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A retrospective on motorcycling on wet pavement
Eric Sondeen - Nov 28, 2006
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“POW!” The nanosecond before I had only enough time to see the front tire and its severe left wheel lock angle then a full body POW. Now the Red Bike rocketed away 20 yards to the far curb with its bright red taillights burning and a tracer fire of sparks scribed by the left crash bar. The hit was left hip, left shoulder, left ankle and I slid about the same distance on the rain soaked highway exit ramp.
At 8:30 in the morning, I was just leaving from my 72 hour fire shift to run up to the diner where our Wind & Fire Motorcycle Club meeting would be held at 10. I had been running under the posted highway speeds as I marveled at the fine shards of rain nearly approximating snow in this 40 degree F autumn weather.
As fast as it happened, I was up. I limped over to the bike where it lay fully on its left side. A motorist behind me had pulled over and walked up asking if I needed help. I had already snapped the ignition off, locked the wheel left, and tipped the bike up on its motor guard at a 45 degree angle. My left shoulder was clicking and it didn’t feel as if the 800 pound bike tip-up could be borne by the left leg.
“Sure, thanks!” I said from under the full-coverage helmet. I had full leather pants, over-the-ankle boots and leather rivet-palm riding gloves. Underneath my Gore-tex ski jacket was a mesh armor jacket with hard pads at shoulder and elbows.
We tipped the bike up and I swung the kickstand down surveying the bike. I wobbled around taking a 360 look. Some grind on the left crash guard much like the police bikes after an H-D two week class, and the new Kuryakyn left highway peg dangled loosely from its mooring. Everything else looked good!
“Are you alright?” the motorist asked.
“I think so, Man. I’ll be OK. Thanks a lot.”
He left as I looked more at the bike. Another motorcyclist stopped and asked if they could help. I now only had the appearance of a guy with motor trouble.
“I’m OK”.
I tried to swing a leg from the left side of the bike but the remaining left ankle on the ground complained. I walked to the right side of the bike and gingerly mounted the beast. I put my hands out on the handlebars and noted a clicking in the left shoulder. “AC joint” I wondered. The acromio-clavicular joint could be a chronic surgical issue I knew from my years in Aspen with skiers who pancaked their shoulders into moguls and trees. I hoped for something less. I seemed to have full fork lock control of the bike’s handlebars and could bear weight on the left foot.
I continued over to the gas station where I was originally called by my little yellow “low fuel” dash illumination.
A little slow and a little crunchy getting off the bike, it was quickly fueled. I walked around again to see if there was any damage that might preclude the remaining 25 mile trip north to Boulder. My wife Tracy and Hunter would be at his Saturday morning football game and I didn’t wish to ruin their fun together until I could determine what the actual injuries might entail. I figured to ride home, take a cab or bus to the emergency room in Boulder and then call to clue them in.
The whole way home I kept coming back to “Am I fully present for the trip NOW and focused on the road, not the previous story”. I was.
I motored along in the rain, grateful for the sparing the fall had been to both me and the motorcycle. I noted many bikes out in the rain over the cold weekend morning.
At home I arced in and snapped the kill button off to back the bike down the gentle slope in front of the garage. I unloaded the bags figuring I would only make one trip into the house—it better be a full one. The left arm opted out and I double loaded the right unfairly.
Side-stepping up the stairs worked and the boot support left ankle did fine.
I now surveyed my options—“Cab?” The number I called was disconnected and I assumed that the tenuous survival of our cab company had finally collapsed—I gimped out to the bus stop leaving all the protective clothing at the house.
BUS RIDE AND ER
Once on the bus, I pulled out the cell phone to call several of the Club members to let them know my plans to attend the meeting had changed. I left messages for the President, Bart and the Ride coordinator, Mark. All of them were likely on their own rides to the diner in Arvada. Tracy text messaged from the game, “30-0 FAIRVIEW AT HALF”. I replied, “COOL”.
The bus had me a half block from the hospital and I side stepped down to the curb. Looking up to the lights at either end of the block, I chose a J-Walk to the ER and staggered across the traffic free artery.
“Yes, what are you here for?” the triage nurse Ann requested. I told her I had shoulder and ankle injuries from the bike mishap an hour and a half earlier. “”Are you bleeding”.
“No”.
OK, give me your name and birth date and wait in the waiting room.
One hour later I was called and Ann took vitals, pushed/prodded, and provided some ice packs. “Just wait in the waiting room”.
Yet another hour later, Jennifer the RN, fetched me and got me set up on a gurney. She elicited the story and helped untangle the jeans, T shirt and sweatshirt with a minimum of disturbance to the complaining joints. She looked at the hip and just noted it was a bit red.
“OK, we’ll get some X-rays and go from there”.
Soon Jim was wheeling the cart into the radiology department and I was noting that this must be a personal lessen in patient appreciation for me as a paramedic.
I watched my upright injured foot ankle become the hood ornament as it swings around corners with the cart’s unusual center spin wheel action. The X-ray tech was new and recited her “technique” or measurements so that Jim could overview. She was pretty but absorbed in her work. I admired her Boulder fit mid-section as she reached up to position the overhead camera gantry to her “I need 20 degrees upward” angle selection. We repeated only one film and soon Jim was spilling me the results. You’ve got a non-displaced fib and a distal clavicle fracture. Whew. I knew that ligament repairs could be a much lengthier proposition considering surgery so I was thankful both for Jim’s covert info prior to the official radiologist read and the seemingly limited frame damage on the 53-year-old chassis.
Susan now appeared and took info down—“And your insurance?” This would be USAA’s vehicle insurance. I winced. We had just cleared our little speeding records with the conservative company and now this was a claim including medical. She jotted down the info and we chatted on this slow day in the ER. A couple of ambulance patients were rolled in—bike versus car and a 12 year old with a cut to his head.
Noelle, the physician assistant, popped in and introduced herself. She repeated Jim’s film info and we both surmised the courses of action. I would get a walking splint for the lower leg fracture and a sling for the left shoulder.
“No Figure 8 brace?” I inquired.
“No, people pass out when we put those on and yours is a non-displaced distal fracture—the wrap might go right over the fracture site.” “You will see an orthopedist on Tuesday following the holiday (Labor Day) weekend and he’ll determine if you need surgery for the shoulder. You’re in a 10% for surgery area.”
Jennifer came in with a Velcro and hard plastic walking splint and a fancy blue sling. We determined what minimum of clothing would get me home until I could get parts/pieces elevated and iced. The nurse was a native of Boulder, had gone to my son’s high school, and was Swedish lineage. How could you beat that?
I was now unable to reach Tracy with the “news” so I got better info on the cab situation and ordered one up. The yellow cab appeared within 5 minutes and I looked like Dr. Frankenstein’s latest creation as I attempted to execute the heel-toe roll that Jennifer had warned about on the walking splint.
I tipped the cab driver and dragged up the home stairs to meet Hunter at the door.
“Wow, are you OK? How’s the bike?”
DAY AFTER
With Brother Paul’s message on my phone machine from Australia, I realize the native drums have been pounding and others deserve “the story”.
“It’s from Manitoba Canada” Tracy notes on the phone ID.
“Oh, that’s Stick”, I note. “Not ‘Twig’, but Stick”, I correct.
Even as I type this out, Wild Bill Sterne calls from St. Louis. “I didn’t want to read any more after seeing Bart’s initial post about your wreck”, he said. “I just wanted to call”. “I guess you’ll be doing registration at Ride to Remember (firefighter memorial ride)”, he laughs.
So I’ve got lots of love from family and my much extended Brother/Sisterhood of riding. Ice, elevation, and ibuprofen are filling the bill for care. I can make my own coffee (critical for this junkie).
7:43p Sunday 9/2/06; now Ron calls from St. Louis MO and we laugh at how the bikers keep little from each other. That’s quite a network.
AFTER ACTION
How did it happen? Too much front brake, wet pavement, crossing from outer to inner lane across plastic dotted lane markers. I had been using a lot more front brake lately. I had not been properly modulating the front then back brake EVERY stop to train muscle memory. I didn’t make that pre-ride decision of “wet road favors light braking and reduced front braking”. I didn’t make the mental inner conversation about all white lane markers offer an icy surface in wet (or all the time). While I was running C-470’s expressway at reduced speed in the rain and I exited at Morrison Colorado at reduced speed, I was still too fast by the bottom of the deceleration lane for conditions. I was very fortunate to have my protective gear on. I was very fortunate to be on a bike with engine and bag guards—the void space between 800 lb bike and pavement spared tissue.
Eric Sondeen is a Paramedic Lieutenant, currently with Fire Rescue in Littleton, Colorado. Yearly, he rides a fire-engine red H-D Ultra Classic many miles in all weather conditions.
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