Tomorrow never comes – A column by Phil Hall
Growing up in suburban Strathfield in Sydney’s inner west, I remember that the local service station (back when they actually provided service), had a sign out the front which read “Free air today – free petrol tomorrow”
Goodness knows how many motorists fell prey to this simple joke, but it became legendary around the suburb and has stuck in my memory ever since.
Because, as we all know, tomorrow never comes. Procrastinators, of course, revel in this fact because it allows them to continue doing what they do best without ever having to deliver on whatever it is that they have planned. But, for most of us, whose lives are governed by time, timetables and schedules, it can sometimes be a nagging reminder that deadlines do have to be maintained and targets, once set, have to be hit, at some point in time.
I’m going to be a little philosophical this week and I hope you don’t mind because I am going to relate this concept to motorcycling (I bet that surprised you) and to the wider meaning of life, the universe and everything (42).
Some years ago a thread appeared on one of my motorcycle forums about the discovery of a motorcycle off the side of a country road in NSW. As details emerged of the story it assumed more and more of a tragic colour. For, not only was the motorcycle found but also the skeletal remains of its rider. Police records traced the registration of the bike and identified the deceased rider who, it seems, had been listed as missing for some years. Since the bike was deep in the bush it appears that it had remained there, undiscovered for all that time.
Earnest reminders were posted by concerned motorcyclists about the need for riders who were setting out on a solo ride to notify someone of a rough itinerary and ETA so that concerned relatives may not be, one day, faced with the situation that must have faced the relatives of this poor rider. Good advice.
Ultimately, the full story proved to be even more tragic than what had originally been revealed. It seems that the rider was a troubled man who, in a moment of depression and despair, had aimed his motorcycle down the long straight and deliberately failed to take the corner at the end. I hope, for his sake, that death came instantly because the thought of him slowly dying, buried deep in the bushes on the side of the road, is too awful to contemplate.
Somewhere, the discovery of his remains brought some kind of closure to those who had been missing him, but I wonder, what was the last thing he said to his nearest and dearest before he left?
I’m getting on; I was born in the first half of the last century and I seem to be going to more funerals than weddings these days. But, if I had money for every tragic story that I have heard like this over the years, I’d be better off financially than what I am. “I wish we hadn’t parted when he was so angry.” “I wish I hadn’t yelled at her as she left the house.” “I never got the chance to say ‘I love you.’” We have all heard them, haven’t we?
I grew up in a very religious household where the eternal verities were not only acknowledged but discussed and made the rule of life. “Don’t boast yourself of tomorrow, for you know not what the day may bring forth.” We all know this, but how do we put it into practice, or do we put it into practice at all?
Another example from motorcycling. In 1979 we were all stunned to hear that the great Ron Toombs was going to make a comeback at the Bathurst Easter Carnival. Ron had retired in 1975 after a serious arm injury incurred at Amaroo Park had failed to respond correctly to treatment. Sure enough, Ron turned up at Bathurst with a brand new, virginal white TZ350 Yamaha. Understandably, his pit was crowded with onlookers and well-wishers all anxious to be part of the return of the legend to the Mountain.
In a couple of moments with him, my brother and I asked what everyone else was probably thinking, “Why are you doing this, you don’t really have to prove anything?” Ron was going to ride a bike he had never ridden, with notably vicious characteristics, on slicks, around a course that had changed considerably since he rode it last in 1975. “Mate,” he told my brother, “I’m just going out there to have a bit of fun.”
A little later in practice, we were standing at the entry to Murrays Corner that leads onto the main straight. As Ron came down to the corner under brakes, the rear wheel of the TZ was 10cm off the ground. I looked at Paul and he looked at me and we shrugged our shoulders.
Saturday afternoon before the Sunday of the 350cc Grand Prix, Ron “played himself in” co-riding with Queensland’s Dave Robbins on the NCR Ducati in the Arai 500 endurance race. I can’t remember the result for them, but he certainly looked smooth and in control as he boomed across the top of the Mountain.
Come Sunday and the Grand Prix started. If I said that I didn’t really notice where Ron was in the race it may sound tacky, but, such was the nature of races at Bathurst, that this could easily happen. The track is 6.3kms per lap and, back then, the 350 race was one of the most prestigious on the calendar; there could easily have been 50 bikes fronting the starter. As such, you tended to notice the leading bunch and/or a favourite rider of yours who could be mixed up in the pack somewhere. So I don’t remember seeing Ron, nor do I remember noting that he had gone missing (no big screens, no electronic timing monitors).
Returning to the pits for the lunch break, however, it was immediately apparent that something was desperately wrong. People were speaking in whispers, others were crying and the usual jovial atmosphere of a Bathurst pits was completely absent. It didn’t take long to find out why. Ron had died during the running of the race. The how and why I leave to others; it isn’t relevant anyway. Fact was, the legend was gone. That scene is still as clear in my memory now as it was over 40 years ago. And even today, I still wonder if there are people who ponder over the last thing that they said, or didn’t say to him as he headed out on that fateful day. I hope their last memories are good ones.
Another example and one which is even closer to home. In October 2010, I finished my chores for the day and headed out on my bike for a pie and a cup of coffee at The Famous Roberston Pie Shop. I didn’t make it. At around the 1/3 distance up Macquarie Pass I came around a corner to find a bulk cement semi trailer partially on my side of the road. What happened next plunged me into a world of pain, confusion and upheaval of my whole life.
I was stabilised on the scene, transported by ambulance to the bottom of the hill then evacuated by helicopter to a hospital in Sydney. In a moment of time, everything that I had assumed about how my life was going to work out was thrown completely out the window.
By the standards of motorcycle accidents mine was nowhere near as bad as many about which you can read or even know. Nevertheless, multiple fractures down the right side of my body left me in a wheelchair, then on crutches and finally on a walking stick. The accident has turned my world upside down. Could I have done anything differently? No. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Did I anticipate that I would one day be a victim? No. And neither does anyone else.
So, tomorrow never comes. The past is past and no amount of wishing can change it. Tomorrow is not guaranteed to any of us so all we have is today. What we do with it and how we handle the challenges that it presents is the true measure of our character.
At the funeral of a very dear friend at which I was asked to speak, I said that each of us have a responsibility to live our lives so that nobody will have to lie about us at our funeral. I know what I have done with the past and I don’t know if I have a tomorrow, so what I do with today assumes great importance.
With that in mind, then, I think I’ll finish this, get the bike out and go for a ride. I could wait till tomorrow, but…
