CRASH: It Was Bound to Happen
The lovely thing about crashing is that there is no time for anxiety. It's happening right now. All I can do is watch it unfold.
BLOG POST #008 - Crash: It Was Bound to Happen
How I learned to ride a motorcycle, speak Spanish and not die. Riding solo in search of adventure from Detroit to Argentina.
The lovely thing about crashing is that there is no time for anxiety. It's happening right now. All I can do is watch it unfold.
In an instant, I am lying flat on my back screaming in horror. La Barra is sideways to my right with the wheels still spinning frantically like no one told her that she's no longer upright. She came to rest a few feet onto the gravel shoulder, with various pieces left behind along the crash-landing skid zone. It looks like the mix between a road-side yard sale and the debris field after a very bad small plane crash.
I wail at the sky like a newborn baby in full voice, leaned into it with all muscle power my diaphragm can muster. I sense pain, but my cry is more out of anger, frustration, and the sheer terror at what just happened. I try not to move because I am afraid to find out what's left of my body or what parts no longer work.
I realized I needed to get my act together and shake it off, as I saw cars pulling over behind me in a line. I spring up to my feet, facing them to give every signal that I'm ok. But in the back of my head I am doing an inventory of my limbs and internal organs for damage assessment. There are no broken bones as far as I can tell. The only thing I noticed was the odd sensation of ventilation in new parts of my clothing where there was none before, I think I'm fine.
I have been in this situation many times, just after a traumatic event. It is confusing and hectic and there is a blur of events going on all at once. One time I was standing on a trail in rural West Africa with a rush of wasp venom coursing through my body. I had a swirling tunnel vision of fluffy white clouds, and my lips swollen like they were going to burst, thinking that this was a stupid way to die.
Another time I sat in disbelief for one-half-microsecond, staring at the viper fang stuck into my knuckle, before pulling it out as fast as I could. I have been threatened. I have been lost. I have been robbed, standing there blankly, not knowing what to do, with a gun pointed at my chest. Funny how this time during a crisis, my first instinct was to "not worry" any of the passers by. Afterall, it’s not their fault.
I ripped off my helmet and protective jacket. I gave a bright and positive "hello" wave, trying to convey my total perfect "okay-ness" to the two or three cars coming to my aid. I'm glad I didn't get run over once I slid to a stop.
The first driver to approach jumps out of his big shiny truck and walks towards me at pace. He is a burly, bearded, man who looks like a god-fearing southern gent in his clean-pressed checkered shirt, with a look of concern on his face that I do not like. He seems traumatized from seeing the accident. This makes me panic a little, thinking maybe the crash was worse than I thought. Shock is a crazy thing. The people who witness things and the people who experience them first hand, experience different feelings.
We stand there square, looking at one another as I thank him for stopping. I insist that I'm ok. I'm giving him the hard sell on how normal I feel, but he's not buying. He darts a look down at my left arm. I try to have a casual glance of my own and that is when I notice the blood dripping off of my fingertips.
For the prior twenty miles I had been enjoying a lovely ride. I exaggerated my movements, leaning low towards the road, back and forth on each turn. I was concentrating on perfect form and efficiency. After some time of this, I relaxed my laser-beam stare and took in the scenery a bit more instead. That is when the problem happened.
I was leaning hard to the right coming out of the last turn, when I realized that it was too late to stop what was about to happen. I blinked, losing focus for a mere 1.2 seconds. I don't understand why I'm so certain that the time was such a specific number, but I can re-play it in my head with great clarity. I looked up and had that sinking feeling that I was going to crash for sure.
What I needed to do was slow down drastically, or else already be rounding out of that prior turn. Steering the bike and leaning side to side has a rhythm to it, like a pendulum swinging back and forth. It was the peak-pause moment at the top of the arc on my right side, when I saw the next turn coming up fast. I couldn't just throw my weight the other way immediately. That would be like jerking the steering wheel of your car hard left in the middle of a right turn. You're going to skid, or flip, or something bad.
I rolled my head left to lead La Barra the other direction, but her 450 pounds is not super snappy in response. I braked as hard as I could without locking up the tires. Then as I ran out of road, I shoved her down hard to the left, slapping the skid-bar and gas tank sideways against the ground as I bailed-the-fkkkkck-out to the back, trying to jump clear of the wreckage.
If you fall off of a motorcycle and it tips forward, then you bounce and roll, and pieces come flying off (gloves, helmet, limbs) like a Nascar wreck where the car flips twenty times in super slow motion.
However, if the bike tips back when it goes down, then this is called a "high-side crash,” which is much safer. The motorbike is in the lead, and the rider just slides along behind her. Novice as I am at riding a motorcycle, it turns out that I am a natural expert at crashing. I high-side-crash like a pro, with minimal impact or flipping end-over-end.
Part of the crisis was that I needed to miss the street sign right on the edge of the road. I can handle a little sliding and rolling, but hurling into a rusted metal angle-bracket post seems like it would take a leg off nicely.
Looking back at the scene, I actually almost made it. I didn't go flying off into the bushes, but instead skidded along the shoulder roughly parallel to the road, halfway into the ditch.
I started off at about fifty miles per hour, so after braking I figure I went down at forty. I have a new appreciation of just how godddddammnn fast that is.
What a humiliating mess.
There was a short instant where I was still hanging on to the gas after rubber left the road, and the RPMs red-lined off the meter. That high-pitched scream of the engine is a haunting PTSD noise I will remember for the rest of my life.
After a minute of awkward social kindness, three or four people have gathered. They gently raise my bike in unison like Samaritans lifting Jesus' cross. One guy twists the brake handle back into the right position and another kicks plastic pieces off of the road into the bushes.
I strip down to just my pants. I'm not sure why I feel the need to get nearly naked, but this would turn out to be a strange and recurring theme following later mishaps. I think maybe I just wanted to check all the parts of my body for bones sticking out.
My shoulder has that low achy feeling as if it is going to hurt like hell tomorrow. I recall the term "road rash" or "raspberries" referring to the abrasion wounds my friend Kevin got from falling off of his BMW bike in New Mexico a decade back. This is a regular thing for the brotherhood of crazies that call themselves motorcycle riders. Looking at the credit-card sized patch of skin weeping a lazy trail of blood down my arm, I wink and nod to the sky, feeling a sort of spiritual "Welcome to the club."
There seemed to be no reason to make my situation worse by slipping into a total panic-state.
My pants have a hole in them at the side of the knee that is not cut, not burned, but looks more like a large hamster had chewed his way out to freedom. I have to roll my pant leg up to get a good view of the large red patch where skin used to be.
My foot looked hilarious. The toes poke out of five freshly burned holes in my shoe, like so many little piggies trying to go to market. The second to last one has a little red on it. The pinky toe is a lump of meat.
As the immediate shock wears off, I am suddenly aware of the pain. Skin has been physically scraped off of my body and the wounds are embedded with fine gray roadside dust. The sting from so many abrasions all at once is maddening.
La Barra is starting to look like a toothless hockey player's grill with more and more pieces of her windshield missing. Other than that, she seems perfectly fine and rideable.
The math is never in your favor on a motorbike. The margin for error is five times tighter than a car. Yet the cost for a mistake is one-hundred-fold worse.
I am embarrassed and I want to be alone, but the big dude and his wife refuse to leave me. It takes a half hour or so to re-compose myself to get ready to ride again. They tell me that they're going to follow for a while and make sure I'm ok.
Something breaks in me as I lose all pride and all will to fight their kindness anymore. I am deeply grateful for their help.
I realized that I had been guilty of a little Yankee arrogance, these past few days.
Southern, white, upper middle class, pickup truck driving, religious folk are generally not my tribe. I'm not using that description as an insult or slander or anything negative. I have a great and fond affection for parts of that life and I bear no ill will for people of different cultures. But I guess I did look down on them because I was so very humbled, and moved, at the way I was treated by these strangers.
They checked me over and made sure I was clear-headed enough to ride. They fixed up my bike. They waited until I was good and ready. They didn't rush me or complain. But the thing that I found most inspiring was that they did not judge me in the slightest, for what a stupid thing they just watched me do.
I am quick to connect with a Brazilian fisherman or an Indian villager. But I guess closer to home, my own prejudices are more insidious.
A wise man once told me that, "There are cool people in every corner of every country in the world." Oh yeah, that was me who said that. Once again, my own clichés come back to me and echo in my head.
Back on the bike, I ride along the crazy twists at half the speed of before. The new friends behind me eventually flash headlights to say goodbye, and pull over to turn around. They weren't even going this way, except to keep an eye on me like I promised.
Humans really are "Ok". People like this are the reason I will always be nice to wayward travelers in my own town.
I need to get off of this bike for a while. I ride up on a river and decide this is a good place for a break. I can rinse out my wounds. I can gather strength. Drink water. Curse. Be sad. I'll send some bloody pics to Rusty and pretend it was all funny. He is my "overwatch" buddy, who keeps an eye on me from afar. He's sure to say something witty and cynical that will raise my spirits.
This is the (rage) I live by, in the spirit of determination to go big in life. However, at the moment I'm feeling that this is not cool. This is not fun. This is not worth the fkkking story to tell. This is just a whole lot of suckage, very far away from home.
I find shade for the bike, grab my first-aid gear and walk down to the river. There is a pleasant overhang of trees and twenty yards of shaded gravel beach down to the water. It is blazing hot and I want to lie down and halfway submerged in the cool river. But the water is super shallow, filled with wispy green strings of algae that whip and dance with the current. I need to get the dirt out of my abrasions, but there is no way I'm going to introduce all of the larvae, aqua-weevils, and pathogens in this water into my bloodstream.
Time is my friend at this point. I don't need to be anywhere and I'm not moving for a while. I have a little picnic. I have a little nap.
When I was stranded in the woods, I felt like all the world was shytttt. But this time I just feel beat-the-hell-up. I need a safe haven. I need to quit for a minute, or maybe a month. I'm going to find the nicest hotel within 50 miles of here, check in for three days, go to sleep and be HURT. I have played this game before, just not on a 650cc motorcycle.
What happens after that, I have no idea.
NEXT POST COMING SOON: September 25, 2024
