Show Me the Sky - Nicholas Hogg [4]
A dead reverend in the desert. And he had God on his side. I’m sure the skull was grinning, mocking the living. But then all our gleaned jaws seem to smile at eternity. ‘I’m still in better fucking shape than you,’ I shouted, the words lost in all that sky.
I crawled back to the wreck, my life. Suddenly the pain returned. My shin felt as though an axe were embedded halfway between the knee and ankle, and my shoulder felt plain wrong, the ball free of the socket. And I was healthier than my machine. No, the bike would never be ridden again. The twisted forks pressed the front wheel against the engine block. Fuel leaked from the ruptured tank and spare jerry can. The exhaust had come clean off, and tiny fragments of the wing mirrors sparkled on the red sand. If it were a horse, it would be shot.
After I pulled the First Aid kit from the top box and popped a handful of painkillers, I hauled the panniers clear of the mangled metal and stuffed a torn T-shirt into the petrol tank.
Yes, I flicked my lighter and lit the fuse.
The bike was dead. I wanted it to have a glorious, flaming end. Not decades of rust in the desert wind. In Easy Rider, Peter Fonda burns out like a landed comet, a ball of fire billowing across the highway. This is the best part of the film, when the dream of freedom is granted.
Insanity, I can hear you exclaim, sacrificing my bike. Like a Bedouin killing his camel, a sailor sinking his ship. But the plume of smoke is a beacon, an SOS on the cloudless blue. Just as I dropped down into a small trench, the tank exploded like a cannon.
The race for my survival has begun.
The sun is setting. I’m writing propped against the bank of the creek. No one has answered my distress flare. Yet. My foolish shortcut has taken me at least 30 km from the marked track, which at busiest has only one or two travellers a day.
I’ve thrown some dead roots on to the fire. The bike is burning down from crimson to ash grey. The skull is still grinning, maybe happy to have a friend after all these years alone. Though his conversation’s not up to much.
The painkillers are closing my eyes as I write. I’ll talk with you again in the morning, when I can think clearly about getting out of here.
Woke at dawn in agony. No strength to pitch tent, so slept under stars. Rolled up trousers to look at my blackened shin. I could see the bend, the foot askew. Popped two more ibuprofen, then slid the metal rods from the pannier lining. The four metal bars that stop the canvas flapping against the rear wheel will stop my foot flapping against my shin. Using my one and only bandage and another torn-up T-shirt, I bound my broken leg into a splint.
But it didn’t stop the pain. If anything, the pressure made it worse. To take my thoughts from gangrene and thirst, I lay out my expedition and took stock:
Canvas pannier bag (minus rods)
Lengths of bungee cord x 3
Medium ‘day-hike’ size backpack
T-shirts x 2
Tracksuit top
Pairs of socks x 2
Pairs of underpants x 4
Pair of swimming shorts
Diving mask
Sleeping bag
Ground mat
Tent
Tool kit
Swiss Army knife
Flashlight
Compass
Pocket torch
First Aid kit
Toiletries bag
Petrol lighter (full)
Box of matches
Kerosene stove (three-quarters full)
Tin cup
Spoon
Cooking pots x 2
Food:
– Spaghetti 200g
– Rice 3–400g
– Vegemite (half jar)
– Tube of tomato puree
– Jar of pepper
– Tin of tuna
– Onion x 1
– Instant soups x 9
– Pack of crackers (crushed to crumbs)
– Instant coffee
– Servings of porridge x 4
– Powdered milk
– Sachets of sugar x 7
– Water 4.5 litres (5 days’ worth?)