Around the Next Corner

Around the Next Corner I like to travel on back roads at a leisurely pace and keep my route planning to a minimum. Perhaps it’s because I can’t remember place names and road numbers just pass into my brain never to be recalled. Or, it could be that a thoroughbred two-stroke sports machine prefers small, quiet, twisty roads. Somehow, like a cat, the bike is able to train its human to provide for the needs of an inorganic soul. I had another theory about the joys of back roads which might still have a grain of truth to it. I thought that the main roads are all pretty predictable, once you’ve seen a traffic jam and a motorway service area the experience is pretty well over. You can vary the lighting and the humidity, but there is little in the way of novelty about them. My theory went that with the smaller, less travelled path the mind was regularly stimulated by things that were unique and different. I had thought that this sense of wonder was somehow inherently satisfying. You don’t know what is around the next corner. As I returned from a weekend conference on intrinsically cheerful mobility, rock & roll and a strange red liquid, I came to a corner that has forced a rethink of the theory. A corner that called into question my belief in logical reasoning and the entire fabric of the space-time continuum. It is called Dancing Donkey Corner. It is forever etched on my memory. Now, someone who knew more about donkeys would not have been able to share my experience. Please bear with me, dear reader, and I shall try to explain my story as it came to me; from this rider’s point of view. We are all familiar with the satisfaction to be gained from swinging the world’s most user-friendly motorcycle around corners. And we all know a bit about the caution that is appropriate to a blind corner. So, as I approached this one I thought I was prepared for anything. I’d never been to County Donegal before and I was open to the mind broadening possibilities of travel. The first thing I saw was a pressed steel box on wheels, travelling slowly, on its own side of the road. Then I saw a big puddle on my side of the road. At that point there was a possible tear in the space-time continuum. I found my logical mind and my animal instincts to be in dispute. The surreal is a personal experience that artists attempt to describe to others. Salvador Dalí said: “There is only one difference between me and a madman. I am not mad.” While my logical mind was calmly instructing me to concentrate on what was real and ignore what was impossible, I also experienced a deep sense of fear that had no logical basis. I was not afraid of damaging myself or my fine motorcycle. I was afraid that the apparition at my shoulder was going to injure itself. My instincts said that there was a grave danger that the donkey like sensation that was performing acrobatics was likely to fall and hurt itself. Wouldn’t that be a shame, poor little donkey, etc … Logical mind butts in with: “Donkeys can’t do acrobatics, except in cartoons. Concentrate on the car and the puddle until you hear Eddie Murphy’s voice …” Instinct felt that it was entirely my fault that the poor dumb animal was going to die an agonising death. In confusion I stopped in the middle of the road. I looked back and the donkey, for it had become a real donkey, was looking longingly in my direction. It had resumed the standard non-acrobatic donkey format that I expect of donkeys. Had it been a delayed effect of the mysterious red liquid? Had I briefly entered a wormhole that led to a re-make of “Shrek”? I puzzled on this experience all the way home. On making enquiries amongst the local donkey community I was given an explanation that is less exotic. Basically my problem was that I know little about donkeys. Male donkeys, I was told by equestrians, are noted for their acrobatic abilities. Like horses, donkeys see and hear a totally different world to the one we live in. Most male donkeys reserve their acrobatic tendencies for impressing lady donkeys with whom they wish to become better acquainted. So there it is, if you ever come to Dancing Donkey Corner, don’t panic; that donkey knows what he is doing. Above all remain seated on your motorcycle; if you fall off there is no telling what that dumb ass might do to you!
 Previously published: Thistledown September 2006