Commentary

Forever Young: Mike Ibbotson

By Mike Ibbotson

Editor's Note: Mike Ibbotson was a motorcycle enthusiast with a gift for storytelling. In April 2003, he passed away. This article, published posthumously, is his way of working through pivotal events in his life. While trying to resolve the guilt over a 24-year-old tragedy, he takes us on a journey that far exceeds the mere love for motorcycles and extends into parable, a cautionary tale about taking care of the ones you love and dealing with loss. Here, then, is Mike Ibbotson's story.

Mike Ibbotson

May 5th, 1978, in a trailer somewhere in North Wales.

I woke early as usual. Annie was lying beside me still asleep. As my mind cleared itself of sleep, I remembered the argument we had the previous night and thought how stupid, how infantile it had been. I couldn't even remember what it was about.

As I lay with the warm, early morning sun shining through the window, I looked at her and felt like a real jerk. How could I treat this wonderful human being so bad? I resolved to apologize and make it up as soon as she woke. I didn't have to wait long. She must have felt my movements and began to wake. We talked soft and gentle, both of us wanting to be friends again, before nature took its course and we made warm, cosy, forgiving love to each other.

It was a warm, sunny day. I had taken some time off from work to travel to Holland with the intention of selling a BSA A65 I had just finished building. I had bought the parts from dealers who had taken advantage a few years earlier of the demise of the BSA factory in Birmingham. We had a party to go to that night, and after making up, we both felt like spending some time with each other.

The rest of the day we spent in each other's company, just happy to be together and pleased we had made up. I can still see her smiling face as she pottered around with her beloved little plants in the small garden we kept.

Later in the afternoon, I was itching to get out riding, if only for a few miles. I decided to go over to Pete's house about ten miles away to see how the preparations for the party were going. I told Annie, and she said she would come with me.

Annie on my TR6

We had a nice, easy ride and stayed for a while chewing the fat, me and Pete putting the world to rights, Annie and Pete's wife, Laura, talking "woman" talk before leaving them to finish their party prep. As we rode out of the little village, the sun was shining, the road was empty, and I got that "Yeahhhhh" feeling when the spirit grabs you and you've just got to twist that throttle and feel the power. Annie was always up for it. Her usual reaction when I rode like that was to shout "Weeeeeeeeeee" at the top of her voice, but this time. . . .

About a mile from home, there is a tight, twisty section as the road follows a small bridge over a stream, first to the right then immediately to the left. I could normally take it at about 55 mph max on my Triumph, but this time I decided to push it a bit more. I hit the first bend at about 60 mph and held the speed for the second, slightly tighter bend. We never came out of that second bend.

The bike was written off. I smashed my shoulder to bits and broke my arm, but even though I was in intense pain, all I wanted was to be next to my girl, my beautiful, warm, compassionate lady who was slipping further away with every passing minute.

The A65 on Which We Crashed

Annie suffered massive brain damage and never came round from the coma. It took seven weeks for her to die. I watched daily as she went from being a beautiful twenty-two-year-old woman into a heap of cold, clammy flesh kept alive by machines.

The abyss had opened and wouldn't be closed. I could see no limits to that impenetrable darkness. My world had shattered, my emotions were scattered to the four winds, and I could do nothing but cry and cry and cry and be sorry, oh so sorry. But it wasn't enough, and the only person I wanted to turn to was the one lying in that hospital bed.

Annie's parents were devastated, more broken lives caused by my stupid, stupid actions. They couldn't stand to even look at me; broken arm or not, on that first night her father would have beaten me to a pulp had it not been for her mother intervening. The strange thing is, I wanted him to do it. I wanted to be punished because I knew I had been 100% to blame. I had gone into that bend far too fast with another's life in my hands and I lost it. The truth is, I had caused the death of another human being through stupidity, and that human being just happened to be the most precious and wonderful thing that had ever happened to me.

I never went to the funeral. It was made clear that I wouldn't be welcome, but I understood their feelings. I didn't get to say goodbye until many years later.

So that was it. My sweetheart and best friend was dead, and my life had changed forever. I was wracked with grief and drowning in guilt. How was I going to handle this monster that was consuming me? I had three choices: I could take the obvious route and exit from this life. I could let it eat away at me, not knowing the consequences. Or, I could find a way to cope. I had no idea how to even begin to figure out a way forward, but whatever was going to happen, I turned my back on motorcycles and swore I would never ride again.

Shortly after Annie died, I had to begin to sort through our personal belongings that, in the words of Paul Simon, had intertwined. Such a daunting task, strong memories flooding back as I handled her clothes still with her person about them. It was cruel, it was hard, and I did it all with rivers of tears running down my cheeks as I pressed her things to my face in an effort to be close just one more time. It just made my guilt stronger, and option number one became my only thought. Surely if I died too we could be together again?

I needed guidance, and there was no-one to help. My friends were compassionate and tried to understand, but how can anyone understand that horrid abyss if they haven't experienced it? They all made suggestions, they all tried to ease my pain and to help me heal, but none of it helped. Nonetheless, I still feel a strong sense of gratitude to all those people who tried to help and who showed so much compassion. Then suddenly, from out of the blue and in the strangest way, I found some semblance of an answer.

It may sound morbid, but I had kept her shattered helmet that had been soaked in blood. It had her body on it, and to my thinking, that meant in some way that she was still here. I knew it had to go, and I have always been good at taking action when I finally make a decision.

I hardened my resolve, picked up the helmet, and walked the short distance to the rubbish bin. I lifted the lid and without hesitation dropped the helmet in. I didn't realize as I did so that the last person to dump anything in that particular bin had been Annie. As the helmet dropped into the bin, it fell onto a bunch of dead flowers that she had thrown out on our last day together. The sight of the broken, bloody helmet and the dead flowers, still arranged, hit me head on like an express train. I was stunned. I went dizzy with shock and I dropped to my knees in a gibbering, trembling heap. I was hurting more than I ever thought possible, but at that moment I knew the answer. It was as though she were reaching out to help me and I understood. Through all the sympathy, help, and good advice of the previous two months, finally I had some guidance, and it was from Annie herself. I don't believe it was a "message" or a "sign" from beyond the grave. That stuff never made sense to me. But through some strange coming together of circumstances, I saw something. To this day, I couldn't put into words what I learned at that moment, but it was profound, and I knew I had found a way forward.

All I knew after that was that she was gone and I was still here. Her death would be even more futile if I died too, so that was option number one out, one decision made. I didn't know how, but I knew I had to make something positive out of this awful, tragic circumstance. I resolved that I wouldn't let her death be in vain and that at the very least I would live my life for two from that day on. I owed it to her because more than anyone I had ever known, she loved life and the beauty and wonder of it all. That's why I loved her.

A few months later, I found the place where I live today. It is almost 200 miles away from where we lived, but it provided me with the peace of mind I needed then, and it still does. However, at that time even the peace and tranquillity of the wooded Buckinghamshire countryside was not enough. Guilt, horror, sadness, regret, loss, the nightmares--despite the fact that I had made some sort of decision, the abyss was getting wider, blacker, and deeper. I knew I had to carry on, but right then I had to get away, to run, to hide like a scared little rabbit until I figured out what to do. I was lost, and no-one, especially me, knew the way back, so I ran. England just wasn't big enough, so as a distraction, I went to find America, well, Canada initially because I had friends there.

I poured myself into that vast continent for almost two years, always keeping myself occupied to stop the memories from surfacing. As beautiful as that continent is, eventually I realized I would find no answers there. I was just running away. I needed to face up to the past and begin to address the future, for both of us. I came back to the UK and began working at my trade as a joiner.

The years that followed were a roller coaster of emotions as I fought my way back out of that black abyss. I tried many of the usual things. When I wasn't otherwise occupied, I would drink, and it helped for a time, well, until I reached the bottom of the bottle. I also used heroin for a while, but that made me numb and I realized I would rather feel pain than feel nothing. I gave way to my anger and made many enemies. I would piss people off just for the hell of it, and if they didn't give me a pasting, I would spend the next few hours crying like a baby because I had been a real shit and I didn't know why. I have been an atheist for as long as I can remember, so there was no comfort and no answers there.

There were some things that did help. I have been a rock climber since my late teens and always found joy and comfort in being in a mountain environment. I threw myself into the climbing, and whenever I had a few quiet moments to enjoy my surroundings, I would share them with Annie. This helped tremendously, and many times I would find myself in floods of tears as I talked to her and shared the things I saw. I liked to think she was seeing through me.

Through all this, the pain lessened somewhat, and I was able to think more clearly. I struggled through the years of depression and other negative emotions but always with the belief that I would eventually overcome them and instead of horror and guilt, one day I would see in my mind that bright, sunny smile again and be able to smile back.

Then in 1992, the small business I was running failed because of the recession my country was experiencing, so I went to college. I worked like a demon for my bachelor's degree and came out of it with first class honours. I found I was good at academic work, so I stayed on to do a PhD part-time and took a part-time job at the same college.

It was during this time, maybe 1996 or so, I can't remember, that I held my own funeral service for Annie. I felt that one of the reasons I was having difficulty letting go was because I had never buried her. Before we lived in the trailer, we had lived in a small basement apartment that had a beautiful garden where some apple trees grew. One of these was a traditional English apple called "Laxtons Superb." Annie loved the apples from that tree, so one fine Autumn day, I bought one from my local garden center. I have a small orchard with some very old and gnarled apple trees, some of which needed replacing. I wrote a memoriam and said goodbye to her, then placed the paper in a sealed container before burying it beneath the apple tree as I planted it. Then I chatted to her for a while and sang her a song by Bob Dylan that forms the title of this article. In the following weeks, then months and now years I found, and still find, great comfort in that place. I had begun to let her go. I was coming out of the abyss.

The research work I was doing was so different to undergraduate work and I had already discovered that when I got tired, I became intensely emotional. I was still trying to find answers when I began to get ill with the pressure of the work. My supervisor noticed I was having difficulties and took me out one evening for a drink or two and to talk about the problems I was having. Within the context of a rather intense conversation, I told him about what had happened years earlier. He advised me to seek some professional help through the College counselling facilities. I didn't feel I needed it, but to appease him I made an appointment to see one of the counsellors. It turned out to be the best thing I had ever done.

After a few weeks of intense counselling, during which I was encouraged to look deep into the things that I had kept buried for years, I began to feel more in control again. Before the sessions were officially completed, my counsellor had to take time off due to her pregnancy, so she transferred me to one of her colleagues.

The new counsellor was just as good and quickly got to grips with the situation. One of the issues that came out during these sessions was that I was forced to admit that I still liked motorcycles and, despite my vow following the crash, I still had a deep desire to ride again. I happened to mention that someone in the college rode a Harley Sportster. I had seen it parked in the car parking lot. I asked her if she knew who it belonged to, and her answer astounded me for no other reason than the pure coincidence of the situation--it was hers! She told me that her man was a big wheel in an HA chapter from London. Fancy that. My counsellor was an Angels chick with a bike of her own. Now tell me THAT isn't a fantastic coincidence!!

Following this revelation, she told me that she had been waiting for me to come to that point for some time. The next thing to knock me sideways was when she told me that in her opinion I should take her Harley out for a ride; short time, long time, no matter, but I should get on the damn thing and ride. So I did! One fine, sunny, English summer day as I walked into her office, she handed me the keys and told me in no uncertain terms, but with a friendly gleam in her eye, to "fuck off and ride." Wow! Now that's what I call a counsellor!

I rode that Harley at 40 to 50 mph for about an hour around the leafy lanes of South Buckinghamshire, talking to Annie as I did so. When I got back, I had a tear-soaked face, not from the wind in my eyes but from the emotions that had surfaced, and they were all good. I was winning and I knew it!

There were still a few hard years ahead at that point, but I promised myself that when I finished my studies, I would buy a bike as a reward to myself and finally lay to rest the ghost that had haunted me for all these years.

I bought my Wild Star in October 2000, and I've never looked back since. It is almost as beautiful as Annie, but not quite. Nothing ever could be for me. I now know I will never get over what happened that sunny afternoon in 1978. I just have to live with it. THAT is the real answer--I needed to understand that there is no forgetting, just acceptance, understanding, and the ability to forgive myself. Once I had realized that I could begin to live again.

I ride solo these days, no pillion, no rear footpegs--it makes it easy to say no when anyone asks for a ride. Annie may be gone, but she still rides with me sometimes, like when that wild spirit grabs me. When it does and I hit that throttle, I scream at the top of my voice, "Weeeeeeeee. . . ," and for that moment she is there with me.

I'm no longer the young man she knew. My hair is disappearing, my skin is getting wrinkled, and any looks I may once have had have already gone. When I think of her now, my thoughts are warm and cosy like that morning before the crash when we made up after our argument. I know I was to blame for what happened, but my guilt has lessened in these later years, and I'm so grateful we parted as friends. Her spirit is truly free now, and she has at least been spared the ravages of age; she will never grow old and frail like I will, she will always be beautiful, she will always be forever young.

Thank you my friends, all of you, those who helped me in the beginning, those who helped me along the way, and those who continue to show compassion 24 years after the event. And thank you, the reader, for taking the time to read my ramblings and having the fortitude to stick with it to this point.