The psychology of a motorcycle accident

It was the first Saturday night I’ve been out riding in what seemed like forever.  Billy and his girlfriend whom we call “Meximelt” were riding along with me.  The first spot we hit was supposed to be the Stockyards in Fort Worth, the famous White Elephant bar.  I was riding my newly restored 1998 Dyna Low with a Wide Glide converted front end and just loving the way it felt to be on a machine I fixed up myself.  Shortly after something fell off of my bike but I was unaware of it.  Billy came speeding up next to me yelling that something fell off my bike and hit him in the neck.  We double backed and parked on the side of a bridge and started looking at my bike and found it was the timing cover.  “How weird” I said to Billy and he started complaining about something I couldn’t quite make out while rubbing his neck.  Soon his girlfriend found the missing part and we took off again for the Stockyards.

(My cohort in crime: Billy)

Upon pulling up to the bar I hopped off and discovered that the screw holding the timing cover had actually snapped in one place and completely backed out in another.  I said to Billy “Good thing Harley has the timing plate cover bolts slotted so that I can replace them if a screw breaks off.  If this had been a Jap bike I’d probably have to tear the engine down.” 

Billy, a proud Honda owner replied “If this had been a Jap bike you wouldn’t have crap falling off of it in the first place.”  Touché’, I know when I’ve been had.

We mosey on into the bar and hang out for about 30 minutes, just trying to soak in the air conditioning.  After a while the band started tuning up but we were already eager to ride again so we headed out.  We run to Berry Street in Fort Worth which has a couple of cool little live music clubs and find out ETA (one of our friend’s bands) is playing there.  We stop in, say hello, talk some smack and soon are back on the road again with a promise to return and see them play.   We hit I-30 and run down to Camp Bowie drive to see if we could hit the Old House, a bar where the Chula Chasers like to hang out which is literally an old house converted into a bar.  The manager, a biker himself likes to say that this is the home of the world famous 3-ball championship pool tournament; it could be because their pool table only has three balls but who knows, he’s a strange cat. He always seems drunk even though that’s probably just his personality.  Unfortunately these guys were closed for the night so we head back towards the city and run up Camp Bowie to Score’s, a well known, mostly clean, biker friendly bar.  There we meet some members of the Punisher’s MC and just hang out and shoot the bull for a little while.  At about 10:45pm I start feeling a little tired and felt the night would soon be coming to an end.  I suggest to Billy that we hit maybe one more bar and call it a night. 

We pull out of Scores parking lot and head Northwest on Camp Bowie Blvd.  The night brought cooler temperatures, I was on my new(ish) scooter, my buddy was riding just to the left of me and I was soon to head home to my beautiful wife and kids, life was good.  Soon we were on an unlit portion of Camp Bowie but an area that I am somewhat familiar with when suddenly in my headlights I see a huge pot hole or to be more accurate a sunken in manhole cover that I knew was just going to pound my butt.  So I applied the brakes and then stood on my pegs to absorb the shock with my legs (as opposed to my back).  I wasn’t worried or nervous, I’d done something like this 100 times over the years, but suddenly everything went wrong.  I remember looking down at my feet as they hit the pavement and rolling onto my back, striking the back of my helmet hard against the ground then watching my feet rise up over my head and over my body as I tumbled forward (or rather backward) unable to stop myself.  I soon found myself staring down at my cell phone on the pavement wondering “why is my phone on the ground” when I heard a skidding sound and watched my pocket knife that I wear in a sheath on my right side, skid on the pavement past me on the left side.  I then looked ahead about 30 to 40 yards and watched my still rolling motorcycle tip over and skid on the ground, sparks flying. 

I heard cars braking from what seemed like everywhere.  The screech of tires so loud I couldn’t hear anything else.  Suddenly it seemed like a mob of people were running up to me asking me questions like “are you okay” or “do you need an ambulance”. 

I was so confused; it hadn’t dawned on me that I had been in an accident.  Billy ran up to see me standing on my feet then rushed away to start my bike and pull it into the parking lot.  I wandered around while people kept peppering me with questions about hospitals and ambulances when Billy ran up and started checking me for injuries by lifting my shirt, looking at my head, etc.  Someone finally said “dude, your arm” and I looked at my right arm to see it covered in blood.  I asked Billy “is it to the bone?” and he replied that no, I would be fine. 

Suddenly the only thing I could think about was that I wanted to be home with my wife and to see my kids.  The urge was overpowering, like the most important thing in the world.  I didn’t know who to call so I called my brother who was out at a bar.  He came and picked me up in a Taxi which took me to my house.  Billy followed shortly after with my bike which came out of the crash with minimal damage and still ran fine.  My brother helped to clean me up after I stripped down to my boxers and my wife ran to a 24 hour CVS pharmacy to get some bandages.  Suddenly I was alone with my two kids in my house when I just became overwhelmed and wept uncontrollably for about 2 or 3 minutes.  I felt like I had been given a second chance at life.  I felt grateful and profoundly relieved yet mystified at what happened and mostly I just felt shock. 

My wife?  Yeah, she was upset, of course she was.  She told me that I had made her worst nightmare come true and for the first time since getting a motorcycle I felt like I had been acting entirely selfish in riding one.  I couldn’t imagine getting back onto a bike.

Fast forward to today, 10 days later.  I’m a psychological wreck because of that accident.  I find myself searching phrases like “is riding a motorcycle worth it” on Google.  I find myself questioning my identity on some levels.  Here I am, in a motorcycle club, with people I love to be with, who welcome my family unquestioningly, and who seem to genuinely care about me.  Then there’s my dad, also in an MC and often times if we have nothing else to talk about, we have this.  This is an area that I can relate to my dad on a level nobody else in our family can, it’s uniquely mine and I cherish it.  Then there is just the pure joy and zen that comes with riding.  Do you know what I think about when riding?  Nothing, I just am “in the moment” which feels like the only time that is ever the case.  I come back from a ride feeling cleansed, mentally renewed and relaxed but now I feel like all of that has been stripped away from me.  I didn’t die on the side of the road that night but it feels like my spirit did. 

I have played the scenario of “what if” over and over in my head, imagining everything from just bouncing over that hole in the ground unharmed riding along my merry way to the image of my wife trying to explain to my 22 month old daughter that “daddy is asleep and isn’t coming home anymore”.  Just the thought breaks my heart so bad that tears well up in my eyes as I type this.  Sometimes I don’t know if I can ever do it again.

(My reasons for living)

Logically I know that I am very unlikely to ever be killed on a motorcycle.  I also know that a bacon cheeseburger will probably pose more of a threat to my well being than a Saturday morning ride (literally, I have high cholesterol and high blood pressure).  I also know that logically, I could die on my commute to work as I drive through some of the nation’s worst traffic.  I know that in the past I’ve been in dangerous situations through my job, situations that involved doing things like searching for explosives, dealing with armed robbers, etc.  But I’ve never been in a situation where I felt as out of control as I did that night and with so much on the table to lose.  Maybe my fear is irrational, maybe my head is in the wrong place, I don’t know.  The only thing I do know is that I’m more uncertain than certain for the first time in who knows how long...and that’s alien to me.