Alan Nicholls' Bike Problems

Sunday the 1^st of April 2012

Driving here is a shit, your life is in danger from the moment you decide to use your car or bike, be it needing something from the shop or taking the kids to school, you are in danger; you will die, eventually. Thailand has one of the worst road safety records in the world, and has five times as many deaths on the road as the U.K even though the amount of people and vehicles are comparable. There are many factors and reasons for the poor safety records and high death rates but ultimately it comes down to two things. Firstly - The driving test is silly. You either drive around an under made course in a field for 30 minutes or pay a thousand baht and bypass the whole thing altogether. Secondly – The laws, whilst extremely harsh if enforced are generally pushed to one side when enough money is offered, meaning drink driving is common and you’re free to mow down as many people as possible.

Due to this I have seen incredible things. Dead bodies, mutilated corpses, crumpled lorries, destroyed buildings, all of which should be reserved for the minds of war battered veterans, not innocent detectives like myself. Hatefully time has built a resistance to the witnessed carnage and it has become a relatively normal sight to see these horrific things and drive past sparing only a momentary glance. In England, witnessing the changing of a tyre on the side of the road would cause a 3-mile tailback and weeks of guilt – ‘I should have helped her, did she have a wrench? I had a wrench. Oh God.’ Here, you’d need a bus full of dead children just to slow traffic, even then, lanes are open and the cars flow just fine.

Nothing however was more horrible or confusing than what I think I witnessed last week. A man fell off his moped at high speed. It wasn’t the most gruesome thing I had ever viewed but was the first incident that I actually had seen happen, and it was also kind of my fault. I think.

You see I was working on a case for my friend – Alan Nicholls. He borrowed a bike but it was stolen from outside his house in the middle of the Wednesday night. He rang me Friday to ask for my assistance, I asked for the details of the bike – Honda Click – Grey – Automatic – 125cc – 3 years old. He told me his theories as to the whereabouts and also mentioned the owner wanted 60,000 Baht (£1,200) if he couldn’t return it, a hefty price no matter the circumstance. I assured him I’d do my best and set out with all the usual and expected enthusiasm when attempting to find a small bike in a big city.

I started at his house. He lives by Lake Mabprachan which is a large reservoir on the East side of Pattaya, a nice quiet area reserved for wealthy expats littered with nice restaurants and a smattering of bars. The community is close, I regularly dine and drink there and have become acquainted with a lot of the locals.

Alan’s house is secluded from the lake, in a small resort of five homes. He told me he had left the bike outside the gates, on the public road - fool. I couldn’t make out any signs of crime. Two men can easily lift a moped so I suspected the thief’s simply heaved it on to the back of a truck and off they set. A good business venture, aside from the risk of being caught. I could see nothing obvious to go on so I asked around the neighbours, they were asleep and no one heard a thing. Damn. I decided to find the owner of the bike, Toine, I knew him only by name so I enquired with a few pals as to the whereabouts of his house, they pointed me in the right direction – thank God.

Toine had just come back from cycling when I pulled up. He lived about two km from Alan in a lovely 5 star resort; clearly, he was a wealthy, sweaty, Norwegian. I was invited in and offered a protein shake, I normally wouldn’t hesitate to say no but recently I’ve been intrigued as to their merit, ‘Thank you.’ This, unbeknown to me, or Toine, was a big mistake. You see the protein shake he made up was in awful fact made with not protein powder but mushroom powder, magic mushroom. A friend saw humour in giving Toine the mixture claiming it to be the hidden secret in easy fitness and recovery, this was his first use of it, and mine.

He wasn’t happy about the bike, I could sense that, but he remained calm and polite and gave me all the information I needed. His point was fair, Alan had lost his bike and he wanted either the moped or the money he paid for it back. I finished my shake, which was earthy but nice, and made my excuses.

I had no leads and fewer hunches. It was almost midday and with the case drying up I began to think about collecting Astrid. I got in my car and started to head back to the school.  

The drive around the Lake is one of life’s nicer drives, something about the clean surround of water seems to calm everybody and encourage a snails pace approach to moving, which, in amongst the mad dash of the city centre is a welcome nice. My thoughts were on no more than what I should do with Astrid in the afternoon and how I could manipulate the kitchen staff to adjust the lunch menu to anything cheese.  Suddenly a grey moped overtook me, going at some speed, at least 20kmph quicker than my car. I would normally have thought nothing of it and carried on with my scenic daydream but it was grey and I was sure it was a Honda Click. I pursued.

The turbo lag meant my truck took a while to catch up, but it did, and on closer inspection, yes, the bike was grey, it was a Honda click and I began to feel my heart pump at the prospect of a chase. I pulled alongside and gestured for the man to pull over. We were going at 100kmph at this point, he didn’t acknowledge my attempts, I wound down the window, beeped my horn, he didn’t respond. He then accelerated and went ahead. I decided to let him move on and simply tail him. My heart was beating faster and faster, why wouldn’t he stop?

He must have been travelling at 120kmph as the bike planed over a sand-patch in the road, I could see the Honda’s back end slipping away, he must have felt it but even at 40kmph keeping control would have required great skill; he tried to correct it but the sand was in restrain and the rear end continued to slide from underneath him - he inevitably fell and rolled quite a distance at quite a speed. He was wearing only shorts, t-shirt, flip-flops and no helmet, needless to say he was in a bad way.

I slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop just before him. I threw open my door and rushed over not knowing what to think, he was immobile, if not dead almost certainly critical. What should I do? I tentatively poked him, I was half expecting a response or someone else to come along and help but it seemed I was on my own. He was covered in blood, a few of his bones looked to be broken, his face almost undeterminable. Fuck. Was that my fault? I began to pace, I was sweating, heart beating faster and faster. I checked his pulse, could I feel one? Was that his beat or mine? My mind was fuzzy, colours were brighter and darker, noises louder and quieter, ‘WHERE IS EVERYONE?’ I screamed that. My mind could find no clarity, I was stuck.

Sitting down offered nothing, I was soon to my feet again. As much as I tried to hatch a plan my mind got distracted. You’re meant to become full of adrenaline and focus in situations like these but I couldn’t help but stare at his limbs, were they moving? Was his blood changing colour? I was freaking out. I needed to get him off the road. He was no good to anybody on the road.

I managed to pick him up by his legs and drag him, it left a mesmerising trail of multi-coloured blood – I was transfixed - the shades, the tints, the blush - before I knew it I was writing my name on the road, he was my brush and his blood loss was my paint. Why was I doing that? By the time I got him to the pick-up I was laughing. It was funny, I was sure of it, but now wasn’t the time for humour. I calmed myself and tried to focus. He was heavy but he went into the back of the truck just fine.

I wasn’t aware but my gait had become quite strange, it was difficult to walk upright so I had subconsciously formed an almost limbo stance and moved with that. It took a while to assess the bike, I had to bend backwards in a crab like form just to catch sight of it and when I did my right eye was in soft focus and my left, whilst having perfect vision, could only intake snapshots – a camera if you will. Hmm. I couldn’t lift the moped into the car, I did however notice it had an aura, as, did everything. I could use its aura to follow the car and myself, but where was I going? And how could I harness its power? I had an idea.

I dragged the Honda behind the truck using some steel wire I had found, certain the bike’s aura would keep it on two wheels if I stuck to exactly 46kmph; it didn’t. I had completed 3 laps of the lake, people noticed I was dragging a Honda Click behind at a slow pace but thankfully didn’t see the potentially dead man in the pick up, I think I had closed the lid. ‘HE’S NOT DEAD, I FELT HIS PULSE’ I sang to the tune of 9-5 by Dolly Parton. I realised I needed a plan, ‘I can’t just drive a critically ill man around a lake all day, what’s that going to solve? APART FROM THE EUROZONE DEBT CRISIS!’ I decided to take the bike back to Alan Nicholls’ house, share with Alan the good news.

No one was home, I gave him a call and in my best Norwich accent I let him know that ‘The Eagle has landed’ and he should ‘bring pink Brie’ and then I hung up. Alan’s house has a fantastic outside area complete with a sofa, fridge, sink and even a toaster. Today it looked lovely, cosy even. I retrieved my near corpse from the back of the truck and set him down upon the outside sofa to await Alan’s arrival.

‘We should play cards.’ Did I say that or did he? Either way, one of us was right, we should play cards.

I was unaware at the time but the mushroom shake I had mistakenly consumed earlier was working its magic well and truly at this point and had been for the past few hours. All logic and morals had slipped, my mind was in a dream like state and anything was game.

I looked for cards but something caught my eye. It was the body’s blood, his ever-changing blood. ‘Christ Nigel… That is that your name, right?’ Nigel nodded ‘You’re covered in blood, we best clean you up son.’ I went to the sink, my walk had settled, found a bowl with a cloth and began to clean Nigel. We sang Beyonce as I wiped his face. ‘That’s better.’ I burst into laughter, and so I presume did Nigel.

“WHAT’S ALL THIS?”

Through my laugh produced tears I could see Alan’s outline. He had slipped in, unnoticed.

“Alan, you’re home, thank God. Listen, great news.” Alan looked confused. “Did you not get my message?” He didn’t say anything. Was I actually talking? I doubt I was. “Sorry, I’m trying to talk but, I can’t. Am I talking now?”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?”

“Whoa. Alan, I’m trying to explain but… Don’t you just hate the word try? Jeez, why is everybody trying? Why isn’t everybody doing? Fuck, Nigel knows, Alan, Nigel, Nigel, Alan.” I introduced them.

“Will. Seriously. WHO. THE. FUCK. IS. THAT. AND. WHAT. THE. FUCK. IS. GOING. ON?”

“Nigel, Alan. This is Nigel. Am I talking? Have I gone quiet again?” Alan actually growled.

I needed to calm the situation down. I decided to whisper.

“Alan, I’ve found the bike.”

“WHAT!”

I beckoned Alan closer with my hand. He came, this time I whispered to his ear “Alan, I have found the bike.”

He pulled away with a smile on his face, was he happy? Had I saved his temper? No, it was a sarcastic smile.

“Oh, you found the bike, you found the bike? That one? The one attached to the back of your truck,” he pointed to the Honda, it looked a bit more battered than I remembered, and a little less grey. Still, I was proud. “Yes, there it is Alan. HONDA CLICK.” I yelled.

“There are a few problems Will.”

“Oh”

“Well, yes. Firstly, the bike is battered and beyond repair, secondly you appear to have brought a DEAD man to my house to play cards and thirdly… THAT’S NOT THE FUCKING BIKE THAT WAS STOLEN!”

“ARE YOU SURE?” I don’t know why I screamed.

I was sceptical but Alan was focused, focused and angry. He let rip…

“THIS IS ONE HELL OF A FUCKING MESS WILL. I MEAN SERIOUSLY, I CAN’T SEE WHY YOU’VE DONE THIS, WHY?....” He continued, I struggled to listen, I couldn’t, I mean I got the gist, he wasn’t sure I’d found the bike, fine, but no need to go nuts I figured. Then the inevitable happened, well…

He was foaming furious chants that I wasn’t paying attention to when I noticed something that maybe I was looking for. Alan Nicholls had a blowhole and it was spouting like a geyser. The outside area was drenched. Was he aware?

“Alan.”

“ALAN!”

“YOU’RE SPURTING ALAN. YOU’RE SPURTING!”

He paid no attention, why would he? He’s a super hero with a blowhole, he had no time to listen to me. I stood up to get a closer look, Alan’s words were meaningless, he could sense it so he turned his neck and squirted vast amounts of release at me, so much so that I was sodden and blown back to my seat.

“Quite a weapon.”

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU ON ABOUT?!” As if priming himself for a large poo he squatted, clenched his fists and pushed like a woman giving birth. The water exited the back of his neck at the rate of a fire hose warning off protesters, the roof damn near came off! He was serious, did he want me to leave? The fear began to set in. I closed my eyes, put my fingers in my ears and hummed the tune of ‘happy birthday’. I wanted a safe place.

My fear triggered Alan to calm down. Eventually his geyser stopped, he knelt down and placed a hand on my knee and encouraged me to look him in eye. ‘You have aquatic eyes Alan.’ I noticed.

“Seriously Will, what’s going on? Are you ok?” His voice was whaleesque, peaceful, I couldn’t answer, he wouldn’t understand, I was keeping it together just enough to  encourage him to speak more, sooth more. It felt like he had eight arms caressing me, I was relaxed.

“Octopi Alan.” I whispered. I think he wanted a kiss, I gave him a kiss, not a passionate one, more a comforting thank you snog. He pulled away. “What are you doing Will?” Again I couldn’t answer, what if I’d misread the situation?

A light bulb went off above Alan’s head, I saw it. He rose to his feet quickly and groaned as he palmed his face. He wandered in circles hushing the word “Shit.” Eventually he turned to me and asked me a question, he had to re-ask it, loudly and slowly, as I was in a trance and making bubble animals with my saliva.

“DID YOU GO TO TOINE’S TODAY? DID YOU DRINK A PROTEIN SHAKE?”

I nodded, I was certain I had.

“OH SHIT!”

 Turns out Alan was the one who gave Toine the ‘protein powder’. Knowing Toine’s obsession with fitness Alan hatched a plan to mildly drug him in an attempt to renegotiate the cost of the bike if he couldn’t retrieve it, thinking the magic mushrooms would ease his pricey demands, he planned to ring him later that evening. As it happened Toine had put five times the amount of substance that Alan had banked on into our shakes, we were beyond comprehensible. Whilst not having gone to the extremes of taking a dead body around to play with I’m assured Toine had an equally hallucinogenic afternoon and evening.

This was Alan’s mess now and he knew it. He put a plan into action and moved quickly to hide evidence. I was clearly a hindrance so he gave me lift home once things were a little more clean. His blowhole didn’t stop the entire trip. I didn’t know weather to tell him, he clearly knew, I decided not to. Once back at the school he said nothing as he opened my door and ushered me out. My right foot was now a ducks paddle so walking had become a bit odd again, but fine. He left, his car was filled to the brim with his blowhole extract, I prayed for his safety, driving is hard enough without all that liquid sloshing around, causing instability.

I finally made it to my door about 25 minutes after being dropped off, having to find a suitable way of walking with a ducks paddle is harder than you’d imagine, ducks are a different species, we’re not meant to share limbs, I know that now. I cannot remember the rest of the evening. I awoke the next morning at the foot of my bed sober, and with the horrible memories I’ve told you here. Apparently, when I got home I was convinced for two hours that Carolyn was the Honda Click I’d been looking for. I kept trying to lift her outside and was most confused when she moved and talked. ‘Walking, talking bike. Come here. You’re not getting away from me that easily.’

I’m not sure what was real, Alan refuses to talk about it, and I don’t blame him. But I’ll tell you one thing: If you look closely at the back of his neck, if he lets you, you’ll see it, clear as day, a small blowhole.

Another fine day in Thailand and the case concerning all kinds of Alan’s Shake - Solved