A friend for life

Mike always liked speed - not the speed you sniff, but the speed you feel when you open the throttle on a 300cc Honda. About a year before he bought his Honda he had been the proud owner of a Honda 50cc, like so many of his peers at DHS. We had become firm friends owing to a perpetual struggle for dominance in table tennis. Mike had already acquired an interest in motoring, and, owing to the relative isolation of living on a sugar estate just south of Stanger, he had discovered joy-riding in his father’s Ford Zephyr. I am not sure how he acquired his driving skills, but I do know that nocturnal activities were several before an inevitable demise involving his arrest while driving a few friends around the various sights and sounds of Durban. 

The practice involved phoning a few friends in Stanger to invite them on another late night jaunt. He would abscond from the house when the family had retired for the evening, access the garage,  keys in hand,  then surreptitiously push the Zephyr down the driveway. The rest was dead easy. Having picked up his co-conspirators, they would drive to Durban take in the waterfront no doubt  - which probably included scaring, perhaps interrupting is more honest, romantic couples who were enjoying themselves in the privacy of their cars in those well known and secluded parking spots. Eventually Mike and his mates would drive home and return safely to their beds. 

This most enjoyable of pastimes came to a grinding halt in Durban late one night. Mike had noticed in his rear-view mirror that he had a police car showing some interest. Thinking that he should give no reason for suspicion, he rather unwisely thought it necessary to use hand signals as well as the indicators, hoping this would impress the officers. It did, but not in quite the way Mike had intended. In fact, the moment that the officers noted the anomalous sight of a driver using hand signals at 3.00 in the morning their curiosity had to be assuaged. I think you can guess the rest. Apparently when Mike’s father received a phone call at this inappropriate hour of the morning, he initially insisted that the arresting officer must have got the wrong boy, because he knew for certain that his dutiful son was in his bed, in his room and asleep. It was with great difficult that a non-plussed Mr Lalouette, factory manager of the Melville Sugar Mill, was able to persuade an unimpressed magistrate that his son would not be a recidivist, and there would be no further late night road trips. One question which was resolved for the displeased father, was why he had been unable to establish the reason for his Ford Zephyr’s excessive fuel consumption.

This was before Mike arrived at DHS at the start of his fifth form year. I rather suspect that his father, had decided that by enrolling his wayward son as a boarder at the famous old school, he was at the very least ensuring that his Ford Zephyr would stay in the garage after he had parked it. 

It didn’t take Mike long to find a reasonable substitute to indulge his incipient pre-occupation with powerful machines and speed, in the form of a fifty cc Honda. To persuade his long-suffering father that this was a good idea, he could point out that about 10 or 20 percent of his DHS peers rode these machines to and from school - it certainly seemed that there were that many, if not more at certain times of the school day. 

As soon as he was legitimately able to raise the bar in terms of power and speed, he did so. He became the only senior boy to own a 300cc Honda Supersport, which certainly opened the door to escapades that hitherto had been beyond my wildest dreams -  especially with respect to Sunday exeats and visiting girls on the South Coast. It was my final year, and I had given Danie Pienaar, the Head Boarder Master my word that I would, for what was left of my school days, desist from hitchhiking. 

I know that this bike was capable of speeds up to 160kms an hour because on the long downward stretch of freeway into Maritzburg we achieved this record. I had had a leg-lengthening operation during the summer holidays, which meant that for sixth months it had to be encased in plaster. With respect to riding pillion, it meant that we had to strap my leg to Mike’s thigh - a method that worked surprisingly well and may well have saved my life on that speedy descent into Maritzburg. I could feel that the bike was approaching its maximum speed - wind and vibration provided that information. Mike had been trying to yell something - but given the deafening noise of exhaust and engine, I could not hear anything but some incoherent yelling and at the same time got a face full of his saliva. Without warning he suddenly flattened himself on the fuel tank. This meant that I look the full force of the wind in my chest and was blown backwards so that the only thing keeping me attached to Mike and his bike was that leg in a plaster-cast strapped to his thigh. It’s fair to say that Mike was blithely unaware of the drama unfolding behind him. Gradually I was able to straighten up, only to glean some sense of what it was he had been trying to communicate - still leaning forward he was pointing at the speedo with a thrusting forefinger. When we arrived at Maritzburg College a few minutes later, the first question he wanted answered was whether I’d seen the speedo registering 160k’s! I mentioned that actually, I was more interested in having survived a near-death experience and, just by the way, I hadn’t much appreciated the mouthful of saliva either!

This story should have reached its denouement in the previous sentence, but Mike’s fascination with motorbikes and high risk escapades was a long way from over. Late one night returning from a wedding - his parents had left the reception earlier - Mike somehow managed to doze off - a mixture of alcohol and fatigue I would guess. He was brought back to his senses when the bike collided with a safety barrier on the opposite lane from the one he had been travelling in before falling asleep. Somehow, he managed to get the bike off the railing without being dismantled. However, his right hand felt wet in the glove, and he had great difficulty applying force to the throttle. When he arrived home, his parents were waiting having had a prescient notion of trouble. Owing to loss of blood - hence the soggy glove - Mike collapsed at the door. He spent some time in hospital after having tendons repaired in his right hand and right foot. ( see the attached photo)

From his family members I gather that he has had other life-threatening moments. After rolling his luxury Mercedes from a freeway into a roadside sugar plantation at an estimated speed of 150 or 160 kms p.h. - and being taken to hospital in an ambulance where it was established that he had survived relatively unscathed, his daughter took him to view what was left of his Merc. I think the family were hoping for a kind of aversion therapy to cure him of his need for speed. I gather he was genuinely shocked by the total wreckage of his Merc., which could scarcely be identified as such.

Then there’s the cycling story. He and a few of his Empangeni friends had decided on cycling to Cape Town - a kind of group Neil Lamble challenge. On the first day a truck driver collided with the pelaton. Fortunately one of their number was a distinguished surgeon whose reputation had been acquired at the Empangeni General Hospital. Despite the surgeon’s efforts, I’m reasonably certain that one of the cyclists succumbed at the scene. Mike had to be hospitalised with long-term right arm injuries. For several years he had played squash for Zululand, but weakness in his right arm meant that for two or three years thereafter he had to play left-handed.

On my last return visit to Mike and his family I was told of a para-skiing incident on the Midmar dam, in which but for the timely intervention of his son, Mike would have drowned after becoming entangled in the parachute. It was obvious to me that Mike, from his dramatic recount of this event, suffered some post-trauma tension and anxiety.

As to whether the aversion-therapy had worked, perhaps a final anecdote answers the question. I had returned to SA - the first of three trips since retiring in 2008. Mike offered me a ride off-shore from Richards Bay in his rubber-duck speed boat. I had thought that game-fishing was on the agenda. Mike clearly had other ideas. As we cleared the breakwater exit from the bay, without warning I was hurtled backwards as Mike opened the throttle. Had I not already recuperated from major neck surgery to counter the effects of a serious case of stenosis (a narrowing of the spinal canal) the whiplash may well have compromised the excellent work of a neurosurgeon in Melbourne two or three months before this ‘joyride’.

I would like to be able to say, that’s just Mike. But that would be to discount a conviction that within the context of DHS and its Old Boys of our generation, Mike is by no means unique. In fact the main reason Mike did not make a premature departure from School - his initial experience was of a hostile, if not bizarre school culture. For free-spirits like Mike who hated a bullying hierarchical structure, the only consideration that kept him from leaving was the camaraderie - and perhaps a father’s paranoia about his son’s predilection for joy-riding in his Ford Zephyr. Once Mike had acquired a few survival skills, he soon discovered that for every bully there were many kindred spirits with whom he would be friends for life!

Mike recovering from his encounter with the safety barrier circa: 1968 / ‘69.

In memory of my friend Mike Lalouette 

Thank you to all who have posted memories of Mike. In the struggle to make sense of this and all the other sadness that we are living with in these strange times, it helps enormously to read affirming tributes to Mike and to be reminded of just how much goodwill still prevails within lifetime friendships. 

 I had just posted a memoir on the ‘64 Website of my friend Mike and his tendency to risk all in pursuit of thrills and challenges. The one that I have just posted on this website - A Friend for Life. A week after posting that piece I received the sad news that Mike’s last risk - a decision to delay having the vaccine - was his final flirtation with fate. It appears that he had been persuaded that the naysayers might have some justification for their distrust of medical science. In our last conversation it was clear that he knew he had made a fatal decision and that he took full responsibility for his predicament. That was typical of Mike. Val, my wife had listened to our conversation, in which Mike had reiterated how much he had wanted to take up my persistent invitations to stay with us in Australia, and when I ended the call, her first words were that he was saying goodbye. I vehemently disagreed - Mike would never contemplate capitulating to this virus. He had come through worse predicaments in the past and would do so again. I realise now that Val was right, he was saying goodbye even if the intonation suggested otherwise.

Mike and I became inseparable friends after meeting at DHS. It was a friendship which endured for over fifty years and never faltered. In essence he was the epitome of kindness, good humour and enthusiasm about almost everything, but especially socialising. Above all, Mike and had an integrity that could not be compromised regardless of circumstance or implications.

He had such a zest for life that he couldn’t wait to get into the workforce, rather than delay doing so in pursuit of tertiary studies. Early on he discovered that his tendency to get wholly involved in all his social and professional pursuits, could be put to good use in marketing, and he rapidly became one of The Old Mutual’s most successful insurance salesmen. It was nigh on impossible to keep up with the awards he received for his achievements in this industry. Much of his success was owing to a passionate belief that he could ensure that the bereaved could be at least protected from financial stress at a time when they were grieving the death of a partner or loved one. 

At some point even the incentives offered by The Old Mutual proved to be insufficiently challenging, and instead he opened his own brokerage which he maintained for the rest of his working life - indeed he was just as motivated to work as he always had been, when he received the devastating news at a pharmacy that he had just tested positive for the COVID-19 virus. A test that he had opted for on a whim while purchasing other items.

The best example of personal bravery is when one refuses to allow one’s fears to assume control of mind and conduct. The Mike I spoke with on the phone, who knew that this was probably his final hurrah, was fearful but calm and lucid. Rather, he was determined to take full responsibility for what proved to be a death sentence, and more concerned that others should not make the same mistake than indulge himself in self-pity or recriminations.

There are many ways that I could memorialise this wonderful friend with a comprehensive list of epithets, but rather I should relate just two events that illustrate why Mike was so loved by so many:

 A few years ago he was the first to arrive on the scene of a fatal accident. A  medical doctor (according to Mike, showing all the signs of inebriation) had veered across a straight stretch of highway and collided head-on with a vehicle in which four lawyers were returning from a regional hearing. At least two of the victims were months away from retirement. At least one was sufficiently coherent to ask Mike to convey messages to their loved ones and gather up the legal documents that were strewn across the accident site - in the midst of the confusion and gothic madness of a fatal collision - Mike was able to fulfil both  requests. Two had died in the immediate aftermath of the unfolding events. The eventual outcome was that all died from their injuries - the last in hospital two weeks after the accident. The only survivor was the man who had lost control of his vehicle. In the days that followed he visited the bereft families and actually attended the eventual court hearing. That no convictions or penalties were recorded was clearly a source of considerable consternation for Mike.

The second illustration which was emblematic of Mike, was his relationship with my Uncle Vernon - a ninety year old seeing out his last years in a nursing home in Maritzburg. It was for me a confirmation of Mike’s most endearing and enduring qualities. He not only visited Uncle Vernon when he had reason to be in ‘Maritzburg, but was genuinely interested, impressed and fond of someone who he had only got to know in the final stages of a long and fulfilled life. And when he couldn’t visit him he would phone the old man. Uncle Vernon, ever an astute judge of character, was quite overwhelmed by Mike’s thoughtfulness, good cheer and loyalty once they had formed a strong bond. On every occasion that I spoke to my Uncle, he would reiterate what a special person Mike was and how much he enjoyed his company. 

One of the happiest days I can recall of my last return visit to SA, was when Mike picked up my Uncle and his wheelchair, and we drove into the beautiful Kwazulu midland hills, toured the Mandela Museum and then had lunch together on a gorgeously warm sun-filled day. I will for ever cherish the photo I have of Mike pushing Uncle Vernon in his wheelchair down that long approach to the evocative sculpture of Mandela -  an image that seems so apposite under the circumstances. 

Farewell my good friend - you were thoughtful, sensitive, unfailingly optimistic and generous. Life will go on, but will never be quite what it was for those of us who knew you well.

Vale Michel. 

Mike at lunch with my Uncle Vernon (June 2016)

Mike recovering from his encounter with the safety barrier-circa. 1968/‘69.