For any motorcycle rider, a beautiful day can be spoiled in a split second. The simple joy of a nice, gentle, ride down a familiar street can be ripped away in a moment or two as metal crashes into metal and the pavement rushes up to grab fabric and flesh. What follows in the next few seconds, minutes, hours, weeks, and years beyond are fairly predictable based upon a few simple factors of speed, reaction time and the use of safety equipment. Some survive it, some do not. I'm lucky enough to be among the former group and not the later.

My split second at destiny's doorway came just after noon, on a Friday in early December, 2006. The bright fall sun had warmed the day to the upper 60's and the weekend forecast of mid 70's had me eagerly looking forward to an unexpected afternoon on the foothill roads. I was riding at 45 mph, eastbound in a line of traffic along a two lane road where a slight curve is bisected by two side streets. A pair of stop signs, neither of them against me, guard the intersection and the layout of the streets is such that cross traffic from one neighborhood to another is not expected.

As you read this you can probably anticipate just what happened, or not. I always thought I'd see some fool try to scoot straight across the road; it just didn't seem real when a big Lincoln Town Car abruptly pulled into the eastbound lane just slightly ahead of me. In less time than it takes to explain, my available roadway went from nearly 20 feet wide to just inches as I was forced into the oncoming traffic lane. I had three distinct choices; hit the Lincoln and fly over his front hood at 45 mph, try to swerve around him to the left and be run over by at least two cars coming toward me at 45 mph, or lay the bike down. "Monty," I thought, "I'll take door number three!"

For motorcycles, a real panic stop doesn't last long. The front forks fully compressed in a single heartbeat and the locked rear wheel broke loose at the same moment, sliding the rear of the bike away from me as it started a counter-clockwise spin. I had 'control' of the bike only an instant longer as I leaned back in an attempt to put the bike on the pavement in a way that I could stay with it and not roll my unprotected body into traffic. That little pipe dream didn't play out for more than a half second.

As soon as the left side hard bags hit the ground the bike bounced back up and tossed me violently away in a horizontal roll to the right. What was left of my beloved SilverWing tried to regain a two wheel stance, tumbling back to the right and hitting the big Lincoln in the drivers door before falling back to the pavement and sliding beyond the double yellow, coming to rest just inches from the first car in the opposing lane.

By this time I'm slightly disoriented as to direction and distance, but several thoughts are passing through my stream of consciousness - sliding if you will, with me. "Oh, this is gonna put me in the hospital! At least the new jacket seems to be working right, and Damn, that's a bumper over my head - I'm gonna survive the hit only to be run over by some jerk from behind!" And finally, "Man, the noise of my helmet scraping down to the shell sure is LOUD!"

As soon as I stopped sliding, thought number three registered and I'm alert enough to realize I better get the hell out of the middle of the street. Lying there just doesn't seem to be a safe option, no matter how much my knees sting and my shoulder hurts. I recall looking up from all fours and making the mental check of myself. Yup, I think I can stand and walk, let's move! As I stood I looked toward the Lincoln and see an older, white haired, gentleman gingerly stepping out and he is asking meekly, "Is something wrong?"

I'll not repeat verbatim my colorful, and very angry, responses. Mom always wanted me to respect my elders, but there are some times when four letter word phrases are the only ones that seem to fit perfectly, and at the same time assuage the building anger and waves of pain passing through the body from head to toe. Mr. Burgess, I apologize for being rude to you sir, but you deserved every expletive I shouted at you. And I think it's a good thing that you sat back in your car as I directed and waited for the police to arrive, otherwise I might have been arrested for aggravated assault on an idiot.

I turned back to look at the SilverWing, my faithful ride for the past 29,000 riding miles, and found it still running. The rear wheel was spinning slowly in fifth gear as if it wanted to continue onward to the 100,000 or so more miles of highway we should have found together. Had I not been in serious pain I would have tried to upright it and save it from the piteous looks of those witnesses to its last moments of joy. I walked over and carefully turned the kill switch to off.

At that moment I noticed a car parked at the edge of the road right next to the overturned bike and a woman at the wheel looking curiously at me. "Do you want me to call the police," she asked sweetly. Yes, and did you see what happened? The affirmative answer that the guy in the Lincoln had pulled out right in front of me helped put everything into context and the next step in the process of recovery from a serious motorcycle crash had begun. No matter how hard you try, it's nearly impossible for the rider to reconstruct the myriad details of the accident. The up close and personal perspective is the most painful, and certainly the one that matters most, but the answer to the flash of the bumper over my head wasn't found until I had a chance to talk with the witnesses. Only after talking with them did I realize that bumper I saw was that of the Lincoln. I actually slid UNDER the rear of that car.

I walked to the curb and began to sit down but was stopped by a bystander that identified himself as an off-duty police officer. "Sir, are you hurt? Do you want an ambulance?" he asked. I responded that I was pretty sure I had a broken shoulder and possibly a couple of broken ribs. I heard him on his radio, or maybe his cell phone, as he told the local dispatcher to send assistance. Literally seconds later the first siren was heard in the distance and within two minutes I was surrounded by first responders, EMS techs, and ambulance personnel.

I can't say the next 20 minutes were a blur, but it sure is amazing how 10 or 15 people can focus on the problems of just one guy and not fall over one another. At this point another part of the recovery process begins, the indignities of emergency treatment. Folks, it's not manly to have a woman CUT your clothes from your body and jab YOU with something stiff and slender. In another setting this might have been kinky and exciting, but so many people were standing in the area that I just couldn't get into the proper mood. Yes, ladies, it's a man thing that even while in unbearable pain thoughts of more pleasant encounters creep into our little pea brains. We're all pigs, I know.

Arrival at the hospital escalates the intensity of the personal attention. It's hard to focus on several questions at once as they begin to fire from all corners of an ER room. "Yes, please call my house, but don't tell the wife - tell my daughter instead. No, that doesn't hurt - but THAT DOES! Yes I have allergies - look in my billfold for a list of my meds. And, may I have a warm blanket please? I'm feeling VERY cold." In a matter of minutes I've told my complete medical history to at least three complete strangers. One doctor is probing my guts with boney fingers and another is rolling me over to look at my backside. "Yup, Doc, it's still hairy!" and "Isn't that a good scar there?" Although the exchanges are all disjointed, they flow together as my afternoon melds into an overflow of organized confusion, pain, care and concern from everyone.

I'm rolled down the hallway to an X-ray suite where I meet Zach, a young Army veteran who was a military brat. We chat briefly about serving our country as he goes about the business of gathering a series of shots that will determine my immediate future. My return to a holding area in a busy ER hallway continues in the indignity mode. Everybody passing by looks at the wrecked helmet and riders' jacket, immediately surmising that I'm probably naked under that sheet. I don't bother to confirm that, choosing to engage in my own little diversion of people watching. Two patients are wheeled by that look far worse than me. One guy has a huge hole at the side of his head and that sure looks like a worried wife beside him. Another patient is wheeled opposite me while the family consults with a couple of doctors. Tears are evident, and a few minutes later the gurney is taken away slowly in a direction opposite the treatment rooms. I'm now acutely aware that my feelings of pain are a very good sign.

The attending physician comes around much later with his diagnosis and plan of treatment. It could have been much worse, he says. The full face helmet saved my head from being cracked like an egg and the riding jacket with armor kept me from several broken bones. I'll have to endure several weeks of pain as the shoulder heals from a severe AC separation and I've got to follow up with my family physician to treat the large patches of road rash on my knees and legs. Otherwise, I'm good to go.

The family has arrived by now and ascertained that Pop's not going to be sifted into an awaiting urn any time soon. I'm escorted to the door as an ambulatory patient, but it doesn't take long for me to realize that filling the prescription for pain meds has high precedence on the list of things to do next. The following hours are not exactly a blur, more of a pleasant haze in drug induced calm as I'm pampered by concerned family.

Reality came bursting through the very next morning at 9 AM when an insurance adjuster representing Nationwide Insurance called and asked so sweetly, "Sir, are you okay?" "HELL NO," I responded, "I'm a hickey from head to foot, my shoulder is ripped apart, and my cycle is destroyed all because YOUR client pulled out in front of me at 45 mph. Does it sound like I'm okay?" What amazed me was that she just stepped forward with the conversation and simply said, "I'm just trying to find out what we can do to help you, are you well enough to give me a statement about the accident?"

Clang! Clang! Clang! Somehow, it didn't seem this woman was really concerned about me, but about the liability of Nationwide. I instantly sensed that making any factual statement would not be serving MY best interest. The tone on the other end of the conversation went immediately cold when I said I was new to the state and didn't completely understand my rights in the matter, and I felt I should consult an attorney.

I can't say I was badgered by that company during the next six days, but I certainly felt their pressure. They wanted my statement so they could, "Give me a check for incidental expenses." Huh. Now why would they be so prepared to give me a check when they had not yet heard MY end of the story?

I obtained a copy of the police report and found out something VERY unusual. The Mecklenburg County Prosecutor does not allow county law enforcement agencies to issue citations or determine who is at fault in an auto accident unless it involves a drunken driver or one of the participants dies. I could say he's lazy, but it's not nice to impugn the motives of a lawyer that can have your butt locked up. Let's just say, he leaves findings of fault to juries so that he may save the county court docket from being clogged with 'minor' disturbances.

BUT, the police report does indicate the driver of the car failed to yield. Hell, he flat out failed to stop for a sign! Now I understand why his insurance company was so eager to give me an incidentals check. Acceptance of any small amount ceases any further action on my part. At the moment an injured party takes a payment the issue is settled and the insurance company has total control over what is a fair settlement. I contacted a personal injury lawyer immediately after leaving the police department.

Yes, it's going to be a long road back to normal. It's about six weeks later and I've still got this feeling I'm going to come out on the short end of the stick. A close examination of the bike shows twisted forks, probably a cracked frame, a completely trashed fairing, both hard bags scraped beyond repair, and lots of little things that make me feel very lucky to be alive. We have determined the value of the bike and are now discussing how much they will pay for my helmet, brand new Teknic jacket, and the clothing that was cut from me. Believe it or not, the cheap bastards at Nationwide are balking at this part of the process. They apparently believe I should bear the burden, to the tune of several hundred dollars.

The medical bills are mounting fast, about $10,000 so far, and physical therapy starts next week. This could have been much worse, but being on the hook for this much money doesn't make me feel financially secure. My own insurance company? Nope. They won't help at all because it's obvious the other guy was at fault and he is covered by insurance. In fact, not until my lawyer pointed out that my policy provides $2,000 for my medical bills did they even admit that I had the right to place a claim against them too. Friends, you may not think so, but engaging a lawyer is usually necessary.

Long story short; A good helmet and riders jacket will save you from a lot of grief, so you should ALWAYS wear both. And never depend upon others to protect you; be proactive when you begin the settlement process, the insurance companies certainly aren't looking out for you.

I'll keep you all up to date on my progress as it happens. In the meantime, I'm without a ride . . . if you know of a good used bike I can buy cheaply please let me know.

Remember, "Ride today - Tommorow you may not be able!"

-LW