The rooster crows for thee

I have survived my first (and one hopes, last) serious motorcycle accident.

The past 40 hours have been a fugue of hazy images, awe at my good fortune, and overwhelming appreciation of how many people care about me and take care of me.

It began innocently enough, with a weekend plan that included seeing friends that I don't get to see enough, celebrating Tammy's marriage to her beau, Eric, and staying at my parent's cabin on Island Lake, about 20 minutes north of Duluth.

Julie and I have designs on some long rides this summer, culminating in a trip to Glacier National Park. As much fun as I've had riding the Ducati, including our trip to Red Lodge, Montana last August, I've felt ready to move to a bike better suited for such long rides, with a less aggressive riding posture, bigger bores and better touring accoutrements. I think I found just the bike, a BMW R1150R for sale in Cross Lake, MN, about two hours from Duluth.

The forecast called for beautiful riding weather for the trip up on Friday -- sunny, breezy, and warm with a chance of scattered showers -- and for the return trip on Sunday, so I decided to take the Iron Rooster. I left the office, after a unbelievably hectic but productive day, at 4:15. I had not taken Friday get-out-of-town traffic (with which I rarely contend) into account, and so I was a little surprised to find that it took me a full two hours to escape the metro. I called Keith, the gregarious, kind-hearted guy selling the bike, from Princeton at 6:15, with rain clouds on the horizon and another 100 miles to go, unsure whether I should press on. I decided while on the phone with him to continue, figuring that a little adventure was what I signed up for (and knowing that my rain gear was close at hand). I rolled out of the gas station in Princeton, pointing north. A few drops fell -- not even enough to warrant the rain gear -- but within minutes the clouds parted, and the most brilliant sun pierced through. I took it as immediate confirmation that I made the right decision.

Heading up Highway 169, Mille Lacs -- one of Minnesota's inland seas -- was sparkling under the sun, waves kicked up by the ample breeze. The Rooster and I were eating up the miles, and if we were starring in an animated cartoon, the bike would have had a smile across its front as big as my own. Curvy roads, little traffic and unbroken sunshine.

I reached Crosby, about 20 miles from my destination, stopped for gas, grabbed a gas station dinner of trail mix and some agua, and confirmed my directions. Rather than the path suggested by Google, a friendly customer suggested I take Highway 6 north to Crow Wing County Road 11, that to CR-3, north into Cross Lake, a route winding through the areas' lakes on little-trafficked two-laned roads with good, dry pavement. Twenty-five minutes later, I met up with Keith, and fifteen minutes after that, I'd given his bike a test ride, given it a once-over and settled on a price. Since I consider this a big purchase, and make such decisions cautiously, I told Keith I'd like to sleep on it and call him in the morning. It turns out that call would be delayed.

Setting out back toward Crosby, the plan was to hook up with Highway 210, which I'd follow all the way to Duluth, where I'd meet up with Keri, Andre, Max and Tracey for pre-wedding revelry. I'd hoped that I would not have to do much riding after sundown, since the potential for problems -- especially on isolated roads -- increases. The sun was still up, though not for long, and I was watchful for animals large and small, since dusk is such an active time for most.

The next moments are a hazy, fragmented montage:

A straight-away in which I remember thinking "this is fabulous..."

...my rear tire locked and fish-tailing...

...desperate to stop, remembering my training, and seeing the upcoming curve, I checked for oncoming traffic and seeing none, straightened the bike to vertical, to allow stronger braking, taking me into the oncoming lane of traffic...

...finding myself lying next to the Ducati, on its left side, idling, rear tire still spinning...

...reaching over to flip the kill switch, a motion that took incredible effort...

...flagging down an approaching car...

...discovering my left hand wasn't working, and reaching down to feel a right-angle in my left forearm...

...collapsing on my back, helmet against the pavement, and likely passing out...

...hearing a woman's voice comforting me, telling me help is on the way...

...giving my brother's phone number...

...the whip of helicopter blades overhead...

...the manipulations of the EMTs, whose expert handling of their industrial strength scissors I later discovered made short work of my clothes to help them assess the extent of my injuries, including slicing right through the beefy zippers of the heavy-duty leather jacket given to me by my brother...

...being loaded into the chopper...

...realizing I was being airlifted, the thrum of the rotors and engine, trying to turn my head to look out the window, to discover I had a neck brace on that precluded such movement...

...focusing on a tiny spot directly above me on the chopper's ceiling as I deliriously answered questions about allergies and today's date (the latter incorrectly)...

...feeling our descent and the chopper land, and being carted off into the ER, the air outside saturated with the smell of jet fuel...

...being so grateful to have all these people around me, coming to my rescue, saying "thank you, thank you, thank you"...

...talking to one of the ER docs, and somehow managing to establish that he was a classmate of my cousins from Two Harbors...

...until gradually time became linear again.

With help of the kind and patient ER nurses, I was able to call Julie, leave a message for my parents at home (not realizing that they, too, were at the cabin), and tried to get word to my friends expecting me in Duluth. My recall of phone numbers those first few hours was pretty limited, and the iPhone, although amazingly intact in an inside pocket of my jacket that somehow escaped the emergency scissors, remained with jacket and the bike. Left to my addled memory, I found myself transposing digits and or having a total blank with numbers that I dial regularly.

One of the ER docs used a fascinatingly old-world-meets-high-tech device resembling a hoist attached to two Chinese finger traps (the latter attached to fingers of my left hand) to re-set the bones in my forearm, which were dislocated and broken. The "clunk" sound as the bones slid into place may have only been psychological, but it was accompanied by immediate relief of pain that, thankfully, my body and the drugs I was given hadn't even allowed me to fully feel. He did so with such expertise that I may escape surgical installation of plates or screws to keep the bones in their proper places as they heal.

My brother arrived a few hours later, his the eyes on me for our entire family. What can you say in gratitude to a man who, although already sleep deprived from his newborn, will drive three hours in the middle of the night to make sure you are okay?

The next day, my parents made a marathon trek, first to retrieve my belongings from the bike, inspect its condition, and take photos (which I'll post soon), then drive to the hospital to fetch me and take me home. My family has made sure that my apartment is stocked with bone-building groceries and videos to pass the time. How do you say thank you for so much caring? For such an outpouring of love?

What do you say in thanks to the health care professionals who looked after every aspect of my care, from maximizing my chances of (at first) surviving and (later) having a speedy recovery, laughing with me at my rather anemic attempts at humor, making sure I left the hospital with everything I needed?

What do you say to the unknown Samaritan who pulled over -- perhaps herself in the midst of some important journey -- to stay with me, to offer me that most critical reassurance, that you are not alone, and whose speedy action might be the crucial factor that allows me to reflect back on this experience at all?

And what do you say to the love of your life, whose abiding concern, humor and love -- undimmed by the cruel miles that separate us -- has helped me face each wave of awareness that's passed over me since the accident, from "I'll need a new motorcycle," to "I guess I'll be okay," to "I very nearly wasn't?"

I'm sure I don't know, but I only hope that they all know how much it means to me, that it moves me to tears to consider their selflessness, their compassion and their care. I count myself among the luckiest guys on earth. (Today I absorbed the fact that I was apparently found only a few feet from a bridge embankment and a river. I am lucky indeed.)

---

The Rooster's riding days days may be over. From what I've been able to piece together so far, I left the road, augered into the ground on the left side of the bike, bending the handlebars, shattering the left mirror and damaging the tank, fender, seat and body. I likely flipped over the top of the handlebars when this happened (which is probably how I snapped my arm). My helmet took quite an impact, popping the visor off, leaving deep grooves on the top right side, and distorting its geometry enough to press my glasses across my face, bending the nose pads and gashing the bridge of my nose. I have an appointment with the insurance folks tomorrow, and am preparing myself for the scenario that the bike is totaled.

Harder still is preparing myself for the likely possibility that I will never know exactly what happened. There's a patch of blood on the top of my helmet. Is it mine? (I thank having good gear, including gloves, jacket, boots and helmet, for the fact that other than the gash from my glasses, I had hardly a scratch on me.) Did I hit an animal? Did a bird collide with my head? My dad noticed that the front brake cable was damaged, which is surprising, since that's on the right side of the bike, whereas the rest of the damage is on the left. Did my front brakes (which account for 75% of a motorcycle's stopping power) fail as I was approaching the curve? I doubt I'll ever have answers to these questions.

Although (and possibly to the consternation of many) this experience does not make me want to stop riding, to call it sobering is an enormous understatement.

I'm both glad and lucky to be alive, facts I will not soon forget. I am surrounded by people who love and take care of me, which I will never forget. I couldn't be more thankful to draw breath or more grateful for my friends and family.