Stairway To Heaven by Richard Cole

Author:Richard Cole
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2013-06-02T21:30:23+00:00

At all the Australian and New Zealand concert sites, I would arrive a few hours early to make sure the stage and the surrounding crash barriers were built to specifications. On occasion, the barriers were not high enough or strong enough, and I would grab a hammer and improve upon them myself. That’s what happened in Auckland, where the band was scheduled to play at Western Springs. I talked Bonham into coming out to the site early with me, and we pounded a few nails and got things into shape.

Once the repairs were made, Bonham and I started looking for something to do until the gates opened. We raided the liquor cases backstage, and after a few beers Bonzo spotted a pair of Honda motorcycles parked near the stage. “Well,” he said, “don’t just stand there. Let’s take ’em for a spin.”

The motorcycles belonged to Rem Raymond, the event’s promoter, who let us ride them for a few minutes. “There’s one more thing we should try,” Bonham finally suggested. “I’ve never played chicken before. Let’s do it with the bikes!”

I gulped. “Forget it, Bonzo,” I said. “I don’t feel suicidal today.”

“Richard,” he said. “Do it for your old pal. C’mon, Richard.”

He was starting to whine, and I was starting to build up my courage. Finally, in a moment of total insanity, I gave in. “Okay, but I should warn you: When I play chicken, I don’t flinch.”

Led Zeppelin often lived by an “anything for a thrill” credo. It was an “act first, think later” attitude. This was probably the ultimate example of it.

As Bonham and I rode the bikes to an adjacent field, I told myself, “I have three beers to blame for this.” We positioned ourselves about a hundred and fifty yards apart, facing one another.

“If one of us dies,” I mumbled, “I hope it’s me. If it turns out to be Bonzo, Peter will have me killed anyway.”

I gunned the engine, turned up the throttle, and, like a couple of lunatics, Bonham and I sped toward one another. Rolling at about thirty miles per hour, we were nearly on top of each other almost immediately. But about twenty feet away from Bonzo, despite my promise, I must have flinched. My bike skidded into the dirt, and I rolled over it.

“Damn it!” I shouted, turning to look at Bonham, who by this time was fifty yards past me, obviously amused by my ungraceful landing. Other than some torn jeans and bruised pride, I was unhurt, but the motorcycle did not fare as well—either during or immediately after the crash. “It must have been the bike’s fault!” I yelled to Bonham.

Just then, I spotted an ax lying near some tools about twenty yards away. I walked over, picked it up, and hovered over the bike for a few seconds. “It’s like a horse with a broken leg,” I said. “You gotta put it out of its misery.”

Flailing the ax, I systematically dismantled the motorcycle, swing by swing. Paul Bunyan couldn’t have been any more vicious.

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