I look ahead with a sinking heart; the traffic on the motorway is stationary. I'm used to this when the incident is on the motorway, but I have many miles to go before I get to the 5 year old boy pinned to a wall by a Range Rover in CountrySchool. As a result of the road works there is no hard shoulder for me to race down, so I don my "Moses" beard and staff, sit on the line between middle and fast lane, and watch as a new lane is formed, just for me.
It's slow going, as cars in the two lanes next to mine work out what it is I need them to do. My wing mirrors are retracted to give me extra manoeuvring ability. I spot in my rear mirror a motorcyclist, taking full advantage of my passage, trailing me in my wake.
Good, my junction. I indicate left and slow, searching for a way through. Suddenly; Bang!!! What have I hit?? I look around me, and see the motorcycle, attached to my rear bumper. I jump out, spitting tacks, and rush round to the rear of my beloved vehicle. The cylist is still sitting on his bike, looking rather sheepish. "You braked a bit fast, didn't you?" Wrong move, matey. I make it quite clear to said biker that I didn't really have time for discussion about the finer points of slipstreaming emergency vehicles. I also explain to him that he is very lucky that my vehicle is still driveable, as I have to get going. I whip out a piece of paper and a pen, and get his details, photograph his bike (and him - not getting caught this time) and prepare to leave.
"What about me? What about my bike?" I look closely; he's breathing. Good enough for me.
to be continued...