Miracles do happen.

It was just two weeks after the 13th of May, 1969, the date most middle-aged and older adults remember as the day racial riots caused the death of so many innocent Malaysians. The politicians who orchestrated the arousal of racial hatred might have escaped the wrath of relatives of those who were massacred but certainly they always will be answerable to God.

I wish to take you back to the Friday morning which was approximately two weeks after the riots started. From Alor Star, my three bachelor friends and I hoped to reach our home-town, Penang Island, safe and sound. So, we rode our motorbikes towards Penang Island in single file, so that should anything happen, one of us could escape and inform the parents.

It was eleven-thirty in the morning. I was leading the group on the main road when we neared a small town, Simpang Empat. We were going quite fast. As I approached one of the junctions, a Malay man on a Honda Cub came out onto the main road. He obviously wanted to cross over to the other side of the main road. When I realized he had not stopped to let me pass, it was already too late. At that speed, if I had braked, my bike would have skidded. He came straight into my path. I had no alternative but to brake a little and crash straight into his bike. The impact of the crash threw me up and forward into the air. Automatically both my hands reached forward. As my hands touched the road surface, I relaxed them and cushioned my fall towards the hard surface of the road with my palms. My body rolled forward as it landed. The momentum sent me rolling a good number of times as my hands attempt in vain to stop the movement. As I rolled forward and up onto my feet, I was amazed to discover no injury to any part of my body. I looked to the row of shops beside the road. The onlookers did not move towards me. They were all Malays. They must have been just as astonished as I was at my front somersault ending with a few forward rolls.

Shaken but still able to move quickly, I ran back to the man on the road. I helped him up and pushed his motorcycle to the side of the road. Except for some damage to the mud-guard of his front wheel, everything seemed fine. With just some bruises on his arm, the man looked alright. I inquired if there was any other place he was hurt. His reply was in the negative. Then, I looked at my own bike. Thank god! My bike did not seem to have any damage either. Knowing that it was a dangerous situation, I quickly went astride my bike, started it with a crank and moved on to join my other friends who had stopped a safe distance away ahead of me.

My own daily gymnastic practice with my school gymnasts had saved me from injury.

From the experience I understood very well the importance of gymnastics. It not only gave me health and strength; it saved me from an early death; not once but three times.

Well, I’ll tell you more about the other two times and my recklessness in future postings.