Out on the ‘Wing today, as I neared an oncoming car, a grey furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it—it was that close.
I hate to run over animals…and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact.
Animal lovers never fear. Squirrels can take care of themselves!
Inches before impact, the squirrel unwound himself and flipped to his feet. Standing on his hind legs and facing the oncoming bike with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes, his mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt vertically into the air…………… I’m pretty sure now, that the scream was squirrel for, “Banzai!” or maybe, “Die you scum-sucking heathen!” as the leap was spectacular. He flew gracefully over the windscreen and impacted me squarely in the chest.
Instantly he set about shredding me. If I did'nt know better I would have sworn he brought twenty of his little psycho mates along for the fun. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. This furry little tornado was starting to do some damage!
Picture me then, on my elderly Interstate, dressed in my customary jeans, jacket and leather gloves puttering at maybe 30mph down the A5025… in the fight of my life with a squirrel…….and losing.
I grabbed for him with my left hand and managed to snag his leg. With all my strength I flung the evil rodent off the left of the bike, almost running into the right hand kerb as I recoiled from the throw.
That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into hedge and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser.
But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary pissed-off squirrel.
This was an evil SAS attack squirrel of death with anti-sodding-gravity!
Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his spare claws and, using the force of the throw, swung himself around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact, landed square on my back where he resumed his rather antisocial and rather distracting burrowing activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him!
To say I was startled would be slightly understating the case. My flabber was completely ghasted and my concentration buggered. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (my throttle hand) on the bars, a low gear and my jerking spasmodically backwards unfortunately put a healthy twist into my throttle arm. A healthy twist on the throttle of a tuned Interstate can only have one result. Torque. This is what the Interstate is made for, and she is very, very good at it.
The engine hit 4,500rpm and the Yoshimura cam kicked in, causing a sudden power surge - which annoyingly popped the front wheel up off the tarmac. Great! The squirrel screamed in anger. The ‘Wing screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in… erm …actually, I just plain screamed. I could also smell ordure.
So here I am on the bike, sporting a squirrel shredded jacket that looked as if I’d just emerged from a close encounter with a fragmentation grenade, wearing only one glove and roaring in 3rd gear at maybe 40mph (and rapidly accelerating) down a tree lined road on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel humping on my back. Bloke and squirrel are both screaming blue bleedin’ murder like a pair of drunken banshees.
About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to his efforts (maybe he was a Welsh attack squirrel – who the hell knows), so he suddenly lunged around my neck and climbed up into my helmet with me. The visor snapped half shut and he began hissing up my nose. I’m fairly certain my screaming went up about 2 octaves, while my concentration in riding the bike disappeared completely. Neither seemed to have any effect on the effing squirrel.
The rpm’s on the V twin maxed out (I was not concerned about changing gear at the moment) and her front end thankfully started to drop.
So now here I am on the bike, sporting a squirrel shredded jacket, roaring in 3rd gear at maybe 60mph on one wheel and with a large puffy and angrily waving squirrel’s tail sticking out my half closed helmet. By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse, but the animation’s right up there in the adrenaline stakes.
Finally, in a fit of genius, I managed to grab the little swine’s tail, pulled him hard out of my helmet and, in one panic stricken convulsive movement slung the evil little git to the left as hard as I could. This strategy worked…sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of …. so to speak.
It wasn’t my fault the Police Car was parked there. I couldn’t help the fact that they’d pulled off near Traeth Coch and parked with their windows down to do some paperwork in the sunshine.
With hindsight, from their perspective I suppose it wasn’t terribly entertaining either. Some maniac on a museum piece of a motorbike, dressed in jeans, a scarecrow jacket flapping wildly in the breeze, and wearing one leather glove, moving at probably 70mph on one wheel, and screaming murderous oaths suddenly screams past and with all the grace of a spin bowler lobs a live and angry squirrel-grenade directly into their jam sandwich.
I heard screams. They weren't mine... I managed to get the bike under directional control and dropped the front wheel back onto the ground. I braked hard and slithered to a stop, shaking.
I would have returned to help (and to get my glove back). I really would. Really.
But for two things.
Firstly, the policemen did not seem at all interested in me at that precise moment. One of them was on his back in the middle of the road, one shoe off, and rapidly crabbing backwards away from the car, yelling. The other was hanging half out of the car, with his baton out, flailing at something in the rear and desperately trying to get clear.
Second, the Police are always insisting we should “let the professionals handle it”. Well, I swear I could see the squirrel, standing in the back window of the patrol car among shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery, waving his naughty bits at the cops and shaking his little fist at me. I think he was flicking a V sign. The professionals could have it. All of it!
I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made an easy right turn, and sedately made my way home.
That is one dangerous squirrel - and now he has a police car…
I’ll just buy myself a new pair of gloves and a shotgun for the bike in case I meet him again.
(Not mine, but there ya go!!)
