The destruction of David Mach's bike

The tank blocks at the edge of Leven Links.

A human cannonball, that was me. Soaring fast and high. I had time to say, “Look at me Wendy, I’m flying”, or “I can almost see my house from here”, but I didn’t. Physically, I was fine, unscathed, uninjured, at least for a few seconds. Staying that way was going to be the tricky part. 

So, how did I become airborne? Well, that was down to David Mach’s bike. Now an acclaimed and celebrated sculptor, the future artist's machine was the envy of all his pals. My memory may be failing me now but I’m pretty sure it was a 10-gear racer, though it might have been five. It was his pride and joy; he didn’t lend it out easily and now this sleek, dropped-handlebar racer had propelled me into the unknown. 

The take-off was unplanned so, obviously, the need for a landing strategy was unforeseen. 

The countdown had begun a short while earlier. David lived on Kinnarchie Crescent in Aberhill and he, his neighbour Norrie ‘Bicycle Repair Man’ Walker and myself hung out for a while together, united by various escapades on our bikes. 

The fact David and Norrie lived in Aberhill meant the launchpad for most of our adventures began on Kinnarchie Brae, the steep, but wide, approach to the Bawbee Bridge. Then, that was the main road with junctions feeding down into Lower Methil and on to Methilhaven Road. Coming off the brae you had right of way and a clear view right down to Bridge Street in Leven and through the Shorehead to the pier. 

Given the visibility and our youthful recklessness, we, as young teenagers, had become ‘test cyclists’ on a variety of experiments, including a memorable but highly dangerous descent down the side footpath at the top of the brae on a fixed wheel bike. This was undertaken on a Sunday with minimal traffic as, with a fixed wheel, stopping was well nigh impossible until you hit the Leven Prom stretch between Seagate and Forth Street. 

Kinnarchie Brae, however, was the main road and a much safer route. 

We had relatives staying with us at Rosebery Terrace in Leven and I’d spent the afternoon in Aberhill at David’s house, and probably kicking a ball around in the park. For some reason I had to report home and I asked David for a loan of his bike for the quick trip to Leven. I imagine he reluctantly agreed, so I had the rare treat of unleashing his prized racer on the brae. 

All of this is vague; the next few minutes, 50 years on, remain crystal clear. 

Pedalling out on to the brae, the brickworks facing me, I crossed the road and turned towards Leven, then started pushing through the gears. By the time I rounded the curve, the bike was in full flow, the gradiant accelerating the bike faster than my legs could. Was I within the speed limit? I doubt it but I had a clear run into Leven; I would be home within a couple of minutes. 

The car was dark blue, and I reckoned it was a Ford Anglia. That registered because I had never seen one that colour. It approached the junction to Methilhaven Road from the Bawbee Bridge. I was closing the gap, quickly, and I was about to squeeze the brakes, but the car halted. With it safely stopped, I let the bike pick up more speed. 

Then when I was within just a few feet of it, he suddenly cut across me. I didn’t have time to react, not even to get the lightest squeeze on the brake, then I felt the thud and the take-off. 

At the same time there was a crunch of metal and I was in full flight, probably at more than 40mph. I didn’t realise it but the bike was following me, having somersaulted over the roof of the car but without my trajectory it would crash and tumble into the road, while I sailed on. 

My most vivid memory of this seconds-long silent flight was my speed. I was going fast, very fast. 

Now here I need to mention my father. Dad wasn’t a lot of fun. He was strict, but fair, disciplined and pragmatic. He never kicked a ball with me or flew a kite or built a sandcastle. 

But he taught me to respect people, animals and plants, to make my bed properly, polish my shoes and change spark plugs. 

Often we’d walk along Leven beach, up to Silverburn to pat the horse in the field adjoining the links, up and across the old bing, then back home. 

These walks usually took place in total silence. I’d run ahead, run off, lag behind – I knew his route and would re-join him at intervals for another silent leg of our walk until I got bored and went off exploring again. One of the shared features on these outings were the tank blocks embedded along the edge of the golf course. These wartime relics were perfect for clambering on and, as I got older, I was able to jump from one to the next. 

This antic irked my father, but not in the way you’d expect. One day I leapt off a block, all arms and legs, enough to stop him in his tracks, and he looked at me with a mixture of concern and exasperation. 

Dad had served with the 1st Polish Independent Parachute Brigade and while he never shared his experiences of the war years, he must have reckoned teaching his son how to land and fall was a useful lesson, that coming from jumping out of planes and his martial arts training. 

And so began the impromptu lessons until I had mastered the art: feet together, knees slightly bent, chin and elbows tucked in. When falling, distribute the weight, protect the head … 

And so it was as I whizzed in the air at the foot of Kinnarchie Brae that those childish games of leaping off the tank blocks or hurling myself off the beach grass on to the sands helped me find some sort of a landing position. 

“Tuck your chin in,” was my last thought before everything went black. 

I was out for only seconds. People were still running towards me as I focused. Although I was told not to move, I needed to try to get up and although I fell back at the first attempt I knew then nothing was broken ... and my head was intact. 

I remember some folk expressing their surprise at my lack of injury and how lucky I’d been. Undoubtedly, I was, but I definitely had a bit of help. 

With no fatality on his hands, the driver of the car, who had joined the gathering crowd, jumped back in his car and sped off – and that’s another story. 

Personally, most distressing was the mangled remains of David Mach’s bike, beyond repair. Perhaps it might still provide inspiration for a future work of art? 

Picture: © Copyright Euan Nelson and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence