The Wreck
by Titus Gee
It wasn’t me.
Don’t worry.
I slowed when I saw the brake lights ahead, and in the quiet that followed I could hear the sirens coming up behind me.
Sunday afternoon in the perpetual Indian summer that is Southern California’s version of Autumn, and I was out to see it up close. The breeze was warm with a hint of hidden chill — the kind of fair weather that cries out to be romped around in.
I headed up the nearest canyon.
After months of daily commuting on the Nighthawk, the saddle finally feels right, the wheels like an extension of myself. The tight ball of tension in my gut, that used to form at every curve, has gone, leaving behind the exhilaration that comes from knowing how the road and the G-forces are supposed feel and feeling it. Like my bicycle used to feel when I rode it everyday as a kid.
I glided back and forth in a steady rhythm of lefts and rights, steering with the throttle and the subtle tilt of my hips.
It’s like learning how to fly.
Every motorcycle within 50 miles was on the road, or so it seemed, flashing past in groups sometimes a dozen strong. The canyon had called and we were all out there answering.
Then it stopped.
I came round a curve and there were the taillights and the row of cars. An old guy in a flannel shirt stood in the middle of the road, and I could just make out the bright blue of the fairing from a sport bike lying on the left-hand shoulder up ahead.
I lifted my visor and looked at the guy in the flannel shirt. I didn’t need to ask.
“Motorcycle versus car, head-on,” he said.
I whistled through my teeth.
The sirens caught up to me, just then — green forest service fire engines with their lights flashing.
I sat there for a minute, torn between walking up to see the wreck or turning back.
On the one hand, if you’re going to ride, to love riding the way I do, you have to face the truth about the worst-case scenario.
On the other hand, the paramedics didn’t need me in the way. Also, dying is rather a private business, not something to be sullied unduly just to make a point to myself. And dying is almost certainly what the rider of that blue sport bike was doing. Head-on is a tough one to survive.
I turned around.
The setting sun stung my eyes. It was just at that angle where you can’t really avoid it, where it turns the world to a foggy glare. Must have been what happened to the sport bike and the car — one of them gets blinded on the curve and wanders into the other lane at just the wrong moment, and . . .
I took it easy, fighting that glare back toward home and pulling off to let the firetrucks, ambulance, and police cars by as they sped in the other direction.
I thought about crashing.
Riding has a way of letting reality get right up in your face — with tragedy as well as transcendence.
I’m a careful rider. I knew it was dangerous when I started, and I don’t take stupid risks just for the rush. But just like in the rest of life, you can’t control the other guy. Sometimes other folks get stupid and you get hurt. That’s life.
Nothing you can do about it, but I guess it helps to know ahead of time — wakes you, makes you careful.
When I got home I logged on and ordered a new pair of riding pants with a Kevlar lining.
I’m awake. I’m alive.
And I plan on keeping it that way.
