Chapter 8

"Well, I have two Yamahas, a 2003 R1 sports and a 1979 DY80 trail; a 1964 BMW R65 I inherited from my father and a 1986 Ducati 900SS."

"And which one do you prefer?" Dr. Mohammed Anwar asks me.

"Definitely the Ducati," I answer, "it's not modern and smooth, doesn't go down creek beds nor is it rock-steady and impeccably mannered. But..."

"But..." Mohammed repeats, smiling in that way that has half the female staff at the hospital drooling.

"I wouldn't mind doing a spot of double duty with him," one of the nurses said to me on the day I arrived.

Dr. Anwar has been a frequent visitor to my private room and always finds the time to stop and chat. He has an easy, urbane and cultured manner about him and he's very smart. The son of a top neuropathic surgeon, Mohammed had the best of education in the manner of the immigrant family who's determined their children would not have the struggle that they had. To overcome social and racial prejudice they'd become more English than the English, overcoming through education that that they couldn't achieve through class connections.

And Dr. Anwar is a racing fanatic, both cars and bikes, and a frequent visitor to Silverstone. He loves his cars, being the proud owner of an Aston-Martin bought by his father as a graduation present.

"It's the Vee 12 model," he says, "you must come for a drive when you're back on your feet."

It's easy to say yes to Mohammed. The man is what could be described, crudely, as a 'babe magnet, ' so utterly charming and good looking.

"Perhaps I'll give you a spin around Silverstone on the R1," I suggest, half serious.

"Delighted!" he says, clapping his hands together, "what a charming idea!"

News travels fast and, after an enterprising reporter found his way into my private room, I have a huge West-Indian security guard called Peter. He's really an angel and wouldn't hurt a fly but the size of him is enough to deter any interloper. He comes in, beaming a row of white teeth, and asks,

"Is there anything I can get you, missy?"

"Call me Helene," I tell him.

"Sure thing Helene, missy."

Visitors have been kept to a minimum, by order of Dr. Anwar. For the first two days he was concerned about my recovery from the shock of the accident. He explained that I have a compound fracture and it could be at least two months before I can climb back on a bike.

Steve Kelly is yet to arrive from Australia also, so Rotol-Yamaha are facing the prospect of both their riders being out of commission before the season's even started. The manager's putting a brave face on it even though it's derailed the team's preparation.

"Jaguar has apologised for leaving their car there," he tells me, "they claim it was a breakdown in communication, but state that the Silverstone management were aware of it."

"I received an apology from Silverstone," I reply, "they state they're taking the matter up with Jaguar Officials."

"Typical buck passing," he says, "we'll have to wait for the Accident Investigation Branch before we can fix insurance claims."

"How's the bike?' I ask him.

"Motor's ok... as for the rest... we're going to have to rebuild it. It spun into the barrier." He adds, shaking his head, "I think the assessment will be something close to 100,000 pounds."

"Who's paying for me?"

"At the moment, your personal injury insurance. No doubt they'll be waiting to recover their costs from whomever is considered responsible."

"All this fuss over a little spill," I tell him grinning.

My room is steadily filling up with flowers from well-wishers. Cards and letters are arriving by the score, it's all very humbling. At 8 that night I receive a call from Australia, from Steve.

"Bloody poms could never park a car properly," he tells me.

"Actually, Steve, I believe it was that Aussie driver. His electronics failed and locked up his gears."

"Pommie car... pommie electrics," he scoffs, "so how's the surf there?"

"You'll freeze. I understand down in the Bay of Biscay can be pretty good at certain times of the year."

"Want to check it out, Ritter?"

"Sure thing, Kelly... pack your Speedos."

"So what will YOU be wearing?" he asks me.

"A cast for the next 6 weeks. How's yours?"

"It's gone now. I'm walking with a cane and doing some exercises to regain my strength."

"Don't overdo it!" I warn.

"Nah, Rotols hired me a fitness therapist, a bloody tyrant she is."

"You love it," I joke.

"Yeah, well... can't wait till I get there," he says, "kind of... pick up where we left off... I'm glad you're alright."

"Hey, I'll see you when you arrive... we'll talk, ok?"

"Sure thing, bye."

My life really IS getting too complicated by half!

I'm lost in thought when next Mohammed pokes his head around the door.

"Resting?" he asks.

"Thinking," I reply.

"You have a problem?"

"Men!"

"Ah! How many?"

"Just the two, despite what you've read in the newspapers."

"My father would ask, 'which one is from the better family?'"

"And you would ask?"

"I would take them both out, then choose."

"But they're both nice."

"In that case, I'd take them out again... and again, until I can make up my mind. Have you met their parents?"

"One set," I tell him, "haven't met Steve's."

"Remember you're marrying his family as well," he explains, "I know you're not Pakistani and things are different... but then... maybe not so different. You know, you can tell a lot about a person from their parents."

"I guess so... are you married Mohammed?"

He shakes his head.

"I'm still looking," he smiles, "she would have to be an exceptional woman to put up with me."

"You're being modest," I tell him, laughing, "I don't think it'd be too hard to live with you."

"Ah, but you haven't seen me in the morning before I've shaved. That might be quite a shock," he jokes.

"Would your parents have to approve of the match?" I ask him.

"They would like to make the final decision. But it's not compulsory... we're English y'know," he smiles.

"You were born in Pakistan?" I ask.

"Luton... it's now a suburb of Karachi," he grins, "my grandparents immigrated in 1962. They worked very hard and sent my father to the London Medical School. He had no choice, he WAS going to become a doctor."

"And did YOU have a choice?"

"Sure, London or Manchester. But really, it's all I've ever wanted to do, there was no pain. And you, Helene, did YOU always want to race motorcycles, like your father?"

"Since I was 6."

"There you go... a chip off the old block, as we English say."

I laugh, my broken leg sends me a reminder not to move too much.

"My father would like to meet you," he goes on, "he likes meeting famous people, especially motor racers and pretty women. Two rolled into one, see, you can't go wrong!"

"Pretty? Me?" I protest.

"I sent him a copy of Vogue," Mohammed continues, "I rather think he's jealous of me!"

"Vogue? You didn't! But I'm not like those pictures... they're all doctored and enhanced... and I'm wearing tons of make-up and I posed for hours..."

"Au contraire," Mohammed interrupts, "it is a most surprising likeness. In fact, I'm not sure they've done you complete justice."

"Get out of here!" I exhort, blushing furiously.

He leaves, skipping with boyish glee.

It's a week before I'm able to take my first faltering steps with the aid of a nurse and some crutches. I now have metalwork in my leg to screw the two bits of bone together.

"It can stay there," Mohammed tells me, "it won't rust. If you keep falling off your bike, they'll be calling you Borg."

"As in Star Trek?"

"Yes! My father can do the neural implants. I'll reconstruct your skeleton, although I don't think there's much room for improvement."

Dr. Anwar's flirting really cheers me up. It never gets out of hand and he always follows some comment with that disarming smile of his. It's certainly a damn sight more refined than some of the comments I've received down at the race track.

"I ran off into the dirt, mate. There was Ritter's arse in front of me and I lost control."

"That'll teach ya to keep both hands on the bars."

Oh yeah! Real charming!

By the end of the week, I'm allowed home. Dr. Anwar is satisfied I have sufficient mobility with the aid of crutches and that the pain can be managed. As I leave the hospital, there's a small knot of photographers waiting.

"This way love... give us a smile, love," I hear a familiar voice.

"Got any fish and chips today, Paul?" I call back.

"Depends on the view, Helene," he calls back to general laughter.

Rotols provide a minibus all the way out to Essex for me. My companion Wendy tags along. She tells me she'll fetch and carry for me and not to lift a finger. She's becoming iritating, I'm not looking forward to the prospect.

She's so 'old public school' for my taste, too prissy and stuck-up. She goes on about 'daddy this' and 'daddy that' and 'you must come down to the country house.'

"Did that Indian look after you well? It's SO hard to find a decent English doctor these days, isn't it," she babbles.

"He IS English," I tell her, "his father is SIR Aswan Anwar, the neuropathic surgeon and he looked after me very well!"

"I see," she replies flatly and falls silent.

I have to admit, talk of Dr. Mohammed Anwar got me dreaming a little, he's such a dish. Something tells me I haven't seen the last of him. Although the next time it won't be because I've broken a bone.

Wendy's going to commute, for which I'm grateful. It means I only have to put up with her during the day. She makes up a bed for me downstairs, so I don't have to climb the stairs. Otherwise, there's nothing to do except sit outside when it's fine, watch TV and generally mope around. I'm desperate for some visitors by the second day.

So desperate, in fact, that I invite the photographers outside to have some lunch with me out the back. By now they've thinned out to two, my old pal from the 'News of the World, ' and a freelancer called Dave.