It was an early Sunday morning. The sun was just breaking over the horizon and the full harvest moon still shone brightly in a perfectly clear sky - a sky that was just now turning from black to deep purple. It’s cool out, but not overly cold and I pull on my leathers and boots as I finish up a steaming cup of black coffee.
I’ve had the motorcycle back for about a week and a half now. Back a few months ago, I had crashed in a really stupid accident, totally my fault, and got to spend the summer in casts, on crutches and with screws in my ankle.
So imagine my surprise when the day after the doc lets me off the crutches finally, I get the call from the repair shop - the bike’s done and ready to roll.
This morning is going to be a special ride. I’ve been commuting to work every good day. I’ve been doing practice rides all over the place and in three large parking lots that I use for this. This morning, though, I’m going out just for me. I’m going out just to ride for no particular reason. I’m going out to take that goddamned left turn that I dumped back in May.
When they called and told me the bike was done, I almost leapt out of my chair. I had just gotten off crutches, so I wasn’t in any condition yet to actually go pick up the bike. I went to the dealer, paid for my part of the repairs and had it trailered home. The first time I got to ride it was from the trailer up the driveway into my garage - a glorious 75 feet!
As I head out the back door, I feel that first snap of chill in my nostrils. It’s gonna be cold at 60 MPH, but I’ve got good cover this morning. I open up the garage and unlock the bike. As I saddle up and push back out into the driveway, I can feel that familiar sensation of relaxation mixed with fear mixed with excitement, settling in. My breath is quick inside my helmet and my fingers tremble a little as I pull on the brake lever.
Down to the bottom of the driveway and into the street ’ now, start her up. It’s 6:10 AM on a Sunday and I live in a very quiet neighborhood. My next door neighbor’s bedroom window is about 25 feet from the front of my garage, so I like to give her the courtesy of not blasting her out of a sound sleep with the first crank.
The bike starts as usual, taking a little longer to settle down because of the cold, but she runs smooth and true. I snick into first gear, take a deep breath and release the clutch. Second gear comes automatically and I don’t even think about third. My downshifts are crisp and perfectly timed with throttle so that I only need the brakes 25 feet from the traffic light at the end of the street.
There’s a garbage truck pulling out of the supermarket. There’s the Sunday newspaper delivery guy rolling down the wrong side of the street in his pickup, tossing papers on porches. There’s a cop a the 7-11 getting coffee and a donut, no doubt.
There’s nobody else on the road. The sun has poked up over the houses now so that riding east is a bitch. For now, I’ll stay pointed north. My turn is coming up.
It was a simple day. I was on my way to work. It was election day, actually. I was going to be working late that night, but it stays light pretty late in May, so I wasn’t worried about riding home. It had rained hard the day before and I had left the bike at home. That morning, the roads were still a little damp, but they weren’t wet. It was about 7:45 AM. The turn was a basic left from a four lane artery on to a local feeder street. It’s a shortcut I took all the time - what it does is bypass about four traffic lights and puts you right in front of Starbucks just in time for a coffee stop.
It was a simple day, a simple turn. It was a turn I had made a hundred times. It was a turn I had no problems with and wasn’t even thinking about. It was a turn that would change my summer.
As I cruise along this cold September morning, I’m still thinking about what I did to screw up that turn back in May. Did I hit it too fast? Did I touch the brakes? Did I simply slide out on a wet paint stripe or manhole cover? To the best that I can tell, I simply took a corner that should have been taken at about 10-15 MPH at about 30. I can’t figure any other reason why I would have planted the left footpeg in the ground.
I went down before I even knew I was in trouble. And in the clear light of 7:45 AM on a Tuesday, I saw two pickup trucks heading directly for my head - I had crashed in the opposite lanes of traffic right in the middle of the turn. My left leg was trapped under 600 pounds of V-Rod. Those trucks were getting closer - do they see me?? In an adrenaline enhanced rush of dumb, I place my right foot on the seat and pull my left leg out from under the bike as hard as I can. It’s only later that I figure that the only reason that worked was that I basically pulled my ankle joint apart and my foot then had all the latitude it needed to pop out from underneath.
Today, I’m nervous. I’m more nervous than I’ve been so far getting back on the bike after the injury. Since I got the bike back, I’ve put almost 350 miles on and had not a single significant problem. I’ve ridden the freeways and side streets. I’ve ridden in nasty traffic and dealt with bull-headed tailgaters. I’ve managed to stay upright and I’m getting comfortable. But today, as I approach the corner of 39th Ave. and Market Street, I’m almost unable to control the bike.
So I tried to stand up. After pulling my leg out from under a 600 pound bike, I tried to stand up. That’s when I discovered that something was terribly wrong. You know that rubbery feeling you get when you’re foot’s gone to sleep and you try to stand on it? Well it was like that only worse. Nothing hurt, but nothing worked either. I couldn’t put any weight on the left leg without it going all rubbery and feeling like the leg was side-slipping the foot. That’s when it finally sunk in to my overly thick skull - I had broken my ankle.
The sun has come up a little more now and I can clearly see the turn ahead. Just as I remember it - basic left hand turn, just like many others I’ve taken in the last couple of weeks. I signal for a left turn, downshift, brake, then throttle up and pass right on by. I can’t do it. I can’t make the bike turn on to that street. I feel like an idiot. I feel like a fool. I feel like a complete squid. So, I execute a PERFECT left at the next intersection and go around the block.
When the EMT’s arrive, they start cutting my left pant leg off and unlace my boot. That’s when I see what I didn’t want to see. Looking down my leg, I see the last 10 inches or so of it are bent into a distinct ‘S’ shape. The EMT’s are asking me a lot of questions - what’s my full name, what’s the date, do I know where I am, do I know who the president is (when I answer ‘Al Gore’ they all laugh and realize that I’m OK.)
Why can’t I make the turn? Am I THAT scared? Am I THAT spooked that I might fall again? What, do I think that this particular intersection is cursed or something??? I go down about ten blocks and make two more PERFECT lefts to put me back on 39th Ave.
It was a nice ride in the ambulance. They stuck me with an IV needle - that almost made me pass out. They stuck an oxygen hose in my nose - that was fun. They assured me that my bike and helmet were fine - I had apparently been asking about both of them a lot. I hadn’t asked about my leg.
In the ER, they took a bunch of X-Rays, and I finally got to see what I had done. It looked awful to me, and I’m no doctor. They started me on lots of morphine and scheduled me for surgery.
OK, I’m going to make the turn this time. I’m telling myself this - actually saying it out loud - for ten blocks as I approach Market Street again. I tell myself, “this is easy - just like they teach you in school - Slow, Look, Lean & Roll …” Yeah. Easy. No sweat. Then why am I sweating in 48 degree weather at 35 MPH?
I spent the whole day in the hospital with my leg in the same cardboard splint that the EMT’s had put on in the middle of the street. It wasn’t until 5:00 PM that a surgeon was available to work on me. I watched a lot of Sci-Fi channel. I slept a little bit off and on and spent all day peeing into a bottle when I had to go?
Market Street’s coming up again. Don’t be a wuss. You can do this. Just do it like every single other time. Slow, Look, Lean & Roll. Slow, Look, Lean & Roll… OK, here we go, downshift, brake, OFF the brakes, I’m at the turn. Push the bars. The bike leans over. I’m half way through the turn. Roll on a little more. I’m three-quarters through. Ease up, you’re running wide and there’s a car parked right in your path. Push a little harder on that left bar, roll on a little more. Glance really, really quickly at the speedometer - I’m making the turn, successfully, at about 8 MPH … OK, so we’re going around again.
The surgeon greets me at 5:15 PM with an apology for me having to wait so long. Then we spend the next 15 minutes talking about my injury, what he’s going to do to fix it - install screws, stitch things up, etc. I sign the final consent forms and then the anesthesiologist gets to give me really fun medicine. I discovered on that day that of all doctors, it’s the anesthesiologist that you want to invite to your Saturday night parties!
Back down 38th Ave. I’m thinking about the turn I just made - and the fact that I made it. Of course, the reason I made it was that I took the corner like an old woman. Anyone could have made that turn at that speed. Two quick lefts puts me back on 39th for a third try.
The next thing I know, I wake up in the recovery room. Man, that WAS good medicine. My leg is all bandaged up and hurts like hell. The surgeon comes in to tell me that everything went well and that I should have no trouble going home the next day. Oh boy! I get to eat hospital food!! I also realize that my Memorial Day weekend is f–d and so is most of my summer - deal with that later.
Back up 39th Ave. I approach the turn on to Market Street with renewed confidence now. I’ve done it once at granny-speed, now just roll on a little more gas and settle in to a proper turn and we’ll be good to go. Crisp downshift. Quick two-wheeled braking maneuver. Sharp and sure push on the left bar. The bike leans perfectly and I roll on just the right amount of gas. About three-quarters of the way through the turn, I do the speedometer glance thing again - 15 MPH, much better. Back up to 25 around the corner. PERFECT TURN!! Jesus, I did it! I didn’t crash, the corner isn’t cursed, I’m not a squid!
I ride for another five hours that morning. I take ‘Crash Corner’ another ten or twelve times throughout the morning. I stop for a coffee and a paper. I talk to people about my very cool ride. After coffee, I head off into the brightening day and warming sun. 75 on the freeway never felt so good. The bike feels good, I feel good, the sun on my shoulders feels good.
I’m back in the saddle for good this time.
