Stung in Marchena
I come unstuck on a roundabout
My new book ‘North to Norway’ is now out in paperback and e-book. It's a story as much about the joy of travel as about motorcycling. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before! If you’re still wondering what all the fuss is about I thought a few excerpts over the next few weeks might give you a flavour of my writing and the adventures I recount in the book. I hope that you’ll want to buy the full version, available now on Amazon and in selected branches of Waterstones.
The Bar Najocamon was a typical unassuming locals’ bar. No different from thousands like it dotted across Spain: simple white plastic tables and chairs outside on a shady veranda. Office workers, farmhands and shopgirls were in a hubbub of conversation. It’s busy so it must be good, I thought. I parked nearby to keep an eye on my bike, glad to avoid the growing hassle of securing my gear at every stop.
I snagged a shady seat, ordered an aqua and unzipped my jacket. There was a buzz, not from the chattering crowds, but from a bee, a large and vicious one, a free-riding stowaway from my ride. It stung me, hard, on the chest before buzzing off.
‘Bastard,’I uttered, which drew some glances from nearby.
My water arrived with a generous tumbler of ice. Hoicking up my shirt, I tipped the entire contents over myself to soothe the pain, drawing a startled look from the slender, auburn-haired waitress. She fetched another bottle and thrust it at me.
‘¡Inglés loco!’ she muttered, gesturing in my direction with a dismissive flick of her hair.
Yet more glances from nearby.
The sting had faded to a dull throb by the time the plate held the last crumbs of my lunch. The bill came to single figures, a far cry from city prices. I recalled the old days when you could have a three-course meal for 200–300 pesetas, a couple of quid. And often with wine thrown in for free.
Back on the bike, my jacket zipped up tight against attack bees despite the swelter, I kicked up the stand and set off toward Arcos de la Frontera. A lazy afternoon ride, ninety kilometres or so.
Moments later, less than a few hundred metres down the road, I eased off the throttle for a mini roundabout. I looked right… clear. I rolled on through… and then halfway round, the bike vanished from beneath me. Without warning, all grip vanished.
One moment the sun was on my face and all was well. The next, there was a clattering of scraping metal and shattering plastic as my world flipped sideways. I couldn’t process the sensations of falling, of no longer being in control. I wondered how much it was going to hurt. Curious, really, how time slows down when the unexpected happens. I didn’t feel any impact with the ground, just a sense of speed as the road got unnaturally close to my left flank.
Time warped, each agonising second stretching into eternity. Then impact. A bone-jarring crunch, sliding helplessly along the rubbery, greasy tarmac, my helmet an inch above the road. Then the searing hot violence of friction against my leather-clad limbs as the road grabbed me to a halt. As I stopped, sprawled in the middle of the roundabout, the bike floated away from me and crashed into the kerb some way off.
What the fuck just happened?
I lay on the road, panting with the adrenaline rush. How had I done that? I don’t make mistakes. I can’t make mistakes. I’m on my own. I’ve never done that, why here, why now?
These questions and a profound feeling of disappointment and anger at myself arrived in a tumbling rush.
I eased onto my hands and knees and then hauled myself into a sitting position. As I turned round I expected to see a car’s number plate at eye level heading towards me. There was none. No traffic to squash me, thank God. I sat for a few seconds, trying to gather some sense of whether I was intact. I waited for the pain to pierce the anæsthetic haze of shock.
A battered car suddenly rounded the corner. It stopped a short distance from me, brakes squealing. I gingerly staggered to my feet. I could walk, which was a good sign. Slowly I limped off the road onto the verge and sat down again. My heart thumped like a war drum, my breaths coming raggedly. A girl, no more than twenty, slightly built and concerned-looking, got out and came over. I tried to speak, but nothing came out of my mouth. My tongue stuck to my palate with dryness. I still had my visor down, so she couldn’t see my goldfish expression.
The bike was still half in the road, on its side, so I had to move it. It’s a heavy beast, especially with a load of luggage. I tried to pick it up, but a sharp pain in my left side made me wince. The girl and I were no match for it. A few seconds later she flagged down another car. A young man emerged. He and the girl seemed to know each other, and she gestured with her open arms as if to say I don’t know what to do. His biceps bulged as he effortlessly raised the bike that had defied me moments ago. He deftly placed it on the side stand, parked it neatly on the verge, and ensured it wasn’t pouring petrol anywhere.
By now I was able to speak but the adrenaline coursing through my veins did little for my Spanish as I garbled ‘Gracias’ to my two Samaritans. A few moments later they were gone and the police arrived. By now I was standing up straight and clutching my arm to my chest. Two bearded cops, one taller than the other, emerged from their car, faces etched with concern. They were Policia Local, both in their thirties, I guessed, probably not used to many Brits mucking about in this Spanish hinterland.
‘Were those other cars involved in your crash?’ asked the first cop.
‘Non, solo yo,’ I answered. Just me.
Maybe he thought they’d caused it and scarpered.
They rapidly established that I hadn’t thrown a pillion passenger off into the scrub nearby. Once they were satisfied that I wasn’t drunk or drugged up, and that I was mostly intact, they joined me in a grim survey of the damage. Together we looked over the sorry state of my previously pristine pride and joy. The Honda now sulked, scuffed and distinctly worse for wear, with various panels cracked, some lights skewwhiff but still apparently in working order. One of the officers started the motor and twiddled the handlebars.
'How old is this bike?' the taller one asked, his English flawless.
‘New. Only a few months old.' A flicker of surprise flashed in his eyes. 'Unlucky you then. Looks like a Spanish car now, you know. Dented.' He laughed. I didn’t see the joke.
We inspected the roundabout. I showed them where I’d gone down. Long silvery lines from the footpeg traced my accident into the tarmac. The smaller policeman slid on the surface, one foot in front of the other, as I used to on icy playgrounds.
‘Muy deslizando. Problamente un derrame de combustible,’ he declared.
The slick rubber surface was coated with the discharged diesel fuel of thousands of lorries from the nearby industrial estate.
I had had no chance.
‘Do you want to make a claim against the ajuntamento [local council]?’, said the tall cop, pulling out his notebook.
I thought for a moment. I imagined weeks of correspondence and hassle, a chunk of my summer spent hunched over a laptop, phone calls and costs and then ultimately a big ‘NON’ from a faceless bureaucrat who had never slid prone over a greasy small-town roundabout in the heat, wondering if they, their bike and their road trip were well and truly fucked.
‘No,’ I said, sighing. ‘I’ll sort it out with my insurance company.’
‘Okay. So where are you headed?'
‘Mallorca.’
He whistled low. 'Long ride ahead. Take it more slowly, yeah?'
I wanted to comment about the council’s lamentable lack of road maintenance but I bit it back. I didn’t know the Spanish word for lamentable. The cops were still writing notes when an ambulance turned up, blues and twos announcing its presence.
I was being treated to the full Saturday afternoon service. In this small Andalucían town, I imagined such incidents were a welcome change from the usual weekend wedding fights and drunken fiestas.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked the young, bearded ambulanceman kindly, in Spanish.
What is it with facial hair in these hot climes? He invited me into the stifling interior of his ambulance. God, it’s hot in here. I began to feel a little dizzy.
He had a few glistening beads of sweat on his forehead, the temperature was in the high 30s, and smell of cleaning fluid was overpowering.
He wore a white uniform, pens lined up in his breast pocket and rubber gloves at the ready.
‘Te duele alguna parte?’ (Do you hurt anywhere?)
I began to feel dizzier and sat down. My ribs were beginning to hurt now.
‘Me duele un poco aquí,’ I replied.
I gingerly pointed where my phone had done its best to rearrange my ribs. The phone was fine, my chest apparently not. He had a good poke about and checked the other bits of me that might be storing up agony.
‘You are lucky. You have only broken a rib, maybe two. Lungs sound clear. Your heart rate is a little fast and blood pressure high. Nothing else seems broken. You feel okay to carry on?’
‘Should I get an X-ray?’
‘The hospital is closed now. Nothing they can do for ribs anyway. Be careful. It’ll hurt for a few weeks. Try not to laugh or cough. And no sex.’
I laughed. Ouch.
As I eased myself out of the ambulance's stifling embrace, the heat of the sun felt like a slap. A stab of pain made me wince. I heard the ambulance door slam, a harsh finality to it. Is this where the road trip hits the buffers? How will I manage with these busted ribs?
The policemen were still waiting in the shade of a carob tree. They gave me their details, a report already scribbled down. I scanned it, hoping my Spanish was good enough to understand if my insurance company would give me problems later.
Meanwhile, they'd checked over the bike. One of them, a fellow biker, spoke up.
‘I own a Yamaha. I dream of riding to England someday, like you've come here. Look, your fork… leaking oil.’
I bent over… arghh, bad move. My ribs screamed in protest. The fork looked fine to me, but I promised to watch it. He eyed me, one eyebrow raised. A silent fitness test, I reckoned.
Thing was, none of us truly knew if the bashed-up Honda would run in a straight line or wobble down the road like a drunk at a disco. They offered me an escort out of town to check the bike's roadworthiness and, I suspected, make sure I didn't keel over again and give them more paperwork.
On the edge of town, they overtook, an arm pointing right at the next T-junction. I waved thanks, pain flaring as I lifted my hand. They peeled off, and by the time I reached the junction, I'd clean forgotten where they'd pointed. So, naturally, I turned left, straight back into town. I passed the restaurant, the waitress even busier now. A few turns later, I came across my nemesis again—the slippery roundabout. I slowed to a crawl, going as straight as I could, backside clenched tight enough to crack a walnut.
I passed the police car again, returning to base. I swore I saw them shaking their heads as I rode on.
© 2025 Stephen Oliver
If you’ve enjoyed this excerpt you can find the complete story in paperback and Kindle format on Amazon.