A Crash Observed.

I don’t remember the ride home. I remember the sense of exhaustion, and collapsing into myself when the music stopped. Like those waves of sound had propped me up like a scarecrow. Straw man. Plastic skeleton. I remember the slow march to the car. Bree chattering amiably to me while I stop to pee in the woods. Yeah, the fucking Woods. That’s about where it ends.

I don’t remember every Margarita, solitary soldiers that they were, but their marching echo in my headache reminds me that there were more than enough; a small army.

It’s late. I know this because when I wake up late, the sun streaming through the window falls on the foot of my bed and heats up my feet. The sun is already on the floor again. So much for A.M.

Growing up as a Mormon on an Air Force base my childhood was an exercise in cognitive dissonance. Watching strange men walk into the Mr. Robinson’s house while I knew Mr. Robinson was overseas. Being preached at about the importance of moral uprightness and the sanctity of marriage. I was told that the only true victory is victory over oneself while I watched men and women drill over and over outside my window in preparation for conquering others. I was told that the soul is the only thing that matters, while my mother obsessed over her make up before going to church each week. I was told that caffeine was bad for the body while coffee was in every adults hand each morning. Though I had never tasted it, coffee carried some allure to me through all my life. I had a job stocking water for the local grocery stores, and I would always walk through the coffee aisle just to pause and smell the coffee beans. When I finally did have my first drink of coffee I was shocked at how awful it tasted. For years i coaxed coffee with creamers and sugars alike, making it nearly chocolate milk or hot chocolate depending on the day. Finally, I just decided black was easiest and acclimated to the taste.

The smell of coffee and coffee beans is still something that will attract me from across a room. It’s mornings like these when coffee smells like honeysuckle. I make a beeline for the coffee machine.

Given enough caffeine, brick walls couldn’t withstand me. This morning I make a small pot, just enough to get the engines thrumming and a warm glow in my belly.

I shoot a couple emails over to the west coast in preparation for my upcoming trip to Hawaii. Spearfishing, surfing, scuba, volcano hiking; add in some good friends and hot Pacific island girls and you have a recipe for perfection. Perfection.

The day hangs lazily in the air like the film on an old shower door. I take some time to go to the gym and sweat out a little leftover alcohol. While I’m there the text messages start rolling in.

Tommy. Brenna. Tommy. Manny. Brenna. Apparently they are due for a motorcycle ride and my presence is cordially requested.

There is a phenomenon that occurs once you own a motorcycle. There is suddenly always a reason to go somewhere. Any destination is magically closer than it was before. It takes less time to get somewhere than it ever did in a car, but it always seems to take a lot longer to return home than you had anticipated. When the invitation comes in to go for a ride, I grab my gear and head home to shower.

I know Brenna has no helmet and no jacket to ride in, so I suit up, pack my spares, and hit the road. I decided to wear my old helmet because it matches my jacket a little better and my new KBC Stealth is a little worse for wear. I put on my black steel-toed Doc Martens because, let’s face it, there’s always a reason to wear them. Nothing says ass kicking like leather, steel, and tradition.

I have about 5 seconds to think once I get to Tommy’s house since I am the last one to get to the party and everyone else is already cocked, locked, and ready to rock. Brenna puts on her gear and we’re off. We fly. FLY. Through the City and out into the forests. The world is a blur of white farmhouses, red barns, blue water, and green and green and green. This goes on for hours punctuated by brief stops for gasoline and gatorade.

In the midst of my meditation I am jerked back to the real world by the brake lights of the bikes in front of me guiding me to the side of the road. Manny dismounts and takes off his helmet. This is how you know he’s serious. This is when you can see his eyes; the fire of the ride slowly leaking out the corners, burning acid trails into his skin as it cools.

“Watch it,” Manny says over the echo of the dying engines; his voice command, concern, and admonition at once. ” this road is great for twisties, but the last turn is dangerous. It’s a decreasing radius, so once you get into the turn it changes, gets sharper… more aggressive. Jason almost dumped his bike last week on this road.”

This is real. 38 pints of blood, 8 broken ribs, 7 surgeries, and 1 crushed lung tell me this. These are the statistics from my friend Terry’s wreck last year on a similar turn. He was nearly pulped by his Goldwing. That old bastard is hard as nails though; made of tougher stuff than I.
This turn goes much more smoothly than Terry’s Tour de Pancake, even though going into the turn I can’t see the exit. I lean and lean and when the road tries to leave, I lean some more and in no time, we’re done. Time to head to Manny’s house for some much needed Air-Conditioning before we head back to town.

Manny’s house is a testament to how tight the riding community is here in North Carolina. Manny, along with Jason, lives in a house with another friend of theirs and his entire family. They have a music room; in it is a grand piano and a full DJ booth complete with Technics 1200′s and speakers too small to climb inside of… but just barely. Little girls music lessons meets retired New York DJ toys.

Everyone sips sodas and juice while I barrel through two full glasses of water. Coming from the Mohave, desert habits die hard and I know we are going back out into the elements in moments. The day is waning and it’s a little cooler than before so we just grab the freeway back into town heading straight for Tommy’s house to unload everyone and reconvene.

A lime and a corona are a beautiful ‘Welcome Home’, even if it’s not your own house; even if you aren’t Mexican. Tommy welcomes us back in style while my phone is busy reminding me that I have somewhere to be. Bree is halfway to her party when I answer the phone.

“Hey, are you coming?”

Sure. I’m about to head to the house to meet you.

“We already left. You’ll have to meet us there.”

Oh. Ok. Um, what’s the address?

“It’s in Smithfield. I’ll text it to you.”

Now, the only Smithfield I have know of is in Utah, some 2000 miles away. This new Smithfield isn’t much closer. Google says it’s about an hour drive; nearly double that if I go home to get the truck first. Tommy writes down the directions Google gives him while I stash my extra gear under his futon and start to suit up. I don’t want to drive out to Smithfield. I don’t want to ride at night. I don’t want to go to this party. I did, however, promise to be there and so some misguided sense of consistency prompts me to continue to get dressed and load out to the bike.

The mirrors on most sport bikes now are less than optimal. They don’t extend far enough for the driver to really see behind him and they leave a blind spot just big enough to hide a Buick when coupled with the limited visibility from the inside of a full face helmet. These mirrors do provide an excellent view of the riders shoulders and elbows when riding. That being said, the mirrors on the Yamaha R6 are some of the best in the sport bike class as they fold in when pressed and have impressive anti-shake capabilities so you can tell while traveling at speeds that less than 100 years ago were believed to be fast enough to kill a human, whether the lights in your rear view are another bike, a cop, or a UFO.

It is in these mirrors that I see myself as I’m climbing on to the bike. I made a value judgment today. I put on my old Scorpion helmet; the one that I bought from Julio for $50. I decided I would rather wear the blue helmet, even though it is heavier and a little larger, because it matches my riding jacket better; Black and Blue… just like me most days. I usually don’t wear this helmet because of the weight, but because it is so heavy it’s more sturdy than lighter weight models. It looks sharp.

The drive through the city is always the same; too many red lights, too many cars, too many homeless, too many pedestrians. The drive down the 40 is always the same. Boring, with a 90% chance of idiot drivers. It’s after peeling off onto the 70 that I get a change of scenery. With the loss of a couple lanes, the road seems more intimate. The trees are closer now providing more of a sense of privacy. Maybe that’s why I open it up. Maybe.

Maybe I’m just trying to fly.

Flying down the 70 in the failing light of the day, I’m trying to psych myself up for the impending gathering using the heroin effect of speed and adrenaline to prepare me for a social gathering I’ll probably be on the outside of anyways. Carbon Fiber echoes are seeping through what’s left of my ear canals around the sound from the headphones. I swear this machine and I could go to the edge of the world quite happily if not for the occasional need for petrol or urination.

30 minutes of what passes for pacing back and forth on an internal-combustion-powered, two-wheeled animal, and I am tired. I managed to find my way to where I should be turning to drive to the house party, but the road doesn’t exist. I’m parked at the corner of Smithfield and Nowhere in the dark between farmhouses that reminds you of every horror movie ever made staring at the ass end of a full moon cycle that has left the sky as black as the surrounding ink. I’m beginning to question Tommy’s directions.

I’m lost, I’m tired, no one is answering their phone and I know that a dozen of my friends are in a pub sharing beers and doing voice-overs of old movies playing on the overhead T.V.s. Looks like it’s time to head back to town and give up on that elusive ‘better time.’

Being the concerned citizen that I am I send a last text message to my roommate, Bree, informing her that I am going back to the city and I’ll catch up to her later. As my helmet slides back into place the phone rings.

The words “Where are you?” plaintively ring from the phone.

I’m at the playboy mansion. Did you know they have stockpiles of clean underwear here? It’s the damnedest thing. Whole closets of it.

“Ummm… Where?”

I’m lost in Smithfield and I’m heading back to town. This backwoods shit is for the birds.

“Wait! Lemme get you some directions.”

Now, I’m in North Carolina. I understand that people here speak differently. I know there is such a thing as a Southern Accent and that I may encounter said accent from time to time as I am officially ‘In the South.’ Still there are times that this meager mental shield of knowledge does not prepare me for the onslaught that evacuates some peoples mouths.

“Whereyawlgoincanfineaplaiss?”

Dear Lord.

“Huh?”

Nevermind. Hi.

Briefly, I inform the syllabically challenged ape on the far side of the phone of my current location.

“Awlgotchagonnadoritederadafireplacewhoositgonnagotchamonkey,” I swear to God he said monkey “takealeftrounda…”

Wait. Please, in the name of all that you hold dear, Wait. Say that again slowly. Very slowly.

“Well, you go on down to that there street. Raleigh.”

Yes.

“Then you turn up, ” I am guessing he means North but I don’t call him on it. “And follow it till you see Plenta road and you take a right. Now be careful cuz that corner is sharp, and I mean Sharp. It’s like a cats whisker fryingpan hoochie *mumble mumble grumble* LOOK Out, Man!”

Ok, sharp turn at Plenty Road.

“Plenta.”

Polenta? Like the food?

“No, Poo-len-tuh! Like the road!”

Please, continue.

A few more minutes, armed with my newfound country-fried directions, and I am underway. At the corner of Raleigh and Polenta, I found a moderately sharp turn, bearing right as instructed under the huge overhanging trees, I peered at the street ahead to make sure Fannie Mae’s dog wasn’t going to jet into the street and get the both of us murdered by a 400 pound Japanese cruise missile. I’m even farther from civilization now, houses that were sporadic but still close to the road become recessed, backing farther from the road, presumably to allow Old Yeller and Junior more room for simulated incest where the Clampetts can watch.

In this darkness it’s easy to pick out the single headlight in the distance behind me long before I can tell how fast it is gaining on me. In this darkness, it’s easy to think that the world ceases beyond your headlamps. In this darkness, it’s easy to get lost.

There is a moment of surrender following the realization that one is simply beyond any ability to control a situation. This is the emotionless calm that filters over a defendant as the jury hands down a verdict. I assume it is much like the oxygenated acceptance of an airplane crash while you watch the dirt come barreling at the wings. There isn’t room for panic or fear or anything other than observation of the self; Evolutions finest machine turned into a tumbling articulating piece of flotsam. In most situations you can maintain control by exerting raw power or influence but, ultimately, alignment is a truer power.

From that fateful moment when a situation leaves your control, you are the object in space. you will continue to stay in motion until acted upon by some other force. When your power takes you as far as it can and momentum takes over, if you are misaligned, you may not like where you wind up.

I can tell the road is going to turn. Not from the orange signs which have been reflecting at me through the night, because here there are none. I can tell because at the edge of my headlights there is no more road to be had; only the chalk-white line bending madly across my limited vision from the right to the left. The road turns, so I turn.

I slide slightly to the outside of the seat. I push down and forward on the left handlebar grip forcing the wheel to tip slightly and encourage the bike to fall toward the ground on the left side. I lean to the left and begin the controlled fall that is a high speed motorcycle turn. Controlled Fall. Sometimes I think I’ve lived my entire life in this state. Other times, I think I’ve never been in control.

That chalk line and it’s warning slide gracefully to the outside of reality illuminated by my beams. Then the warning is gone and the chalk comes slamming back. Decreasing Radius.

See also; Fish-hook Turn.
See also; Uncontrolled.

I can see the trees directly ahead. I can tell they are thick enough to be unmolested by the combined weight of the Demon and I. All I think is that I don’t want to wind up on one of those trees. Once I leave the road, there is no more thought.

This is why people pray. That sense of release or responsibility and control; mental morphine. I don’t feel the bike crush my foot along with the exhaust, handlebars, and tail section as it throws me off, cracking my talus and ripping nearly even tendon and ligament from my calf down. I don’t hear the bike crash through what I am told is a $75 section of fence on Bob Riley’s farm. I simply fly and fall and roll.