatever the reasons, it’s rarely a pleasant position in which to be and never more so than today in a howling gale!
Nevertheless, and despite a missed turning and the subsequent, sat nav directed diversion – which, of course, did NOTHING to ease my inner tensions - I arrived at Southmead within a reasonable time and then started the frustrating search for my destination and delivery point. Now, all of the regular processes and procedures undertaken by anyone within the organisation are fully documented and available at all times on the group’s web site to all registered volunteers, and that information includes pictorial directions to all of the regular destination collection and delivery points. All well and good if one has all the normal attributes of any modern teenager and is carrying the now ubiquitous smartphone capable of performing seemingly any task this side of a real-time, controlled landing of a lunar exploration module! But me? NAH! Despite having had a working life spent almost entirely with computers, networks and comms., I’ve become something of a proverbial Victor Meldrew – grouchily reluctant to have a phone capable of doing anything more than make calls; send texts and use Whattsapp! And even those relatively minor tasks are made unnecessarily difficult because the phone has been dropped so many times the screen and back look like recently unearthed Roman mosaic friezes – fragmented, scratched, broken and, in places, actually incomplete! I know, I know, I really MUST get a replacement and drag myself into the 20th century, learn all about ‘apps’; 5G; Bluetooth, cloud storage ‘n’ stuff! Sorry, what? We’re no longer in the 20th century? Are you having me on? DAMN! What happened there?
Southmead, like most hospitals, uses familiar signage and in itself that signage familiarity just added to my confusion. I thought I had an idea where I was going but, I had to admit it – I was, quite simply, lost! Not, it must be said, the greatest of feelings when you’re on a first run trying to deliver an urgent sample to a specialist lab! I am, however, blessed with having an Area Group Leader and mentor who seems to have the calm, composed patience of a saintly patrician though I’m sure my phone call pleading for help and directions within the hospital campus probably had him wondering who – or what – on earth he’d got landed in his volunteer rider group! Nevertheless, having been informed that I couldn’t actually get what3words up and running on my phone, he was able to determine from my confused description, exactly where I was; exactly where I needed to be, and exactly how I should bridge the gap between the two states!!
I finally made my delivery and, having contacted my controller via whatsapp message to confirm completion of the delivery task, I breathed an enormous sigh of relief and made my way back to the bike. I felt like I’d just saved the world from perpetual enslavement to some evil overlord! Oh yes, honestly, it REALLY did feel THAT good! For a few moments on that walk back to the bike my textile suit had become an advanced hyperfibre armour capable of withstanding any ballistic attack. My Vemar flip front helmet would have made Tony Stark envious with its capabilities, and my FJR was a very cleverly disguised, two wheeled, jet powered, superhero model capable of pretty much anything! In the right hands, of course?
I hadn’t, of course, ‘saved the world’ but, in reality I’d more than likely saved a patient from some probable discomfort or an extended wait time for treatment or the like. I’d CERTAINLY saved the NHS some money in not needing a courier or their own transport for the sample I’d delivered; some time for the administration etc. for the sample and tests and, perhaps, any uncertainty about delivery times and outcomes. But, still - whatever I’d saved and whatever I’d achieved - DAMN! It felt GOOD. I mean, REALLY GOOD!
But, for now, It was time to turn and head for home. The continuing wind and rain that seemed to want to lift me off the bike at times on the way southwards, could not diminish or dampen that wonderful, warm rhetorical “glow” of satisfaction from having completed my first “proper” Blood Bike run. Or, rather, completed the important half of it – I still had to endure the return fixture of my fight with Storm Antoni before I could say the job was complete.
That return fixture was, of course, no easier than the first match but the FJR coped admirably with swirling, storm force head and side winds. The huge fairing and the electrically operated windshield did their best to keep the very worst of the deluge off me, though almost certainly at some extra cost in fuel and, since the fuel consumption of the FJR is not exactly miserly at the best of times, that was a definite factor to consider for my choice of speed. The bike is a 5 speed model and on a motorway run at (an actual) 70mph it does feel quite “busy”. I’d already noticed on the few times that I’d used the bike that the fuel gauge seemed to drop quickly – much more quickly than I’d expect on a modern, fuel injected, touring-oriented machine with a 5 gallon/25litre tank. Although I’ve not yet actually tried to measure miles-per-fill I have a feeling that the bike probably averages mid 40’s mpg. at best. I’ll measure it somewhat more accurately some day, if I get the chance, but I am a bit bemused by some of the published road tests of the bike’s period (it’s on a 16 plate) which seem to suggest averages in the low to mid 50s per gallon bracket! I certainly don’t ride the bike in a manner that would detract from good fuel consumption averages and not just because I’m conscious that the bikes are all tracked and monitored. I’m aware that the charity has substantial monthly/annual fuel bills - despite the judicious use of discounts and fuel agency accounts - so riding for economy where possible is always the aim, especially on a return journey.
When I first applied to join up to South West Blood Bikes as a volunteer rider I’d already spent quite a lot of time thinking about the idea of trying to join a blood biking group. I asked myself a number of questions – first and primary among them was to question if I wasn’t just trying to become a “wannabe police motorcyclist”? Was I just looking for some self-fulfilling pride and glory in riding a fully liveried bike, heading out on some imaginary personal mission to save the world and deliver life saving blood to resolve a desperately urgent and perhaps life threatening situation? Or maybe I was trying to compensate for the fact that, as a …ermmmmmmm …… “height challenged” youth I was unable to emulate my two brothers who had each served meritoriously full terms as police officers and each of whom had spent many years of their long police careers riding patrol and, in one case, covert surveillance motorcycles. (In the times that they both served, my uhmmmmmmm……’diminutive stature’ would have almost barred me from joining the admin. staff of some forces! I exaggerate – slightly – for comedic effect.) I did think very long and hard about this important question and I’m extremely content in my personal knowledge that the idea was never any part of my reasoning and much as I’d like traffic to move aside and to treat me and the motorcycle with far more respect and circumspection, I now KNOW, having worked for Devon and Cornwall Police and having married a (now retired) serving officer that there is little-to-no actual glamour in dealing with the real world situations; people, and incidents that our police service handle on a daily basis. No thanks – not for me!
I’ve been riding motorcycles (legally 
) since I was 16 and I’ve ridden a motorcycle at some time in every year for the past 57 years. I’ve ridden on several continents and in all kinds of weathers. I’ve enjoyed some amazing, inspiring and dramatic journeys sitting on a motorcycle saddle – some good, some bad and some VERY ugly. But I will now, and always, treasure that moment, that euphoric high that I enjoyed when I handed over a simple, sealed sample bag to complete my very first URGENT Blood Bike delivery run.
As a volunteer rider I’m highly confident – and very proud - that I’m actively contributing, supporting and helping to fund some of the amazing work done by the NHS. I’m just one small (literally!) part of a large team of volunteer riders in a charity that relies WHOLLY on donations and the freely given, not insubstantial time and expertise of the volunteers – be they controllers, riders, drivers, supporters, fund raisers, administrators or managers – ALL of whom provide their time, their experience and their efforts without any financial reward. Nobody in the charity is paid for what they do or the time they give, and South West Blood Bikes relies entirely on financial support from the public and from local businesses to perform and maintain the important work it does through the purchase and maintenance of its vehicle fleet.
If you would like to donate any amount, large or small, to the charity, you’ll find details here :-
If this ‘article’ has in any way inspired you to consider becoming a Blood Bike rider I would offer three words of encouragement – “GO FOR IT!” - and one word of advice – CHECK! Check that the group is National Association of Blood Bikes (NABB) registered.
When I started writing this piece I already had in mind a summary line and it’s along the lines of the tv advertisement for Royal Navy recruitment – the “born in Blyth” one.
Not wholly original, then, but accurate and sincere :-
“I was born to be a bike rider; but I was made as a Blood Bike rider for South West Blood Bikes.”
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