food for thought

I’ve never been one to argue the toss on the matter of speed, on what classes as ‘too fast’ or ‘too slow’ in a residential area.

Recently, on the Isle of Wight, there have been proposals put forward and discussions had around reducing the speed limit in towns and villages to 20mph. When I first saw this, I joined the frustrated mutterings of the masses:

“That’s a snail’s pace, how ridiculous.”

“30mph is slow enough, surely!”

“Hardly anyone even lives there, why do we need to drive that slowly?”

And then I got hit by a car.

One month ago today, I was happily making my way home, ambling through the lanes of my village with the dog. As dogs are wont to do, he insisted on sniffing everything, and on relieving himself on most of the things he sniffed. We’d been out for over an hour, enjoying the sunshine and fresh air, and were just two minutes from home when Oscar paused to make the air smell distinctly less fresh!

I consider myself to be a responsible dog owner, so, naturally, I removed his leavings from the verge. I was tying the doggy bag when there was the most godawful bang. I opened my eyes to find myself staring at the verge on the opposite side of the road; I could hear screaming (embarrassingly, it later transpired that this was coming from me, although I’m sure that can be forgiven!) and a few seconds later I heard my dog barking as people left their houses to see what on earth had happened in our normally sleepy village.

Mercifully, following a six-hour visit to hospital – and here I would like to praise the NHS, for which I have a renewed appreciation – it turned out that nothing had been broken, thanks to my being totally unaware of what was about to happen and simply ‘rag dolling’, rather like a drunk falling down the stairs. The lack of broken bones was welcome news, but also a revelation that surprised the doctors, me and everyone I’ve spoken to since, many of whom have decided that I must possess an Adamantium skeleton! The damage, therefore, was largely in the form of deep bruising and soft tissue injuries.

And shock.

Shock was not something I expected to affect me so deeply, but even now, almost a month on, I find myself spacing out or bursting into tears at random, seemingly for no reason whatsoever. Emotions are heightened and filters damaged, and my patience is worn thin far quicker than before.

By nature, I’m not a nervous person, nor am I an angry one. But I have become both over the last few weeks. Sleepless nights, random tears, constant muscle cramps and a leg that seems intent on buckling at the most inconvenient moments, among other things.

But I’ve also become a better driver, a more patient driver, and – although I am still unable to drive long distances – when I drive now, it’s with more patience and a keener attention to reading the road than ever before.

I have stopped my mutterings about reducing the speed limit. In fact, I’m all for it; not because of what happened to me, but because of what could have happened, if what happened to me had – moment for moment – happened to someone else…

As I said to my mother: “Of all the villagers who walk their dogs along that road, I’m glad the car hit me.”

I’d rather it hadn’t happened to anyone, of course, but that is neither here nor there.

Imagine, for a moment, that it had been one of the village’s many children, proudly adhering to their newly-learned Highway Code, trotting along the road with a parent or a pup or both. That car’s wing mirror, which was ripped off by my hip, could have been at head height. Game over.

Or picture this: an elderly resident with their equally frail dog, shuffling home, limbs aching and ready for a cup of tea. A shattered hip? A broken leg? An extended hospital stay either way, no doubt, and a much longer road to recovery.

Or perhaps it could simply have been someone a few inches shorter, whose ribs would have taken the brunt of the impact; or someone taller, whose knees would have been on the receiving end of the force.

So I stand by what I said – if a car had to hit anyone, I’d rather it as a fit and healthy 26-year-old with a sunny disposition. Yes, it’s hindered my change of jobs and made the process exceptionally stressful; yes, I’m angry to be facing physiotherapy, taking four different types of painkillers a day, three times a day; yes, I’m tired from sleepless nights and fed-up of not being able to drive great distances, sick of not being able to rehearse and perform at full capacity – but, with any luck, it’s only temporary.

Nothing’s broken, nobody died, and perhaps some of the people closest to me will think harder now when they set out in their car, about their driving habits, from concentration to speed.

20mph may seem slow – it did to me, too – but perhaps at 20mph, that driver would have seen me. Perhaps they would have braked. Perhaps they would have noticed, with that extra second, the pedestrian walking their dog and taken evasive action.

It might be that the speed limit does not need to be reduced in towns and villages, if drivers are willing to perk up and pay attention, and slow down of their own volition. But so often I see people speed through my village at 30mph, not a fraction less, and where before I would simply grumble ‘too fast’, now it makes me shiver.

The speed limit, as most drivers do understand, is not the speed at which a person must drive through the area, but instead the upper limit; if more people drove flexibly, adjusting their speed according to the time of day, state of the road, weather, knowledge of the area and even how they themselves are feeling, then maybe accidents like mine – and worse – could be prevented.

Something to think about…