(Raoul: Gypsy MC International's Internet Officer and all around alright guy)
I read your last post in the Wandering Gypsy: “The Psychology of a Motorcycle Accident” and found myself compelled to offer a response. Not just a comment in your blog, but a personal response from an older brother who’s traveled many of the roads you’ve yet to discover.
First, your article was well written and thought provoking. I feel for the psychology of a “crash” that you described ... and more. I began riding in 1966, in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas. Fortunately, I was lucky for more than forty years in the saddle. Sure, I had a few get-offs and I did some stupid things that ended in bent metal and a few broken bits-and-bobs, but these mistakes and blunders resulted in minimal damage, pain and suffering. I’d laugh them off and get back on my bike and ride.
Then one day, my life changed ... my paradigm shifted in a manner I could never have conceived.
There’s no doubt that riding a motorcycle is dangerous. The inventors of the steam velocipede had no idea their invention would evolve from a 10mph conveyance to the 200mph+ bikes campaigned in MotoGP. Nor could they ever conceive of the traffic and highway systems or HOV lanes or freeway interchanges a rider must negotiate to travel safely from point A to point B. While motorcycles are thrilling - they are also dangerous and, as riders, we’ve got to consider the psychology that goes with the responsibility.
After nearly a lifetime cheating the reaper, my time finally came and the old bastard got his reward. Not the entire reward but he took a big bite out of me. A bite big enough for me to realize he’s there and he’s ready for more. It was 2007, October 6, to be exact. I was riding with Limey and his wife Phallin, and one of my Houston members, Billy G., from my home in Northwest Houston to the League City Fall Down Run. We were on I-45, near Nasa in Clear Lake, rolling south to Santa Fe - looking forward to a party with the tribe. Traffic was moving fast and we were in the screamer lane. When all of a sudden I noticed that cars were slowing in front of us. We began scrubbing off the speed and were aware that something was happening up front. The the danger appeared- a roll of visqueen plastic appeared from under a car that was still running well over fifty. The plastic was billowing in the wind, like a bed-sheet on a clothesline and it was moving. I looked to my right and was blocked in - a jersey barrier blocked my left – my brothers were riding tight behind me and I felt I couldn’t just lock ‘em up so I tried to ride over the plastic.
Generally, when you get in trouble on a bike, you ride it and fight it - sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t. There was no fight to this crash, I went down in an instant and took the entire force of the fall on the plateau of my right tibia - crushed, exploded, whatever. The meat-wagon came, I got enough Demerol in me to deal with the pain, three days later I was in surgery - plates, pins, the whole enchilada. Recovery was slow and incomplete. I was laid up, first using a walker, then crutches and finally a cane. I didn’t see my bike for a couple of months but I did see my chapter. They knew I was jacked-up and they were there for me. I was living alone at the time. I had a new wife who I’d been married to for less than a year and we were still living in our respective cities - she in Phoenix, me in Houston. She got me through the worst part - the surgery and the immediate recovery but then she got back to her life - a job flying with Southwest Airline and shared custody of her son.
Eight months later I was back on my bike - pounding the breeze from Houston to Corpus and then to Harlingen and back to Houston - my first long, and solo, ride. Here’s where the psychology kicked in for me. My bike came back from the shop with minor repairs from the crash. My brothers took care of all that. When I was ready to ride, which was after a chapter meeting at my home - I was still the chapter prez, I announced I was ready to ride to a local bar for a drink. One of my members rolled the bike out of my garage, pointed it the right direction and fired it up. I stumble from the house to the bike - folded my cane up and stashed it in a saddlebag and climbed aboard. I eased down in the seat like a bull rider on the baddest bull at the National Finals. I took ahold of the bars and blipped the throttle - it was all just like I remembered it - except for me.
I had changed - I wasn’t the ten-foot-tall-and-bullet-proof guy I’d always been before. I was damaged goods. Not only my leg, but my mind - I felt fear, not from the thrill of the ride but from the knowledge that another mistake and I’d be back in the emergency room or worse - on a slab in the morgue.
I struggled through the mental process of building my confidence and getting back to the point where I’d make responsible decisions on the road. Being too conservative can kill you as quick as being too reckless. The old me gradually came back, not the same as before but good enough. Then in 2009, at Mandatory in San Saba, I fell in the mud and broke my femur - same leg. At least this wasn’t a bike wreck but it was just as traumatic, maybe even more. Repeat process - surgery, rod, pins, rehab, etc., etc. Five months later I was back on the bike - this time a bit more gingerly but still back riding.
In November, during Thanksgiving, I rode from my new home in Arizona to San Diego - my first long solo ride. My confidence had been shaken again but I was determined to beat it.
In October 2010, I hit a deer during a ride from Houston to Lake Mathis where I was going to attend the Calallen Halloween Party. This time I didn’t go down, I fought it and won. This little incident resulted in over seven-grand in damages to my ’03 Anniversary Road Glide but I rode the bike to a stop, kicked the stand down and thanked the Lord for sparing me from another encounter with the orthopedic surgeon.
Now that you’ve seen my qualifications - I’ll cut to the chase and give you some sage wisdom from one who’s been there. It’s really quite simple - you’ve got to know who you are and I’m sure you do. You’ve got to ask yourself if you’d be the person you’d be happy spending the rest of your life with if you walked away from your motorcycle and took a more conservative path in your life - a path that would increase your chances of arriving home safely each day, that would ensure you’d be home with your beautiful wife and your adoring children. Or, if you gave up the ride, would there be an emptiness in your heart and your soul that would never be filled again. An emptiness that would not only impact you but your ability to be a husband to that beautiful wife and a father to those adoring children. You see, it’s not only giving up the ride, it’s giving up the life as well. Bikers are a strange breed - we’re fatalists - when our time’s up we accept that we might pay the ultimate price for our love of two wheels.
As for me, I’ll continue to ride. I may not ride as fast or as far, I may not take the chances I once took - but I’ll continue to ride. Because, if I don’t I won’t be me – and being me, being free and being with my brothers is what defines me. I know, someday, I won’t be able to ride and I’ll have to cross that bridge when I get to it. But until then, I’ll ride!
(A note from Alduro: First I just want to say "thanks" to everyone who emailed me, private messaged me, left comments or otherwise who have been supportive of me during this time. I didn't really get physically banged up too bad but my spirit and mind were twisted. I can honestly say I will never look at a motorcycle the same way again, I have more respect for both the machine and the road now than I ever have. I also have grown to respect my fellow Gypsys more now than ever before and I've grown to feel more gratitude and love towards my wife than I had before. This continues to be a growth experience for me and I feel that in many ways this will be a factor in driving me more towards where I need to be as a Christian, friend, brother, son, father, etc. Until that time I will continue to simply take it easy, read my Bible, pray and seek God. I will also begin to re-prioritize some things in my life and give my family more time and effort than I previously have. So again a special thanks to Raoul for taking the time to write about his experiences and for letting me share them here. I also should point out that Raoul deserves the quote of the year award when he wrote in his last email to me "live your life on the high side of moderation".)
First, your article was well written and thought provoking. I feel for the psychology of a “crash” that you described ... and more. I began riding in 1966, in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas. Fortunately, I was lucky for more than forty years in the saddle. Sure, I had a few get-offs and I did some stupid things that ended in bent metal and a few broken bits-and-bobs, but these mistakes and blunders resulted in minimal damage, pain and suffering. I’d laugh them off and get back on my bike and ride.
Then one day, my life changed ... my paradigm shifted in a manner I could never have conceived.
There’s no doubt that riding a motorcycle is dangerous. The inventors of the steam velocipede had no idea their invention would evolve from a 10mph conveyance to the 200mph+ bikes campaigned in MotoGP. Nor could they ever conceive of the traffic and highway systems or HOV lanes or freeway interchanges a rider must negotiate to travel safely from point A to point B. While motorcycles are thrilling - they are also dangerous and, as riders, we’ve got to consider the psychology that goes with the responsibility.
After nearly a lifetime cheating the reaper, my time finally came and the old bastard got his reward. Not the entire reward but he took a big bite out of me. A bite big enough for me to realize he’s there and he’s ready for more. It was 2007, October 6, to be exact. I was riding with Limey and his wife Phallin, and one of my Houston members, Billy G., from my home in Northwest Houston to the League City Fall Down Run. We were on I-45, near Nasa in Clear Lake, rolling south to Santa Fe - looking forward to a party with the tribe. Traffic was moving fast and we were in the screamer lane. When all of a sudden I noticed that cars were slowing in front of us. We began scrubbing off the speed and were aware that something was happening up front. The the danger appeared- a roll of visqueen plastic appeared from under a car that was still running well over fifty. The plastic was billowing in the wind, like a bed-sheet on a clothesline and it was moving. I looked to my right and was blocked in - a jersey barrier blocked my left – my brothers were riding tight behind me and I felt I couldn’t just lock ‘em up so I tried to ride over the plastic.
Generally, when you get in trouble on a bike, you ride it and fight it - sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t. There was no fight to this crash, I went down in an instant and took the entire force of the fall on the plateau of my right tibia - crushed, exploded, whatever. The meat-wagon came, I got enough Demerol in me to deal with the pain, three days later I was in surgery - plates, pins, the whole enchilada. Recovery was slow and incomplete. I was laid up, first using a walker, then crutches and finally a cane. I didn’t see my bike for a couple of months but I did see my chapter. They knew I was jacked-up and they were there for me. I was living alone at the time. I had a new wife who I’d been married to for less than a year and we were still living in our respective cities - she in Phoenix, me in Houston. She got me through the worst part - the surgery and the immediate recovery but then she got back to her life - a job flying with Southwest Airline and shared custody of her son.
Eight months later I was back on my bike - pounding the breeze from Houston to Corpus and then to Harlingen and back to Houston - my first long, and solo, ride. Here’s where the psychology kicked in for me. My bike came back from the shop with minor repairs from the crash. My brothers took care of all that. When I was ready to ride, which was after a chapter meeting at my home - I was still the chapter prez, I announced I was ready to ride to a local bar for a drink. One of my members rolled the bike out of my garage, pointed it the right direction and fired it up. I stumble from the house to the bike - folded my cane up and stashed it in a saddlebag and climbed aboard. I eased down in the seat like a bull rider on the baddest bull at the National Finals. I took ahold of the bars and blipped the throttle - it was all just like I remembered it - except for me.
I had changed - I wasn’t the ten-foot-tall-and-bullet-proof guy I’d always been before. I was damaged goods. Not only my leg, but my mind - I felt fear, not from the thrill of the ride but from the knowledge that another mistake and I’d be back in the emergency room or worse - on a slab in the morgue.
I struggled through the mental process of building my confidence and getting back to the point where I’d make responsible decisions on the road. Being too conservative can kill you as quick as being too reckless. The old me gradually came back, not the same as before but good enough. Then in 2009, at Mandatory in San Saba, I fell in the mud and broke my femur - same leg. At least this wasn’t a bike wreck but it was just as traumatic, maybe even more. Repeat process - surgery, rod, pins, rehab, etc., etc. Five months later I was back on the bike - this time a bit more gingerly but still back riding.
In November, during Thanksgiving, I rode from my new home in Arizona to San Diego - my first long solo ride. My confidence had been shaken again but I was determined to beat it.
In October 2010, I hit a deer during a ride from Houston to Lake Mathis where I was going to attend the Calallen Halloween Party. This time I didn’t go down, I fought it and won. This little incident resulted in over seven-grand in damages to my ’03 Anniversary Road Glide but I rode the bike to a stop, kicked the stand down and thanked the Lord for sparing me from another encounter with the orthopedic surgeon.
Now that you’ve seen my qualifications - I’ll cut to the chase and give you some sage wisdom from one who’s been there. It’s really quite simple - you’ve got to know who you are and I’m sure you do. You’ve got to ask yourself if you’d be the person you’d be happy spending the rest of your life with if you walked away from your motorcycle and took a more conservative path in your life - a path that would increase your chances of arriving home safely each day, that would ensure you’d be home with your beautiful wife and your adoring children. Or, if you gave up the ride, would there be an emptiness in your heart and your soul that would never be filled again. An emptiness that would not only impact you but your ability to be a husband to that beautiful wife and a father to those adoring children. You see, it’s not only giving up the ride, it’s giving up the life as well. Bikers are a strange breed - we’re fatalists - when our time’s up we accept that we might pay the ultimate price for our love of two wheels.
As for me, I’ll continue to ride. I may not ride as fast or as far, I may not take the chances I once took - but I’ll continue to ride. Because, if I don’t I won’t be me – and being me, being free and being with my brothers is what defines me. I know, someday, I won’t be able to ride and I’ll have to cross that bridge when I get to it. But until then, I’ll ride!
(A note from Alduro: First I just want to say "thanks" to everyone who emailed me, private messaged me, left comments or otherwise who have been supportive of me during this time. I didn't really get physically banged up too bad but my spirit and mind were twisted. I can honestly say I will never look at a motorcycle the same way again, I have more respect for both the machine and the road now than I ever have. I also have grown to respect my fellow Gypsys more now than ever before and I've grown to feel more gratitude and love towards my wife than I had before. This continues to be a growth experience for me and I feel that in many ways this will be a factor in driving me more towards where I need to be as a Christian, friend, brother, son, father, etc. Until that time I will continue to simply take it easy, read my Bible, pray and seek God. I will also begin to re-prioritize some things in my life and give my family more time and effort than I previously have. So again a special thanks to Raoul for taking the time to write about his experiences and for letting me share them here. I also should point out that Raoul deserves the quote of the year award when he wrote in his last email to me "live your life on the high side of moderation".)
Thanks for the write up - I ride as well and am thinking about having a kid with my wife. She has never liked the idea of my motorcycle and will campaign against it even more once we actually do. I haven't had to lay the bike down but I have had some close calls and scary moments. Just from friends and friends parents who have had injuries (some more serious than others), I know the threat is real. I hope to never have an issue but it has made think about not riding to preserve myself and you're article helped me sum up some of those feelings. Good luck and ride safe.
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