It’s amazing what you can achieve with a shot of adrenalin: complete that assignment on time, deliver that heart-felt speech, jump that gate to escape a bull. Or, as I once did, survive an emergency stop on your motorbike when a car pulls out in front of you. 

That event is saved in my memory as a crystal-clear, mostly silent, movie. 

We move in slow motion at right angles. The driver looks straight at me through his side window. He appears bored. But he’s thrown his weight forward, as if to help get across in time. 

The nose of my bike is beginning to dip on its hydraulic forks and my wheel is now pointing slightly to the left. The car’s back wheel slides into view. It’s inches away. 

I’ve the dread certainty that, even if the angles and timings somehow work out and I avoid crashing into the vehicle ahead, I’ll surely be squashed flat by a lorry from behind. 

The very next moment, I’m standing on the grass verge beyond the junction. I look down at myself. I expect blood, pain, to collapse. But there is none and I don’t. 

A shout. A man is walking towards me. “Are you alright, mate? What was he thinking? Did you see the number plate? Where did he go?!” So many questions, so much bewilderment and wonder. I can’t speak. 

The man is offering me his phone to call the police. What can I tell them? Just that I was nearly (but not) taken out by a not-quite-hit-and-run driver who no-one remembers. No other vehicles involved. Only a brief disruption to traffic. And no injury to me because... what? 

I could only guess that I’d drawn on some kind of superpower to leap, no, fly to safety. The distance involved, across the mouth of the junction and beyond, would have been worthy of an Olympic athlete, even without the heavy gear I was wearing. 

I thank my body’s ability to discharge a mighty shot of adrenalin without any conscious thought and to thereby power itself out of harm’s way. I was left exhausted but also triumphant. 

Fast forward 20 years to today and I feel strangely similar after battling a long run of crises in my life. At times, my or another’s existence has been threatened in some way. There have been difficult decisions to make, relationships to remake, and a lot (a lot) of work to be done. 

I’ve not been able to understand until recently why I’ve had no energy for or interest in the basics, such as keeping a clean house or stocking up on wholesome food. 

All my attention has been on chronic emergencies and anything else has seemed trivial, boring. Now things are calmer, I even find myself missing the buzz, overwhelming though it can be. 

How do ‘normal’ people in ‘normal’ times get themselves motivated to do anything normal? And how can I find the balance between action and stopping?

Charlie

A Moodscope member