The Dangers of Commuting

Some would argue that the dangers of commuting to work on a motorcycle arise from navigating through traffic that, in the best of conditions, does not acknowledge the presence of the cyclist. Undoubtedly, this is true. Each day the commuting rider subjects himself to distracted or short-tempered drivers using their vehicles to jockey for lane position even if it only means gaining a single car length before the traffic grinds to a standstill. The risk of physical injury during the commute home from work can be quite a great deal higher than the morning rush hour. Everyone wants to get home, but fewer people are in a hurry to get to work.

Every motorcyclist on the road, whether commuting or not, faces these risks. But the commuter faces a danger that often goes unrecognized. I'd call it a spiritual danger, or if uncomfortable with that notion, a philosophical risk. The danger is quite simply to loose oneself in the traffic, to focus so intently on the process of navigation from point A to B that the significance of traveling by bike breaks down. Almost every rider with whom I speak agrees that a fundamental link between the health of the human spirit and the act of motorcycling exists. As the old saying goes, "You'll never see a motorcycle parked outside of a psychiatrist's office." While I don't necessarily agree with that statement, I'll acknowledge that one of the activities I anticipate throughout the work week is the opportunity to get out and get lost on some back roads over the weekend. Doing so replenishes me and allows movement at an undetermined pace. So much of my life, including my daily commute, can be measured by predetermined units of time and distance.

Lately, I've been stuck in the groove of the commute. The bike sits idle in the driveway on the weekends. I grease the chain and check the oil level in preparation for the ride into the city each day. My dedication to this blog slips away and before I know it, two months have past since I last posted. So I'm heading out this afternoon for a little undefined saddle time, a piece of uncrowded highway, and a renewal of the spirit.

Rider on the Storm

While on the way home last week, I took shelter from this storm under the awning of a used car dealership on Highway 60 east of Louisville. I glimpsed the radar prior to leaving work and knew that a break in the front would allow me access to the northeast corridor of Interstate 71. Assessing that I had fair chance of making it to the house relatively dry, I pulled over to don the yellow crossing-guard-of-doom rain gear and wait on the nastiness to grind it's way southeast.

One of the maxims that I've come to appreciate in motorcycling regards expecting the unexpected. In general, this philosophy keeps a rider alive and is epitomized in such statements as "cover your controls" and "ride as if you're invisible". Being prepared for and riding in adverse weather exemplifies this practice. I haven't traveled without some form of rain gear on the bike in over a decade; the lesson came hard-learned. In my early twenties, I rode out of Owensboro, KY for a trip of about a hundred miles or so. When I left my apartment, the sun was shining, a light breeze blew the scent of drying tobacco through the woods and fields of southern Indiana, and the temperature barely crested 70. By the day's end, a storm system moved into the area and it started to rain. With only my leathers, I soaked to my skin quickly. The temperature dropped into the lower 60's. I discovered that the body can go hypothermic when wet in as comfortable a temperature as 60 degrees. Add in the wind chill factor and I'd slapped together a receipe for a near-death experience. The resulting pneumonia could have been prevented, in all likelyhood, by a thin layer of plastic.

During a lull in the storm last week, I decided to make a break for the interstate and try to stay ahead of the next wave of thunderstorms. What I hadn't counted on, indeed, what no one factors into the equation, was an accident blocking the north bound lanes of I-71. Before I could ride to the shelter of the rest area and nearest exit, the rain poured down. By the time I climbed off the bike and slouched in under the overhang of the area's vending pavilion, I could not longer see through the sheets of water and blinding lightning. The thunder beat my chest like a drum.

But I was dry, thanks to the thin, plastic rind of my rain suit. And reasonably safe under the roof of the shelter housing the vending machines. Motorcycling fosters patience. Ride long enough and far enough and the weather will turn against the rider, no matter how righteous his karma. The other lessen I learned during that sodden ride years ago was to listen to my gut. If my head busied itself with figuring routes around the storm and my heart stroked my ego with how tough I would be for motoring through a tempest to the far side, then heed the voice of caution, located somewhere between my lungs and my balls, and pull over. Prop myself up between some vending machines among the stray cigarette butts, close my eyes, and bask in the soft spray of hard rain.

Be Aware

May is Motorcycle Safety Awareness Month. Groups such as the Motorcycle Safety Foundation and the National Safety Council in the United States utilize programs to increase awareness of motorcycles in regards to those who share the roadway with us. The MSF's Motorist Awareness Tips outline ten points all motorists should know about motorcycles, and the Foundation launched a website, For Car Drivers, designed specifically to educate drivers to the particular hazards faced by motorcyclists. Even the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration gets in on the act with it's Share the Road campaign.

While I applaud the above organizations for their efforts in educating non-riders, May is also a time when we as motorcyclists should be examining our own habits. When was the last time any of us took part in an MSF certified training course? Certain manufacturers offer rider education programs of their own, like Harley's Rider's Edge program. Do we check our gear, assuming we wear it, for signs of break down and does that gear need to finally be replaced? Sites like Rock the Gear, started as a collaborative effort between Brittany Morrow, known as the Road Rash Queen, and the MSF, promote a postive combination of proper riding technique and modern motorcycle-specific safety gear. Ultimately, it's up to the rider to determine just how much polish the rider's skills and gear require.

But I'm Feeling Much Better Now...

During Clinton's 1996 administration, the president introduced the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPAA). The basic idea behind the Act was to end discrimination against individuals with pre-existing medical conditions by employers. While the final rules enacted in 2001 prevent denial of health care coverage to anyone participating in any recognized legal activity, such as motorcycling, a loophole in the Act permits denial of benefits despite the right to coverage. Under the current legislation, a motorcyclist has the right to coverage but may be denied the benefits of the coverage despite payment of premiums if the motorcyclist's injuries were sustained while riding the motorcycle.

Two new bills, H.R. 1076 and S. 616, the HIPAA Recreational Injury Technical Correction Act attempt to close this loophole and end the discrimination against motorcyclists with pre-existing injuries. Requests to representatives and senators can be sent via email or in print from the AMA's website.

The injuries I sustained in "the crash of '05" will likely haunt me for the remainder of my natural life. Considering that the damage was caused by a kid in a car speeding through a stop sign at twenty over the posted limit, I'm against the notion that I may have to keep footing the bill for someone else's negligence. Especially when taking into account I'm a motorcyclist with high levels of insurance coverage who dutifully pays his premiums. Frankly, that's a notion that I, or anyone in my position, can not afford.

Disabled Motorcyclist

I rode the bike to Owensboro, KY yesterday evening to have my orthopedist examine my right ankle. Since it's reconstruction following the crash in July 2005, walking on it has always brought a certain level of discomfort. Lately, however, that level has reached an intensity that alarms me. I find myself hobbling around the house not just at the beginning of the day, but throughout the day as well. I've experienced a grinding sensation when applying pressure to the foot when I step. Sometimes, the grinding is severe enough to produce an audible pop that can be heard several feet away.

The doctor reviewed the x-rays and confirmed that conditions within the ankle have deteriorated over time. I now not only have the original injury to think about but arthritis and bone spurs as well. I'm being referred to a specialist in the Louisville area in order to go over options. As it stands, I've been given a few alternatives to the current setup to mull over, including a total ankle replacement and fusing the bones of the ankle. Fusing the ankle, while a more reliable method to handle the deterioration, severely limits the mobility of the joint. Similar to a knee or hip replacement surgery, ankle replacement preserves the flexibility of the joint, but has questionable long-term reliability. We even went as far as to discuss the use of cadaver bones to replace the damaged ones in my ankle. Spare parts!

During my rehabilitation in 2005 and 2006, I spent quite a bit of time online looking for help for disabled motorcyclists. I still wasn't sure how much mobility I'd have with my damaged right leg or if I'd be able to support the weight of a bike using that leg. I discovered a loosely connected network of riders offering support to one another, not just in the sense of the emotional, but in modifications made to motorcycles to enable riders to continue riding. With a possible surgery, which would be my third, approaching and the chance for reduced mobility, it just might be time to dust off that old list of resources again.

Anniversary of Doom

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.