THE GHOSTLY BIKER

Joan’s brother showed her just how he lost his life Joan McWhannell, 87, Rototuna North, NZ

Look at this, Joan!’ laughed my brother John, then 14, jumping onto his push bike.

He sped down the road like a bullet from a gun.

‘Wow! That’s amazing!’ I cried.

He’d attached a little motor to his bike to make it faster!

John was 18 months older than me and loved speed. At 15, he bought himself a real motorbike with the money from his newspaper round. Joining a motorcycle club, he became an expert rider, competing in rallies and winning trophies. He did all his own maintenance and repairs, and even became club secretary.

At 22, he decided to go to England, planning to stay with some relatives. It was 1958 and ights were very expensive, but John had managed to save up enough for the airfare.

‘See you when I come back,’ he said, hugging me.

A few days later the police arrived with dreadful news.

After landing in the UK, John had bought a motorbike and entered the Isle of Man TT – the most dangerous motorcycle race in the world. The 60km circuit, on closed public roads, included hazards such as walls, hedges, telegraph poles and houses. Bikers risked their lives competing,

ying down bumpy, uneven roads at top speed.

Unbeknown to us, John had registered to take part and, on May 26, 1958, while on a practice run, he’d crashed into a brick wall. The bike caught re and John was killed – the

rst Kiwi to die in the race since its 1907 inception.

We were all in shock. Our distraught parents, Fred and Francie, without doubt would have vetoed the idea of him entering such a dangerous race.

Shattered, they ew to England to bury their boy.

I missed John badly.

We’d never been given details of where in the circuit he’d lost his life and, over the decades, I always wondered about it.

Years later I was watching TV when a documentary about the Isle of Man TT came on. Mesmerised, I watched as a camera strapped to a biker took the viewer around the circuit.

‘Where was it you crashed, John?’ I said, tearfully.

Then, just as the biker was approaching a brick wall, the light bulb over my head went ‘bang!’ and exploded!

‘Aargh!’ I screamed, as hot shards of glass were thrown over me, scorching my clothes and the carpet.

Stunned, I knew instantly that it was a message from John, telling me that was the place he’d smashed at top speed and lost his life. The bang of the light bulb exploding represented the bang of his bike hitting the wall, while the burning shards of glass from the hot light bulb represented his clothes being burnt when his bike caught on re.

Today I often think of my beautiful brother John. And I’m so grateful to him for nally answering my question about where and how he lost his life.

I knew instantly it was a message from John

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