snowwombat

The following is a short piece I wrote relating to a life changing experience I had some years ago. It was written to post on another web site but has returned to my mind lately so I dug it out and reworked it a touch. Hope you enjoy it.

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As I self indulged over my newly acquired HD motorcycle the phone snapped me back to reality.

“How are you?”

“Fine Dad.” I replied.

“Would you be interested in taking a young boy for a ride on your Harley?”

I laughed, not because I thought the idea was ludicrous but simply because I had suggested it to him only days earlier.

“A ride on a Harley?” He’d commented at the time. “And who would want that?”

“You’d be surprised!” I’d answered.

So here he was three days later, the area president of a children’s charity asking a favour of me after previously blowing me off.

“And what’s the go with this boy then?”

“He has a life threatening illness. I can’t tell you any more but we have to wait for him to get out of hospital first.”

“Well you let me know when he’s home and I’ll do the ride for him.”

Weeks passed and still he continued to fight his illness. He’d wished for a motorcycle but his health prohibited it so had decided on a big screen tv to watch with his seven or so siblings, when he could make it home from hospital. When he’d heard about the Harley ride he was very keen to come home.

Finally he left hospital for a short visit with his family and the ride was organised. I was to pick him up at his house and take him to the electrical store to be presented with his tv.

‘No worries.’ I thought. ‘I’ll clean the bike up and do the run and be home in plenty of time.’ Little did I know that this one moment in time was to have the biggest impact upon my life that anything ever had.

I woke at 5 am on the morning of the run and paced the floor. I began to have flashes of what I could expect and I couldn’t express these feelings to anyone. My children were in bed and I live as a single man. I’d almost polished the chrome off the Harley so I sat at the computer and wrote a poem.

When I arrived at the home of this child my heart instantly skipped about three beats. Here he was, a frail little boy, beanie covering his balding head, tube still hanging from his nose and here I was, sitting astride an ‘iron horse’, coming to rescue him from his demons, only for a while though.

A police escort guided us through the streets of Grafton and by the time we reached our destination I understood the enormity of this task that had been requested of me. His smile spoke louder than any words could.

My heart was pounding as I began the trip back home. I pulled over at a cross road to suck a cigarette and think about what I’d just done. My mind was numb, yet it ran a thousand miles an hour.

I returned home and wrote another poem. Then I reworked the first one into a song.
Quite a while later I was asked to perform the song at a national meeting for this particular charity. Never had I performed in public, I couldn’t even sing. But off I went to Melbourne, putting my fears aside for this one 5 minute segment of my life.

I rehearsed the song with a guitarist but couldn’t hit the notes. My heart was heavy and my stomach churned.

“No amount of practice can overcome nerves.” he stated. “You’ll just have to get up there and hope it goes well.”

“Thanks!” I replied.

What was I to do? I couldn’t back out now; I simply had to go through with it. I continued to rehearse in my room, just me and my trusty guitar.

“So Trevor, what’s the name of this song you are going to perform for us tonight?” the MC quizzed.

“To Danyon.” I replied and explained briefly what it was about.

The guitarist began and I had two bars of music to compose myself. I launched tentatively into the song and the rest is history! It went well and as the muso struck the last chord I retreated to the relative safety of my seat in the crowd.

The homeward bound train pulled in to Melbourne station, I picked up my bag and guitar and boarded the carriage. Next to me sat a young girl I estimated to be maybe 17 or 18 years old. We started talking and I offered her a sticker from the weekend’s paraphernalia we’d been given.

She began to tell me of her own struggle with life, the chaos, the pain and how such small things make such a huge difference in their lives. A smile can mean so much and an action, though insignificant to some can make a world of difference to others.

This meeting was not coincidental, of that I am sure. In the whole carriage there were three travellers; me, another man who was seated further towards the back and this young girl.

We were seated together, not by chance but by some other force I cannot explain. I needed to know if these gestures were worthy or simply a vain effort to placate our own guilt.

I now have that answer.

T. B. Jackson.