John Earl is a hospital worker from Plymouth. He is 25 and addicted to speed.
Not the class B drug, but a concoction just as potent – an intoxicating mix
of high-powered engines, testosterone and youthful swagger.
“It’s not the speed exactly,” he says. “It’s the adrenaline. It’s the buzz you
get when you cruise up to 80mph, say, then bang it down to third gear, crack
the throttle and just go – at which point, whether you like it or not,
you’re just a passenger clinging on for dear life. That’s the fun.”
But if you regularly clock 120mph on a public road, sooner or later you’re
going to get caught, and today Earl is one of a dozen speeders attending a
new treatment programme designed to cure them of their need for speed.
Devised by a research psychologist, it is based on techniques normally used
to treat alcoholics and drug addicts.
At the beginning of the treatment attendees are asked to confess their
misdemeanours and to acknowledge they have a problem. “Hello, my name’s
Dave, and I’m a speedaholic,” may become a new catchphrase.
Against the background of a sharp rise in the number of drivers being
disqualified for speeding – more than 1m British motorists are now just
three penalty points from losing their licences – the course will be offered
as an alternative to points. It is being tried by Devon county council and
has just been backed by the Department for Transport (DfT) and the
Association of Chief Police Officers. Though geared to motorcyclists at
present it is likely to be introduced across the country for all motorists.
Unlike conventional “speed awareness” courses offered to drivers only a few
miles per hour over the limit, the speedaholics course is for serious and
habitual offenders.
“It is based in part on research into the attitudes of young car drivers and
boy racers,” says Cris Burgess, a psychology lecturer at Exeter University,
who created the programme. “There are a lot of similarities in their
thinking and that of motorcyclists. There’s the same risk-taking behaviour
and the feeling that although other people get injured and even die, ‘that’s
not going to happen to me’.”
Burgess believes he has already succeeded in a pilot project in changing the
attitudes and behaviour of speeders who possess this dangerous sense of
invincibility. There is a good reason why the government is so keen to
promote the Devon course: the number of disqualified drivers is increasing
so rapidly that, according to some senior police, a large section of the
population could soon feel criminalised. A recent study found that 16% of
motorists (including motorcyclists) – that’s more than 5m – have penalty
points for speeding, and a fifth of those are one camera-flash from
disqualification. Behind the scenes at the DfT, officials have switched
priorities from punishing the guilty to treating a growing social malaise.
That’s why the use of addiction therapy is being encouraged as a substitute
for penalty points.
“There is undoubtedly an element of addiction in this sort of behaviour,” says
Burgess. “It’s sensation-seeking, it’s taking risks, looking for that buzz
but ignoring the potentially harmful consequences.”
The motorcyclists gathered outside the Devon Drivers’ Centre on the outskirts
of Exeter on a dull Tuesday morning earlier this month were not relishing
the prospect of a day in the classroom. Barry Heppell, 41, a postman from
Truro, Cornwall, was riding his Kawasaki ZX-10R on the A30 across Bodmin
Moor with two friends when he was clocked doing 95mph by a traffic
policeman. “We had been going faster than that – a bit,” he admits, “but we
weren’t doing anything dodgy, just speeding.”
Heppell agreed to attend the course to avoid earning points, although he had
to pay £20 more than the usual £60 fine. Heppell, just back from a weekend
at the Isle of Man TT, where he took advantage of the island’s unrestricted
roads, says: “I thought we’d at least get lunch for the £80.”
The course is led by Inspector Robin Derges, a traffic officer with Devon
police, a senior investigator of road deaths and a devoted biker since 1976.
The reluctant attendees sit in horseshoe formation and are asked to
introduce themselves, explaining why they were stopped and detailing any
accidents they’ve had. They range in age from 18 to mid-forties and most
were caught doing at least 20mph over the speed limit. One has nine points
on his licence and his attendance at the course has saved him from a ban.
Piers Peters, the youngest member of the group, has a thumb permanently bent
back at a right angle following a painful crash in which he also broke his
wrist and several ribs, fingers and toes. Others have had broken ankles,
collarbones, shoulders, legs, ribs and wrists. Many, including Earl – who
lost a good friend just a few months ago in a collision – know people who
have died on their bikes.
Derges gets straight to the point. “Motorcyclists make up just 1% of all road
vehicles but a third of all deaths and serious injuries. Unless something
changes, if we meet up here in a year’s time one of you will be dead.” A
slight shudder goes through the group as they scan faces, wondering which it
could be. Derges continues with the cold, hard facts and statistics.
The course resists using visual shock tactics – Burgess doesn’t think they
work – but some pictures and video clips (one made by a former course
attendee) hit home. The most striking is a photo of a man curled up in a
hospital bed with a road sign impaled in his buttock. Throughout the day
Derges chips away at the group’s misguided self-assurance, all the while
insisting that he wants them to continue to enjoy biking. “We want to give
them a sense of their own vulnerability, their human limitations, and to
help them make a realistic assessment of the risks involved. It’s not about
stopping people riding, it’s about preventing deaths.”
Towards the end of the day he asks the class to write down their worst
motorcycling experience, their potential risk areas and what they need to
remember “to keep myself in one piece”. The stand-offish tone of the earlier
introductions has vanished, the stories flow and the group appears genuinely
reflective.
“The problem is that people get into their leathers and suddenly think they’re
Valentino Rossi,” says Earl.
“It’s a bit like an addiction: I defy anyone who rides a bike of any serious
nature to say they’re not doing it to escape in some way, because when
you’re on the bike and going at Mach 10, you forget about all the other s***
going on in your life.”
Standing in the car park at the end of the day, the bikers are sobered by what
they have heard, and Heppell is positively raving about the course he had
dismissed: “It’s a really good course, I’m definitely going to have a chat
with my mates about calming it down a bit.” Earl admits: “It’s certainly
made me more aware. I know I sometimes behave like an idiot. But that’s not
to say I won’t forget all about it a few weeks down the line.”
Burgess knows this, so before leaving, each attendee is handed a metal keyring
engraved with a cross-section of a head inside a helmet. It recalls a
particularly gruesome part of the course that outlined what can happen to
the brain in a collision.
“The idea is that they will see the keyring when they are riding and it will
make them think twice,” says Burgess.
Additional reporting: Jessica Lewthwaite Harrabin
