MEETING YOUR GUARDIAN ANGEL

Guardian Angels are not the normal topic of conversation, certainly not in my social and working environment. It was, however, during a sermon given by my vicar Gareth Randall (decd.) that I was a prompted to think again on the subject of ‘Guardian Angels.’

It is not very often they are talked about, even in polite conversation. Certainly not in a business office. We all I suppose refer to our Guardian Angel in a casual flippant reference when something goes wrong but somehow you get through it against all the odds.

Until some years ago I was no different to most people. When on the rare occasions you have experienced a profoundly serious situation I too have casually said,

“My Guardian Angel must have been looking after me that day.”

It was said, when deep down, you knew it was a strategic rethink, a change in your tactics and actions, you put your head down and stubbornly worked through it.

My attitude was to be fundamentally changed, however, sometimes you cannot explain why events turned out as they did. I came physically face to face with my Guardian Angel, but never in a way I could have imagined.

Living through six decades of life I suppose we all at some stages encounter life threatening situations. In my case not only were they becoming too frequent but many times my escape routes were almost bizarre.

Some you could perhaps say were fairly possible, falling of a slide at the age of 5 and cracking my skull (my wife happened to do the same at the same age), sliding into a river as the bank gave way when fishing as an 11 year old, car accidents (both drivers drove into me, one while texting!), waking up after just going to sleep realising you are seriously ill and need to get medical help urgently.?

Then there were also the bizarre, I either had to find an escape route or had changed my plans at the last minute. These included twice avoiding being blown up by the IRA (one colleague was caught in the blast of one but was fortunately OK); nearly drowning in quicksand; escaping the underground fire at Kings Cross Station (another colleague was in the last five out); physically threatened by two foreign armies, organised crime gangs or an individual on a bus and one in a train station.

Be it predictable or bizarre each could have gone horribly wrong but my ‘Guardian Angel must have been looking after me that day.’

Sometimes I either had avoided the potential danger by changing my route, or timing at the last minute, or in many cases bluffed my way out or on occasions when a clear exit route suddenly would appear out of nowhere.

It began to dawn on me that my deliverance cannot be just coincidence, I really must have a ’Guardian Angel’ looking over my shoulder.

Twenty years ago, I became convinced that I had come to face to face with mine, but oddly when I was not under any immediate threat or danger. In early 1994 my life felt it was falling apart. I was going through a bit of a turmoil having sold two of my businesses and then my mother died unexpectedly in March 1994. I was exhausted and devastated. My mind was in a bad place.

Suffering from grief and trying to put my career back onto a normal track again, my wife suggested I did what I always wanted to do and go to one of those Motorcycle Grand Prix’s on my brand-new BMW 1200cc motorbike. The next Grand Prix was in early May, in Jerez, right at the very tip of Southern Spain some 1500 miles away by road.

The race was to be on the Saturday, I left on the Monday before with just a passport and wallet with no hotel reservations or a clue exactly where the racetrack was. I made it to the Dover/Calais Ferry and went down the whole of France to the Spanish Border, near Saint Jean du Luz. The French part entailed going as far as you can on unrelenting autoroutes.

It all changed at the Spanish Border. First the rolling green hills, then the massive, parched plains, before dropping onto a lower plain with blue tinged mountains in the distance and the odd village for a pit stop or a meal and drink.

Having travelled about 1350 miles with just 150 miles to go I had an ‘experience’ I will never forget.

Riding along at around 50-60 mph suddenly I was overcome with deep black thoughts. I had not realised how fragile I had become both mentally and physically over the last few months.

Dark questions entered my head ‘Had I bitten off more than I can chew, it maybe only another 150 miles but I have still got to go 300 miles to get back to where I was’.

The road was deserted just rocks, sand, a few cork trees, a very dry and arid landscape.

‘If I breakdown here, or worse still fall off the bike, it is going to take hours before anyone can help me. You do not even know if you can find a hotel for the nights you need. Why are you putting yourself through this anxiety, give yourself a break, should you just have gone on a plane and relaxed on some foreign beach.’

As these negative thoughts swirled around my head. I slowed down to about 25 -30mph wondering what to do next. Just as I did this and with no other, so I thought, living soul or beast around me, there appeared a massive bird resembling a stork majestically flying about 10 feet off the ground and about the same distance away tracking my route down the vacant road. As I looked across I saw it was staring straight back at me.

At first I was trying to make sense of it and occasionally looking sideways at the bird as I, and it, continued along the road. The bird was giving me a fixed look, and apart from the rhythmic beat of my motorbike, in the silence between us, it appeared it was trying to communicate with me.

‘Don’t worry, it’s going to be ok, you are fine, just keep going a little longer and you will see all will turn out for the best.’

If this had been momentarily situation I may have dismissed it as pure coincidence, but this bird seemed to stick with me like glue for the next several minutes and miles. In the solitude, just me and this bird.

Gradually my whole mind set changed during this crazy and ludicrous séance between man and bird. My anxieties, which were in danger of overwhelming me, began to subside and then disappeared. A total feeling of calm and serenity seemed to pass right through me. I also felt an immensely powerful emotion which is difficult to describe. The closest I can describe it as is the feeling holding your first child in the first few days of life.

What was happening to me, was it my fragile state of mind, fatigue or was I just hallucinating. Just at the point I decided I must carry on, the bird then immediately swopped away into the distance.

I did stop at the next village for a cup of coffee and noticed I could not stop my hand shaking.

Well, I did arrive at the hotel in Punta Santa Maria and to my dismay it was fully booked with lots of bikers booking in at reception including the racing teams who had decided to stay at the same hotel. As I worriedly looked on, a leader of a Portuguese Biker Group came over to speak to me and asked if I had booked in, to which I responded, I had not even booked a reservation. He informed me that I would be lucky to get somewhere within 30 miles as there would be nearly 200,000 Latin bikers descending on Jerez for the weekend.

He then said, “leave it to me, just give me your passport.”

Taking advantage of the renowned Spanish inefficiency, he made out that I was part of his group, and he had weeks ago telexed ahead for them to add me to their list. Scrambling around in all their paperwork and with a long queue forming they gave up trying to resolve the paperwork and managed to find me an attic bedroom.

The leader gave me the keys to my room and asked what I intended to do next. I said I was absolutely shattered from the ride and was just going to get a quick snack and then off to bed.

“Oh no,” he said, “You can’t do that, freshen up, change into your casual gear and just walk half a mile to the centre of town because it is all happening there and you mustn’t miss it.”

How right he was, all the town was closed off to motor cars except motorbikes. All the Spanish people, babies to grandparents gathered from all around the region, had come into town to welcome the Latin bikers. The streets were floodlight; music was playing, there were food stalls and copious drinks of gin and tonic seemingly coming out of every ground floor window for you to sample. Although I was on my own I was greeted like a long-lost brother by the town’s people and bikers alike. I eventually went to bed at 2.00am.

The racing happened to be magnificent and the 500cc class was won by an Australian Mike Doohan with an Italian second. There was a veteran Spanish rider, who should have come in at 7th or 8th, but realising the King of Spain was watching managed a podium finish in third. On presenting the trophies and his congratulations to the riders the King shook the hands of the first two, but when he came to the third he picked him up in his arms, swung him around to the delight of 200,00 ecstatic Spanish spectators.

I was OK again, and ready to carry on and travel home relaxed and refreshed.

Now whenever I can, I thank my Guardian Angel for taking good care and protecting those around me for all these years.

Ron Kirk

Cancale, France