Busted Finger

I busted my finger at work the other day. It was one of those insanely stupid moments that, in my arrogance, I'd never believe I was capable of. But, shit happens!

I was in a hurry to finish a job before lunch. The centre mowing deck blocked up and, rather than run it up the ramp of my transporter, I pulled the tractor over a drain then rolled underneath to clear it. Foolishly, I forgot to allow the blades to run down - I reached underneath while they were still spinning.

Luckily, I was wearing protective gloves. The first blow felt like a hard punch on the hand and I immediately rolled away. The blade took me on the second knuckle and knocked my hand away. Otherwise, I'd have lost fingers.

'Flagrant disregard for elementary safety rules.' There'd be consequences, and I figured I could never formally report it.

So, I decided to cover it up. I obtained the help of a trusted workmate and together we strapped up my digit with a popsicle stick as a splint. The pain I had to live with.

My hand I keep firmly out of sight or inside a leather glove. I must remember not to shake hands and suck up any offense that may cause.

So where did my stoicism come from? God knows. I hate pain of any kind. Like all Kiwi boys of my generation I felt compelled to play rugby. I was never very good, being too light, too slow, with poor stamina. Consequently, about Form six, I drifted away and joined the Drama Club. That was 1971, and it was growing acceptable to do that sort of thing. I miss playing body contact sport like a favourite boil on the arse.

Geminis are noted for their contradictions. I took up the sport of motorcycling, both as a competitor and as a mode of transport. Falling off is part of the learning curve and I've lost count the number of times I took a tumble. Up to a couple of years ago I was still racing on Club days until the sheer cost, and other priorities, wound up my career for the present.

Gravel burns are the pits, but the sheer adrenalin rush is indescribable. It's an exercise in concentration and reflexes and it makes little difference if you're big or small. To make a bad judgement could bring down other riders and lose friends - a crash costs a lot of money and you can't get insurance.

Yeah, I love racing.

So what is this stoicism shit? I think the fear of being censured outweighs my need to complain. My finger hurts like hell and that should be sufficient to ensure I never do that particular thing again.

But, there's always some other dumbass, stupid act - I hope I get away with just a busted finger next time.

Don