Anne and I are just back from three weeks in England. That’s a trip I never expected to make again.

But my other companion Parkinson, as whimsical as he is relentless, took a vacation himself a couple of months ago. (I’ll explain the likely causes in another column.) I was left free, at least temporarily, from some of the worst symptoms. And so my bride and I decided, quite suddenly, that we’d run under the silent guns and make the trip.

It was wonderful, especially since friends conspired to pass us along, one to another, making travel easy for me. We drove to Boston, left the car with good friends, and were driven to Logan Airport. Since I’m poorly equipped now to stand in lines, we’d phoned ahead for disabled assistance, and a wheelchair driver met us at the door. This man whisked us around the lines, right up to luggage check-in.

Then, with our carry-ons piled on top of me, he steered right up to the security gate, put our chattel onto the scanner for us, and braced the chair and me as I stood to walk through the metal detector. Then we zoomed on to a waiting area.

We needed to wait because, following the airline’s standard directions, we’d arrived three hours early _ for a process that had taken only about twenty minutes. But, no complaints. That disabled assistance was a tremendous blessing, going and coming back, and despite an unplanned adventure when we got to London Heathrow.

As we left the plane, the stewardess told us to climb the ramp and be seated; another wheelchair would soon arrive. And indeed, one did, this time pushed by a big smiling Caribbean with not much command of English. I got loaded up, again piled with the two backpacks and my sleep-apnea gear in its own box, and we wheeled off toward passport control. I had only to ride and, of course, hold the load in place with both hands and my chin.

It was a long run, and halfway Anne got to step onto a moving walkway as we wheeled along beside her. That’s where the adventure began. From far down the long corridor, highballing along towards me, came an empty wheelchair pushed by a short, rather broad woman.

She was calling out in what may have been Turkish, and she had fire in her eye. I thought for a moment she was going to ram us. My own wheeler stopped short, and my Anne was carried away by the moving walkway.

The squarish woman didn’t ram but squealed to a stop, blocking our way. Then she went at it, hammer and tongs, at the Caribbean twice her height. Hers, it turned out, was our assigned wheelchair, and the amiable Caribbean was a gypsy driver who’d pirated her passenger, and hence her tip.

She won. I was bustled out of his chair and into hers, the carry-ons were re-piled on top of me, and we speeded off, the woman still muttering imprecations at the gypsy. We caught up with Anne and hustled on toward passport check. But, almost there, I heard a loud clank. The right footrest had fallen off the chair.

``Bad equipment!’’ she shouted in English. ``Bad equipment’’ It sounded like a phrase she’d had many occasions to use. Suddenly she was squatting next to the chair, pounding the footrest on the terrazzo floor. ``Quiet!’’ Anne pleaded. ``My husband has trouble with startle reflex!’’ (And, like many Parkies, I do _ if I donÆt foresee the cause of a loud noise. This time, I did: a squarish woman squatting, slamming a shaft of metal on the floor.) But she got it fixed, reinstalled it, and soon was rushing us along again, up to and through the passport check.

Customs and luggage were down a floor, and Anne stepped onto a very long escalator while the squarish woman and I headed for the top of a pair of long ramps. She was still muttering, ``Bad equipment!’’ as we got to the first ramp, but then she switched her complaint. ``No brakes!’’

Well. Since we’ve been home, I’ve watched a lot of Olympic ski-jumping. Every time skiers throw themselves down that awful first drop, I relive my Heathrow ramp experience. Indeed, there were no brakes on the chair, and I plunged down that thirty degree slope with only the woman’s sheer strength holding us both back. I couldn’t look back, but I’m sure she left a parallel trail of smoking rubber from her shoe heels.

``Bad equipment!’’ she shouted as we made a sharp turn and were briefly on a level stretch. ``No brakes!’’ and we hurtled down the second ramp.

Anne, on the escalator, missed the whole adventure; and you can see that I lived through it. Shaken but laughing in spite of my self, I was wheeled to luggage-pick-up and then through a perfunctory customs check. Breathless, we found ourselves in the crowded airport lobby. The squarish lady seemed to have bonded with us. She was suddenly maternal and reluctant to leave. But we insisted we were fine, and we sent her off with a hefty tip that was partly a bribe. When she wheeled away, we felt relieved and released.

I’ve since had leisure to wonder: Had she played out that whole scenario repeatedly and found it always worked? Did she end up splitting the tip with the Caribbean? Anyway, our friend Michael Thrower soon arrived to greet us and inquire after our travels. We had a great story to tell him on the ride down to Chichester. READ ABOUT Jim Atwell’s book, From Fly Creek--Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country, at JimAtwell. com