It dawned on me while sitting around a quiet table with friends yesterday evening that July 6 was the anniversay of my latest crash. Three years to the day. While crossing an intersection in Owensboro, KY on my way back to my office, a 21 year old kid pushed his 1989 Olds 98 over the speed limit and through the stop sign perpendicular to my line of travel. It was 2:30 in the afternoon, steamy, and I recall seeing the flash of the car's grill as it bounded out of a dip in the pavement and into the sunlight. Time ground to a standstill. I had enough time to think, "Oh, this is going to hurt." And then I was pimp-slapped by God. I had no idea something could strike me with that much energy. The force propelled me over the car's hood and into the windshield. Though I never saw it, the police and EMT's theorized that my head busted the glass. Impacting the curvature of the windshield shot me upwards and to the side in my direction of travel so that the rear of the car passed beneath me. I hit the ground on my left side and the bike, a 1995 Harley-Davidson XLH 1200, came to rest on it's right side a half a block south of my impromptu landing pad.
I had a few things leaning in my favor that day, things I attribute to my still sucking air today. I was wearing a full-face helmet. This was a big one for me. Three weeks before the crash, I'd decided I'd had enough of playing Russian roulette with the drivers around me and purchased the first lid I'd worn in five or six years. It wasn't anything spectacular, a basic all-around shell, foam, and visor. It cost me a little under a 100 bucks. I remember the first rides with it on, especially in late June, feeling like I was suffocating. I'd stop some place and pratically rip the thing off to get air.
Boots. I was wearing a well-worn pair of Red Wing lace-up work boots, the reddish Oxblood colored kind. The doctors told me that if I hadn't had on sturdy, above-the-ankle shoes, I'd have lost my right foot. Apparently, the car sandwiched my right leg between the grill and the bike. The leg snapped, moving the foot over and upward inside the skin toward my knee. I remained conscious all the way until they rolled me into the ER, where the numbness of shock wore off and the hazy sub-reality of morphine took over.
I always take a little time out of the day during my Anniversary to remember the police officer and EMT's who cared for me during the first moments following the accident. Each of them was a motorcyclist. At one point, I asked the officer what had happened to my bike and he said, "Uh...well, I wouldn't worry about that right now, bud." And then the EMT's whisked me onto a spine board and into the ambulance. Well, maybe not whisked. More like trundled. Trundled with extensive swearing supplied by me. During the ride to the hospital, the EMT told me about her bike and how she was considering selling it because of the all the accidents she'd witnessed over the years. To this day, I sincerely hope she hasn't.
I mark this anniversary as a special one not just because I survived, but because the experience changed my approach to riding forever. The helmet did it's job and although badly torn up, permitted me to arrive at the hospital with little more than a moderate concussion. I haven't ridden without one since. The EMT's cut the boots off. After I learned to walk on my reconstructed ankle, I had the Red Wings restitched only to find that I couldn't wear anything that laced up around the ankle. The constrictive leather aggravated the hardware in my leg. Though they're not as stylish, my kevlar reinforced, waterproof roadboots are almost as comfortable as those faded, old Wings. Almost.
And as for the Harley? She died with over 56,000 miles on the clock. The insurance company totaled her. When the adjuster met me at the bank to deliver my share of the HD's worth, he arrived on a BMW GS650. Though I was on crutches, that bike whispered something to me about the nature of my life on two wheels that I would spend the next nine months deciphering. That whisper transformed into an examination of the fundamental beliefs around why I turned to motorcycles in the first place, a calling to interpret the world through wind and speed, a steering of my spirit toward home.
I had a few things leaning in my favor that day, things I attribute to my still sucking air today. I was wearing a full-face helmet. This was a big one for me. Three weeks before the crash, I'd decided I'd had enough of playing Russian roulette with the drivers around me and purchased the first lid I'd worn in five or six years. It wasn't anything spectacular, a basic all-around shell, foam, and visor. It cost me a little under a 100 bucks. I remember the first rides with it on, especially in late June, feeling like I was suffocating. I'd stop some place and pratically rip the thing off to get air.
Boots. I was wearing a well-worn pair of Red Wing lace-up work boots, the reddish Oxblood colored kind. The doctors told me that if I hadn't had on sturdy, above-the-ankle shoes, I'd have lost my right foot. Apparently, the car sandwiched my right leg between the grill and the bike. The leg snapped, moving the foot over and upward inside the skin toward my knee. I remained conscious all the way until they rolled me into the ER, where the numbness of shock wore off and the hazy sub-reality of morphine took over.
I always take a little time out of the day during my Anniversary to remember the police officer and EMT's who cared for me during the first moments following the accident. Each of them was a motorcyclist. At one point, I asked the officer what had happened to my bike and he said, "Uh...well, I wouldn't worry about that right now, bud." And then the EMT's whisked me onto a spine board and into the ambulance. Well, maybe not whisked. More like trundled. Trundled with extensive swearing supplied by me. During the ride to the hospital, the EMT told me about her bike and how she was considering selling it because of the all the accidents she'd witnessed over the years. To this day, I sincerely hope she hasn't.
I mark this anniversary as a special one not just because I survived, but because the experience changed my approach to riding forever. The helmet did it's job and although badly torn up, permitted me to arrive at the hospital with little more than a moderate concussion. I haven't ridden without one since. The EMT's cut the boots off. After I learned to walk on my reconstructed ankle, I had the Red Wings restitched only to find that I couldn't wear anything that laced up around the ankle. The constrictive leather aggravated the hardware in my leg. Though they're not as stylish, my kevlar reinforced, waterproof roadboots are almost as comfortable as those faded, old Wings. Almost.
And as for the Harley? She died with over 56,000 miles on the clock. The insurance company totaled her. When the adjuster met me at the bank to deliver my share of the HD's worth, he arrived on a BMW GS650. Though I was on crutches, that bike whispered something to me about the nature of my life on two wheels that I would spend the next nine months deciphering. That whisper transformed into an examination of the fundamental beliefs around why I turned to motorcycles in the first place, a calling to interpret the world through wind and speed, a steering of my spirit toward home.
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