The first couple fell outside the usual decency standards of RedFence content.
In the words of Hagar the Horrible:
#$%$
&$%#
and
@#*&-ing, @#*&-ing, %#$&
I also had time to think about the Nighthawk grinding to pieces beside me, and the fact that it’s just about the only thing in the world that I own and the only possession I really care about (except the computers in my pack), oh yeah and wondering if I was ever going to stop sliding.
I blanked out the impact and a couple of seconds after.
Somehow I ended up in front of the bike. I remember fighting to control the slide, stay faceup, push the bike away with my left hand. They tell you you’re supposed to do that. It still caught up with me at one point and hit me in the back of the head.
I guess it was pretty likely, if not guaranteed, that I would be hit eventually. Been riding for years now. Rain and shine, traffic and clear, highways and byways and thoroughfares. And cage drivers just don’t look that carefully.
I was heading down the 5 Freeway, about three hours ago, heading to a meeting with the Creative Director.
Just as I got to the place where the far right lane veers off to become the 210, a lady in a white pickup truck decided to make a sudden bid for the freeway change — from two lanes away. She veered wildly into my lane at about 55 mph and smashed into my front corner. I got my hand out before she hit me.
The Nighthawk and I went sliding onto the 210, narrowly missing the triangle of curb that splits the two roads. Seems like the bike must have hit the curb and swung around to hit my head. Kind of surprised me.
Guess I have to thank HJC (helmet) and Power Trip (jacket) and Red Wing (boots) for making gear that does its job. Wish I had been wearing chaps instead of just jeans.
We stopped sliding after, I don’t know, two hundred, three hundred yards.
I stopped with the Nighthawk right behind me.
The pickup stopped on the shoulder of the 5, just on the other side of the curbed median.
It took a while to get through to 911, apparently the good people of LA all decided to call me in at the same time.
A fellow biker stopped in his truck to help me out. Said he had been hit twice on his bike. Wouldn’t let me move around.
Checked my arms and legs for breaks.
Asked about my back and neck.
He got the Nighthawk onto its rims and up onto the curb, out of the street.
Then I lay there.
“My name is Titus”
“Titus Gee”
“G-E-E”
“I’m 28”
“I live in Canyon Country”
The CHP arrived.
“My name is Titus”
“Titus Gee”
“G-E-E”
“I’m 28 . . .”
etc. for like 20 minutes.
The paramedics checked me out.
Bruises. Road rash.
Two sprained ankles.
They asked if I wanted an ambulance ride. But as a freelancer I have no insurance.
Better hit the free clinic in the morning.
One of the firemen that turned up actually found my glasses — lenses intact.
I gave my report.
Twice.
“Yup, she just hit me.”
“Hit you?” (That part seemed to surprise them.)
“Yeah. Slammed right into me. I tried to brake but it was too late.”
Watched a guy put sand on the oil stain where the Nighthawk came to rest.
Eventually they let me get up.
The lady looked scared. I told her it could have been worse.
We traded information.
I put my boots back on.
The CHP guys were kind, helpful, listened, asked for clarification, explained what to tell the insurance people. Generally raised my estimation of CHP guys.
Then I watched the tow truck guy pull in the clutch and push my two-wheeled friend up into the mechanical ambulance.
The taillight was still shining.
Meant to pull the keys out but forgot.
I crawled up and emptied the saddlebags.
My friends arrived and limp-walked me to their car.
Asked if I plan to keep riding after this.
“Yes.”
Nothin’ else to say.
The tow truck pulled away with the shattered remains of the machine that has carried me thousands of miles, across deserts, through rain and snow and the unholy wind, over mountains and across state lines, to work, to play, to swoop in and help others, or just to give somebody a ride in the canyons to brighten their day. I have sweat and bled and frozen and baked with that motorcycle, and now I watched it slip away without me into the night.
And the taillight is still shining.
