Tag: motorcycle

Skills worth having, part two

In my last blog post I wrote about Skills worth having and listed six: touch typing, spelling, writing an essay or report, giving a short talk, basic DIY skills, learning from mistakes. (You can find it post here: https://occasionallywise.com/2024/02/23/skills-worth-having/)

While writing that post, I realised I’d made notes on more ‘skills worth having’. So, here goes with another three.

Being a good driver/rider

I was near the end of my advanced motorcycle test. It was an ‘advanced’ test because this was a test to a standard beyond the normal government requirement. I wanted to be the best motorcyclist I could be, so I read up on advanced motorcycling and applied to the body who administered the advanced test.

Keith was appointed as my examiner. He was a brilliant motorcyclist, a police Class A rider who escorted royalty and trained new police motorcyclists. He explained the route we’d follow, and that he’d ride close behind to watch my use of brakes, clutch, mirrors, line through bends and, of course, my speed.

All went well, and we were on the final stretch. Ahead I saw traffic lights. They were green, so I accelerated. Then green changed to amber (yellow), about to show red. The Highway Code said amber meant stop, providing you could do so safely. My near instantaneous thoughts were: ‘I should stop’ then ‘I’m on a test, I have to stop!’ So I did. Except Keith couldn’t.

He’d assumed I would keep going, and was still accelerating when I braked. His bike hit mine just inches from my ankle. Both of us crashed to the ground, bikes on their sides spinning beside us. Slowly, not sure if I was hurt, I stood up. Keith did the same, asking “Are you okay?”  Still checking my body for injuries, I answered that I seemed to be all right. Keith said, “That was my fault – I’ll just pass you for the test”. Instantly the accident was forgotten. My bike was buckled and broken, but I’d passed the test! And, oddly, Keith and I became great friends, and went on to set up an organisation to train others in advanced motorcycling skills. Well over 100 bikers joined because they realised they needed better skills than they had already.

Needing better skills sums up why I took that advanced motorcycling test. Motorbike riding has become more dangerous because modern-day traffic is not friendly to bikers. On a five mile ride to my office, on average I was forced to take avoiding action at least once every day, almost always because a car driver did not recognise my existence as a road user. Surviving on today’s roads needed all the skills I could get. Others were experiencing the same. A typical story from those who joined our advanced motorcycling group was: “I rode bikes in my late teens and early twenties, but then moved to cars. Now I’m in my 50s I’ve bought a motorbike again for fun. But the bikes are much more powerful now, and the roads much more risky. I need help to ride safely.”

A few years earlier I’d realised it was not only motorcycling skills that I needed to improve. I caused a minor car accident which motivated me to do advanced driver training. Here’s how I described that in an earlier blog post:

I became an Advanced Driver and later an Advanced Motorcyclist, in each case passing a police-observed test of driving skills well beyond those needed for the government-run test. What motivated me to train and do those tests? It began with a stupid accident. My car was behind another car waiting to turn right. As traffic cleared the one in front moved off. I followed, accelerating through the junction. But the car just ahead of me braked sharply when a pedestrian stepped into the road. I was accelerating from behind, and I crashed into the rear of the car. My speed was still low – no-one was hurt – and the damage was only what my American friends would call a ‘fender bender’. But the accident was clearly my fault. I should have been paying more attention to what was ahead, and keeping further back from the vehicle in front. I was so annoyed with myself I signed up for training as an advanced driver, passed the test, and I’ve never had an accident since. I really wanted to become the best driver I could be.

‘To be the best or the very best?’ https://occasionallywise.com/2021/08/15/to-be-the-best-or-the-very-best/

Driving a car or riding a motorbike can be dangerous, and can also be thrilling. For both those reasons, it became important to me to become skilled at driving and riding – to be the best I could be. (Advanced Driver and Rider tests are administered in the UK by IAM RoadSmart – https://www.iamroadsmart.com/)

Swimming

I grew up in a small town where the nearest to swimming facilities was either the toddlers’ paddling pool in the park, or the broad and deep river that flowed past our home. Neither offered realistic chances to learn to swim. But I wouldn’t let those challenges stop me.

During my youngest years, my aunt Milla lived in Aberdeen, a city on the north east coast of Scotland. That meant budget holidays for our family. Her flat, two floors up in a tenement, was very modest. It consisted only of a kitchen/living room, bedroom, and a toilet, enough for a single person but overcrowded with my parents, brother and me. But we squeezed in, and made sure we went out every day, no matter the weather. And every day included trips to the beach or one of Aberdeen’s two swimming pools. The sun did little to warm up the sea, nor did the swimming pool beside the shore heat its water. Swimming in either was a bracing experience. But the sea and the pool were ideal places to learn to swim because both had salt water. Since salt water is more buoyant than fresh water, I didn’t drown despite my feeble early attempts at swimming.

In any case, my Dad made sure I would not sink. He couldn’t swim, but was determined that his two sons would be good swimmers. He’d say: “Let’s try the breast stroke today, and you won’t drown because I’ll always have one hand underneath you”. When my uncoordinated stroke failed, there was his hand underneath to support. Eventually my thrashing around turned into a useful breast stroke, back stroke, and front crawl, none of which needed his help. I’d learned to swim.

My older brother Alan and I kept swimming as we moved through our teens. Our home town of Cupar, Fife, had no swimming pool, but we’d catch the Saturday morning train to Dundee for no reason other than to swim in the pool there. Neither of us became super-competent, but we could swim length after length without difficulty. We were good enough to be able to save our lives if we ever fell into water.

Safety is one of the reasons Alison and I agreed that swimming was a skill we wanted each of our four children to have. Therefore, for many years they belonged to swimming clubs and became much more skilled than we ever were.

Swimming can save your life, or make it possible for you to save someone else’s life. It’s been a life skill I’ve always been glad to have.

Playing a musical instrument

Swimming was the most important skill we wanted all our children to have, but understanding music and being able to play music mattered too. Over time they all learned an instrument, resulting in a quartet of keyboard, flute, trumpet and violin. Outside the home they never gave concert performances, but they learned to appreciate music, and that lifelong skill and pleasure was worth all the effort.

When I was growing up, there was a piano in our home which my mother could play, but hardly ever did. For no reason I can recall, when I was aged about 9 I begged my parents to allow me to take violin lessons. What may have helped was that lessons took place in a basement gymnasium of the school, an area rumoured to have been dungeons during the building’s ancient history as a castle. There was certainly a strange atmosphere about the place. That atmosphere didn’t inspire great music from me, but I did okay and played in annual concerts in Cupar and nearby villages. For me, the hardest part of violin playing was the rapid fingering movements needed when playing Scottish jigs. I simply could not get my fingers to move as fast as the conductor’s baton. But, I got better by the time I attended my senior school. I joined the high school orchestra and played in concerts before fairly large audiences. Those were important learning experiences which may have helped me later in life when speaking before sizeable crowds.

One of the odd lessons I learned from being in orchestras was how to focus on two things at once. I had to concentrate hard on reading the music and yet also see how the conductor was directing us with his baton. I’m not sure that qualifies as multi-tasking, but it encouraged me that I could read music, play the fiddle, and keep an eye on the conductor, all at the same time.

The skill of playing a musical instrument has several benefits in addition to those already mentioned. It can be a life-long activity; there is friendship with fellow players; public performances develop nerve and provide affirmation; and it is always an impressive entry to include on a résumé or CV!

My life has been enriched by each of the skills described here. I’ve enjoyed driving well. I’ve felt safe because I can swim strongly. And, though my violin has long-since been passed down the generations of my family, I’ve never lost my appreciation of music.

Next time, the final collection of skills worth having…

Cautious boldness

We use maxims, aphorisms and proverbs all the time. Short, pithy sayings that we think wise and helpful.

My parents taught me ‘Waste not, want not’ and ‘Every penny counts’. The Scouts gave me the motto ‘Be prepared’. Nowadays we warn children about ‘stranger danger’. Signs and ads say ‘Don’t drink and drive’. Short sayings are remembered, and often keep us right.

A few years back I coined my own to improve my golf game: ‘Cautious boldness’. Those two words have helped me win trophies. With golf, it’s sometimes best to play safe. Perhaps there are deep bushes alongside a fairway – time for caution. But you can’t be cautious all the time. If you’re on the green, putting from only a few metres, you must be bold. ‘Never up, never in’ is the right thought, because, obviously, no putt has ever been holed which didn’t reach the hole. So, I realised being cautious all the time was no good, and being bold all the time was no good. Therefore cautious boldness became my maxim – sometimes one, sometimes the other. Winning depended on knowing which was right in each situation.

That seemingly contradictory mix, cautious boldness, is also relevant to living life wisely and well. I’ll illustrate how it could apply in four contexts. The first two concern important life-directing issues. The other two are more down-to-earth, but perhaps will make you think and smile.

Relationships

Like many I suffered the teenage angst of wondering ‘Does she like me?’ and ‘Will she laugh if I ask her out?’ But I worked my way through my inner turmoil, occasionally holding back wrongly and occasionally pushing forward wrongly. Sometimes too much caution. Sometimes too much boldness. (It was all better in my early 20s when I met Alison…)

Getting the caution/boldness balance right is important too in long-term relationships. Let’s imagine Colin and Christine. Colin is struggling with depression. He feels his life is useless; he can’t see a good future. The last thing he needs, at that moment, is Christine telling him to pull himself together, to brighten up and be positive. Colin can’t handle that. Christine needs to take a more cautious, gentle, reassuring approach.[1]

A few years earlier Christine had her own struggle, albeit of a very different kind. She excelled in her administrative role for a large firm, and was often called on to supervise new colleagues. She had a gift for bringing out the best in them. One day the managing director asked Christine if she’d consider being appointed department head. Christine’s head spun, and sensibly asked for a day or two to decide. At home Colin listened as she poured out a catalogue of doubts and fears about her abilities. Wisely, Colin let Christine get it all out of her system, and then carefully but positively drew out from her an equal catalogue of abilities and strengths she knew she had. He followed that with encouragement, helping her believe this was a deserved promotion, and one good for her and for her firm. She took the job, and never regretted it.

There are times to exercise caution and times to offer boldness.

Career / work

In my journalism years I had two types of colleagues. One group were ‘journeymen’ (they were all men at that time). The news editor could send them to a meeting, where they’d take shorthand notes and write an accurate report of what had happened. Or they might interview someone making news, and write an acceptable story. But that’s all they did. They didn’t spot news opportunities. They never wrote in an exciting, captivating style. They just went about things in their quiet and cautious way year after year.

Some were different. They could do the routine stuff, but they had eyes and ears to discover news. Maybe it was something a politician let slip. Maybe they picked up on gossip about a sports star. They followed up on their leads, and often had a front page story in the next edition. They showed initiative and talent, and moved on fast in their careers.

I’ve seen the same distinction in other places where I’ve worked. One type of worker is slow and dependable, another type creative and pushing forward. Each has their strengths. But most of us can have both strengths. There is wisdom in moving between times of caution (working carefully and steadily) and times of boldness (offering new ideas, striving for advancement). Those with only an abundance of caution may come to regret the tedium of doing the same thing constantly. Those with overmuch boldness may find themselves promoted beyond their competence (aka, promoted to the point of incompetence).

Caution at times and boldness at times – when rightly judged – has much to commend it.

Driving

My friend Keith, a policeman, was an examiner for motorbike riders attempting to pass an advanced test. He’d been my examiner, and we’d remained friends afterwards. ‘You wouldn’t believe,’ he told me one day, ‘how many flagrantly break the speed limit while taking their test.’ Keith eventually realised they never rode within the speed limit, so it didn’t occur to them to ride differently during the test. ‘And speeding is a definite failure,’ he said.

Interestingly, though, just as you can fail an advanced test for going too fast, you can also fail it for going too slow. I’ve taken both car and motorcycle advanced tests, and, thankfully, remembered the formula for getting the speed right: ‘make good progress’. In other words, don’t go too slow because then you’re a hazard, and don’t go too fast because then you’re a danger. So, in a 30 mph area, I should aim to drive or ride very close to 30, but not more than 30. That’s good progress.

Not everyone makes good (and safe) progress. We’ve likely all moaned about a slow driver on a standard (single lane each way) road, with tight bends, oblivious that there’s a queue of 20 cars behind with frustrated drivers because there’s next to no chance of a safe overtake. It’s little better on a busy motorway. The slow driver cruises along at 40 or 50 mph in the middle lane, causing a blockage and hazard as cars jostle to move into the outside lane to get past. (In the UK, going past another car on its nearside isn’t allowed.)

Of course I’ve seen many dangerous attempts to overtake on narrow roads, and plenty times, when I’ve been driving on a motorway at the speed limit of 70 mph, a car has roared past me doing at least 90 if not 100 mph. Is it a sin to pray there’s a police speed trap just ahead? If so, I have sinned.

People die trying to overtake someone who’s dawdling along at a dangerously slow speed. And people die because they’re driving far too fast, killing not only themselves but possibly others too. There are times to be cautious and times to be bold. Lives depend on judging which is appropriate.

Practical tasks

I have no memory of my father doing DIY jobs around the house. He worked, played golf and did gardening. He didn’t repair or maintain things. So, when I left home aged 16, I’d no idea how to look after a property.

I learned fast when, with family help, I bought a near 100-year old tenement flat in Edinburgh. It was affordable for two reasons: 1) It was very small, just two rooms; 2) it had never been modernised – it had an old range, electric wiring hung loose, there was no bathroom, and so on. There was plenty to fix. I couldn’t take on a complete renovation of the place. That would involve new walls, new electrics, new plumbing, which would require experts. But there were innumerable small jobs.

I got hold of a DIY book, read the relevant sections, and did my best. Much was trial and error, but I soon learned how to drill holes, use wall plugs, and hang towel rails or shelves. I replastered a section of wall – not perfect but acceptable. I stripped about seven layers of wallpaper away, including varnished wallcoverings which may have dated from the flat’s construction. After a while I was quite good at DIY.

It was several years before I had a car, and the first was not at all in good condition. I set about treating the rust with metal brush, fiberglass, filler, hardener and careful, gentle rubbing to get the surface perfectly smooth. Eventually I resprayed the whole car. In the engine area I put in new spark plugs, adjusted the tappets and fitted a new clutch. The sills on the underside of the car were rusted through, so I welded fresh metal in place. I had to do something about the car’s poor braking, so bought new brake shoes, fitted them, and, thankfully, the car stopped when it was meant to.

As the years went on, I did less DIY work. For three reasons:

  • I simply didn’t have time. My real work was all-consuming.
  • We had enough money to pay mechanics, plumbers, electricians. They did things better and in a fraction of the time I would have taken.
  • I realised the limits of my skills, and that I’d probably overstepped those limits in the past. There were no disasters, but there might have been. It was time to be more realistic about what I could do and what it was best I didn’t do.

But I’d learned that with a lot of courage and a bit of skill I could do many practical things. There was no mystery about most of them; nothing about which to be frightened – and a lot of money could be saved. But, the wisdom of the years taught me about my limits, and when it was best (and sometimes legally required) to bring in professionals.

Times for boldness and times for caution.

Two last things.

First, I don’t believe for a minute that DIY is a ‘man thing’. While working in America, a colleague mentioned his wife was visiting her parents for a few days, so he’d be on his own. ‘But,’ he said, ‘I won’t be idle. She’s left me a long Honey Do list’. I had to ask what a Honey Do list was, the answer being ‘Honey, I want you to do this and do that’ – a long list of jobs his wife wanted done while she was away. (Go online, type in Honey Do, and you’ll find templates for a Honey Do list, plus innumerable posters or cartoons related to it – my favourite is of a skeleton on a bench with the caption ‘Waiting on that honey-do-list to be done’.)

I’m happy to report that my wife, Alison, is very capable with DIY – mending our shower, unblocking sinks, laying carpet, painting, wall-papering, sharpening tools, repairing appliances. She’s about to replace a tap washer (which she’s done before). But, like me, she’s well aware of her limits.

Second, I’ll tell the story of when we literally pushed our personal boundaries.

Alison and I lived in that tenement flat after we were married. We modernised most of it, but of course it was still very small. When Alison was pregnant, we knew a baby came with baggage, and we’d need another chest of drawers to store baby things. Except, we didn’t have anywhere for another chest of drawers. There never was a lot of wall space, and every inch had something against it already. Except the back wall of a deep cupboard. We measured its width, bought a chest of drawers an inch or two smaller, and thought ‘problem solved’. It wasn’t solved. We’d only measured the back wall, and the doorway into the cupboard was narrower, even with the door removed. We could carry the chest of drawers into the cupboard by turning it sideways, but then it had to be straightened, and at an angle it was wider than the cupboard, so that didn’t work. So, we took the chest of drawers out again, thought hard, thought some more, and then we knew what to do.

First we took out the drawers and then dismantled the ‘carcass’. Off came the top, sides and back panel, leaving us with the equivalent of a modern ‘flat pack’. We took all the parts into the cupboard, and reassembled the chest of drawers facing in the correct direction. Alison was at the far end of the cupboard to screw the back panel into place. She did her job perfectly. But, of course, Alison was now completely blocked in behind the chest of drawers. However, we had a plan. I’d lift the chest of drawers as high as I could, spread my legs as wide as I could, and Alison would crawl out underneath the chest and underneath me, and then I’d lower the chest in place. At any time that plan was at the far edge of boldness because the chest of drawers was not light and the space for Alison to crawl through was small. At this time there was another complication. Alison was now fully nine months pregnant. But we had to try. I spread my feet to each side of the cupboard, lifted up the chest of drawers, Alison crawled, and all was well. Our son was born two days later.

(When we eventually left the tenement flat, the chest of drawers was dismantled again to get it out of the cupboard, then later rebuilt, and used in four other homes for over 20 years.)  

I tell that story hoping only to amuse. But perhaps it has some lessons. We were thoughtless in our purchase, but bold with our idea for how we could fit the chest of drawers into the cupboard, and then actually quite cautious/careful about how we did it. But I would urge: be bold about what you do, but super cautious when someone is nine months pregnant.

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[1] During my own time of deep depression, Alison had the wisdom not to scold me for feeling so low, and not to offer trite solutions. But, when I was at my worst during the darkest hours of the night, I’d feel her hand take mine gently and just hold on. It was all I could cope with, but also all I needed.

How a motorcycle crash changed my life (but not in the way you think)

I was 21 and at last had a motorcycle. Back then you could ride anything up to 250cc with only a learner’s licence. I’d found the money and bought a new Honda CB175.

My CB175 was a beautiful gold colour, electric start, 4-stroke engine, five-speed gearbox, dual exhausts. It accelerated fast, and had power to spare for overtakes on open roads. Bikers would call it ‘naked’ (no screen) so I nearly froze on cold days, but otherwise it was a thrill to ride. I loved it.

Then I crashed it after just five days.

I’d set off mid evening to ride out into countryside to the west of Edinburgh. Traffic was light, the road was wide. Up ahead I saw a tight bend to the right. No problem. I eased off on the throttle, and pulled the left brake lever to slow down gently. Except that lever wasn’t the rear brake. On everything I’d ridden before it was, but on a grown up motorbike it’s the clutch lever. Suddenly, instead of the engine slowing the bike, I’d ‘released’ it and speeded up. I reached the bend going far too fast. Half way round I ran out of road and hit the kerb at about 40 mph.

The next thing I remember was hearing voices. They were coming from all around me, and I realised I must be lying on the ground. Someone said, ‘I don’t know what happened. He just hit the side of the road and went flying in the air’. I began to stir, and another bystander asked how I felt. I mumbled something about being all right, though I’d no idea if that was true. There were no shooting pains, so I staggered to my feet (a very bad thing to do without being assessed by a paramedic), removed my crash helmet, assured my small audience that I’d be okay, and gradually they drifted away.

Right then I was more concerned about the bike than myself. It was on the grass verge several yards away, looking sadly crumpled. The front wheel and the handlebars were seriously out of shape, so there was no way I could ride it. I pushed the bike to a safe place and caught a bus home.

My flat was up two sets of stairs, and every step hurt. Once inside, I got a good look at myself. No bones were broken, but my neck was stiff, my arms bruised and gently bleeding, skin scraped away on both legs with grit embedded in the wounds. Since I’d likely somersaulted through the air, that wasn’t too bad.

I’d no idea how to sort myself out, so I phoned a friend. She said she’d come immediately, and arrived with cotton wool and antiseptic. She filled a bowl with warm water and gently bathed the areas where the skin was broken and eased the road dirt out. That evening, more than ever before, I realised what a good friend she was and, actually, much more than a friend. I was grateful for her tender loving care. So grateful I married her and Alison has kept blessing me with her tender loving care for decades since. I’m not glad about the motorcycle crash, but very glad it helped me realise who my life companion should be.

I have crashed more motorcycles since, but I promise it’s not been to keep earning Alison’s care. So have there been foundational beliefs and principles that have sustained our relationship down the years?

I’ve identified six, but four of them will be next week’s blog (when I’ll also tell you what Alison and I have in common that is not only odd but perhaps makes us completely unique).

You may be surprised that ‘love’ isn’t in my list, even though it has been present daily in our marriage. It’s not listed because love is like a foundation on which you build, and the principles I’ll list rest on the foundation of love but, for want of a better phrase, they’re the next level up. Besides, if I was even to try to describe love I’d need space for at least another million words.

Also, I’m acutely aware that many don’t have a life companion. So, knowing what I’ll be writing about, if the rest of this blog could be unhelpful for you please feel free to stop now. I have no wish to cause anyone pain.

So, here are the first two things Alison and I have found super-important.

Commitment

Years ago, I spent two weeks with a church in Santa Monica, near Los Angeles, and got to know the young adults there. One evening, after all the pizza had been eaten, we started talking about relationships and I was asked, ‘Alistair, what does “commitment” mean? We don’t understand it.’

I knew that none of the group were currently married (some had been), and many of them had lived through the divorce of their parents. Perhaps their backgrounds explained the question.

They were all dedicated movie watchers (we weren’t far from Hollywood), and many films included the romantic line ‘I have feelings for you…’ So I began with that concept of love, and explained that of course love involves feelings, but that can’t be all. Lasting love isn’t just a feeling but a decision. It’s the deep and serious decision to love someone through good times and bad times no matter what. I quoted a song by Don Francisco (a Christian musician) in which the dominant line is: Love is not a feeling it’s an act of your will.

In other words, I told them, to love someone is a choice, one of the toughest but most wonderful choices you can ever make. That’s what commitment means.

It’s something I learned from my father. Mum died when she was 55, and years later Dad remarried. He and Anne enjoyed a good relationship, but then Anne had a stroke which left her almost unable to walk or do much. She plunged into a deep depression. For two years Dad did everything to care for her at home, but his health declined and his doctor told him Anne must go into care. Very reluctantly, Dad eventually agreed. But Anne became even more depressed and took out her frustration on Dad. Yet he visited every day. Anne was his wife, and, though every visit hurt, he cared and never stopped going, never stopped listening, never stopped being a faithful husband. When Anne died, Dad grieved deeply.

I saw and will never forget my Dad’s model of commitment. And it’s the no-matter-what-happens commitment to each other which has been a bedrock of our relationship.  

Dependency

I also learned something about dependency from my Dad during the one and only ‘relationship’ conversation I ever had with him.

Not long after my parents celebrated 25 years of marriage I asked Dad a question: ‘So, has the love you and Mum have for each other changed from when you were first married?’ My Dad was the strong, silent type when it concerned personal feelings, and, in any case, he couldn’t have had a ready answer to a question like that. So, there was silence. He was thinking.

Then he spoke. ‘When you’re first married, you’re new to each other. You know you love each other, but now you’re building a life together. The situation is different after 25 years. Yes, love is still there, but now your lives are tied together. You share everything important. Your Mum and I depend on each other for everything. Dependency is right at the heart of the relationship.’

My parents’ lives had become interwoven. I understand some people don’t think of that as ‘healthy’, but my Mum and Dad both found it important and satisfying. They didn’t think of themselves as two single people but as one intertwined couple.

And that’s why Dad felt tragically alone and helpless when Mum died four years later. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t boil a potato or scramble eggs. He’d lost the person with whom he shared everything, the one with whom he’d raised two sons, the one he’d talked to about small and big things, the one from whom he got advice, or with whom he shared anxieties and aspirations. My brother and I did all we could for Dad at that time. And he appreciated that. But he’d lost the person above all others on whom he depended.

Alison and I also know what it means to need each other. It’s not just a longing; it’s feeling your life depends on the other.

For me it was during dark months of depression. I saw no value in anything I’d done, and no future worth living for. I’d lie awake through the night terrified of facing another day. At the worst of moments I’d reach across the bed for Alison’s hand, and she’d take it and hold on to me. She was there. And she’d be there when morning came, and there through that next day, and the one after, and the one after… I depended on her and survived.

Alison’s dark months came after a terrible accident. Workers were installing super-heavy office furniture in our home in America. A heavy unit was dislodged, and fell on Alison’s back. She was rushed to hospital – scans showed broken vertebrae – fragments of bone were now dangerously near her spinal cord – eventually there had to be an operation. Alison was on the operating table for nine hours while they took bone from a rib, reshaped it in her back, and built a titanium cage to support it. For months Alison was disabled and in severe pain. Movement was greatly impaired. She needed help to walk, to climb stairs, to get to the bathroom. She couldn’t stand to shower herself so we bought a shower chair on which she sat while I sprayed water over her. And every day and every night the pain was intense, with no guarantee it would ever be better. I gave her as much practical help as I could, but maybe the greatest thing I gave was hope. Over and over I told her that this would pass, and a new normal would come by Christmas. She clung onto those words. And they came true. At Christmas she wasn’t free of pain or able to do all she wanted, but she was much better than before. It was the beginning of a new normal. Today that new normal is a good normal, which includes walking the dogs and spending hours tending to our garden. I couldn’t heal Alison’s body, but I could help her hope for better days ahead. She believed me – trusted me – depended on me – and we got there.

We keep getting there every day. Our lives are no more free of problems, puzzles and pains than anyone else’s. So we still hold hands, share our struggles, and draw strength from each other. Jesus said ‘the two will become one’ (Matthew 19:5) and we’ve found that as ‘one’ we’re stronger than the two we used to be. Dependency can be a good thing.

That’s enough for this blog!

I’ve four more bedrock principles for lasting relationships still to share. But, if I wrote only a sentence or two about each I couldn’t begin to do them justice. And, if I wrote as much as each deserved, this blog would be so long no-one would ever read it!

So, those principles will be at the heart of the next ‘Occasionally wise’ blog. Please join me when it’s posted. And, as promised, I’ll also tell you the oddest of things Alison and I have in common – and it’s not that the first four letters of our names are the same; it’s much stranger than that!