I was told a number of strange tales by my brother’s brother-in-law this Christmas regarding how assistance was often provided to him in times of need, prompting the question – does he, and all of us, have a guardian angel?
The first instance apparently took place one weekend as he took a ride on his motorcycle up into the North Yorkshire Moors. The moors are desolate and deserted, and the weather may change abruptly at a moments notice. They are absolutely not the sorts of place you want to be stuck in as dusk approaches, but as he reached the peak of a hill that afternoon, he realized that this might well become his fate. The engine of his bike began to splutter so he reached down to switch on the reserve tank, only to find it was already on. He was out of fuel and in the middle of nowhere.
He managed to coax the bike over the brow of the next hill and more or less freewheel down the other side before grinding to a halt. He was stuck in the middle of nowhere and he had no idea how far he might have to walk pushing his motorcycle to find anyone or anything. As the bike came to a stop, he looked to his left and out into the distance over nothing but rough fell and moor for miles and miles. The view in front of him was similar, as the country road wound its way across the gorse and heather of the rocky moors. He knew that behind him also were miles of similar road back to the nearest village. He looked to his right seeing a similar scene. This was not a great place to run out of fuel.
He looked again to his right and noticed that on the dry stonewall opposite him was a red can. He stepped off his bike and pulled it back onto its stand. Inside his mind, he was busy calculating the very long odds that the red can actually had petrol in it. He reached the can and unscrewed the top. A quick sniff and he knew it was a gasoline can but was there anything actually in it? He shook it and found it nearly full.
But surely, it can’t actually be full of petrol? He thought to himself.
He stuck a finger in and sniffed the liquid on his finger. It was gasoline. He poured it into his tank and was soon on his way again thanking his lucky stars that, of all the remote places his bike had come to a stop, this one had a can of gasoline conveniently placed for him to refuel and ride to a gas station.
What were the odds of that? He wondered.
From My Haunted Life 3 by G. Michael Vasey
© 2019, G. Michael Vasey & My Haunted Life Too.com (Unless indicated otherwise by author’s own copyright above). All rights reserved.