Hi everyone!
Guess I really owe you all an update. Thanks for your notes of love and encouragement. Some of you have heard some of this from me, but some have only had parts the story second-hand. So I thought I'd write down the whole story to date and illustrate it with a few of the pictures I took before and after my fateful evening. If after reading this you decide I'm an idiot or a fool, that's okay. It's not really a secret ... I've known it for years, and so have most of you. But at least I'm a blessed, lucky fool.
(a card given to me by Becky Morris)
It was 4 weeks ago that I decided on the spur of the moment to take a long-delayed motorcycle trip. I didn't go at all in the summer of '04 because we were building our new house. This summer there were always things to do, but I kept telling myself that I'd get the chance in the fall. Then, unexpectedly, a whole week opened up with no pressing problems or promises to keep. I had a business meeting on Tuesday morning September 6th, and by noon found myself with nothing scheduled for the rest of the week. What a nice treat! Terry & the kids were all busy getting back into school (Terry, Holly, Shawn & Scott were all taking classes at UVSC). So I asked and received permission to 'disappear' for a week. I packed up my Harley, and by about 4:00 I was on the road.
It was a spectacular evening to be riding. The light was a rich golden-red, and the sky a cloudless blue. The first leg of my journey was along the west bank of Utah Lake; a winding deserted road with ever-unfolding spectacular views of the lake and the mountains behind. I'd brought along a brand-new helmet, but it was squeezing my head. So I pulled over & took it off. I thought I'd check it out that night and see if I could adjust the internal padding. Truth be told, the feel of the wind and the song of the road is intoxicating, and the view with only sunglasses between you and the universe is wonderful. There is an immediacy in riding a motorcycle that not even a convertible can rival. You are not shut off from the world, you are IN it. And you don't steer or aim your bike; rather you dance it down the road. It responds to each weight shift and subtle pressure immediately, making it an extension of your body. It's more a sport (like skiing or snowboarding) than a mode of transportation.
Some friends seem surprised that I'd take a road trip alone. I know it sounds lonely and solitary. Actually, it's one of the most social things I do. You see, a trip on a Harley is not a journey to somewhere. Rather the journey IS the event. Riding on any motorcycle, but more particularly on a Harley, you become a moving inkblot test. People look at you and see their secret dreams roll by. Sure, some mothers frown and herd their kids away. But at every gas stop someone wants to talk. An old man in a pickup truck will ask where you've been, or where you're going. Then he'll tell you in loving detail of the cross-country trip he took in 1957. Locals will ask if you've been up this canyon or down that byway, and pull out maps to show you the best places to go. Buy a sandwich and sit on the curb and you'll always get someone who drops down beside you to talk of roads and horsepower and someplace else. Kids wave from sidewalks, cowboys and businessmen and even policemen give you a grin and a thumbs up as they pass. Pull into an expensive hotel and the valet will either split his face grinning or shamefacedly admit he's always wanted to learn to drive a bike but hasn't yet. Either way, chances are better than 50-50 that when you come out in the morning your bike will be spit-polished and gleaming by the front door, an elegant functional sculpture of freedom. Nobody polishes a Mercedes or an Audi for free, but they'll lovingly clean the bugs off a Harley and dream what-if dreams. No, biking alone is not lonely. It's the greatest way to make instant friends and start fascinating conversations that I've ever found.
I had some plans and possibilities for this trip, but no required timetable. I had only two definite goals. As a test to see if the roads were likely to be crowded and lodging difficult to find, I decided to book a room on Wednesday night in Yosemite Valley. Yosemite is second only to Yellowstone as a national park tourist destination; if you wish to stay in the valley itself during the 'tourist' season you usually have to book more than a year in advance. But they had rooms available! I took this as a great omen, and booked a nice room for myself. I wanted to arrive in the valley early Wednesday afternoon, with enough time to take a hike. So Yosemite was my first destination. My second was Chris Nance's house. I'd been threatening to drop in on him for more than 2 years, but had never made good the threat. I planned to call him from my hotel room that evening and see if he was going to be at home in Middletown on Thursday or Friday. How ironic that he lives on "Deerhill Road"!
I really enjoy riding my Harley -- but I hate to ride it on freeways. Too much traffic, too much crowding. No way to pull off and just enjoy the place I'm at. So I used a map and planned to follow long winding back roads wherever possible. My first leg took me along US 50 through Delta, Utah. I planned to drive as far as Ely, Nevada (about 5 hours) before stopping for the night. I figured that would put me into Yosemite in the mid-afternoon on Wednesday.
The winding 2-lane blacktop of the highway was my personal playground that afternoon. I saw less than a dozen cars in the entire two-hour ride to Delta. And once I cleared that town, I saw even fewer as I rolled toward the Nevada border. I stopped by Sevier Lake and walked out on the lake bed just to see what it was made of. From the road it looked like dried salt. It turned out to be salt-crusted mud flakes on the surface, with some goo just below. There was a sign by the edge of the lake that said, "The water level of Sevier Lake fluctuates from a few inches above to a few feet below the ground surface. If you drive on the lake, you will get stuck. There will be a $500 fee to retrieve your vehicle. -Sevier County Sheriff". The sign sported the obligatory bullet holes, and right beside it a bold set of tracks set out into the lake bed. You could clearly see the spot about 100 yards out where the vehicle had sunk beyond its running boards.
(Checking out Sevier Lake)
Dusk was just shading to night when I pulled into the gas station at the Nevada border. There was a thin crescent moon overhead, and the first stars were twinkling against the deep blue afterglow of a spectacular sunset. Attached to the station was a cinderblock row of perhaps five motel rooms. I briefly considered stopping for the night. But the rooms were ugly, and Ely was only about an hour away. Though I'd dawdled along the way and stopped to take several photos it was still only about 8:30 and I wasn't at all tired. I knew that driving along these deserted roads was dicey after dark; riding a motorcycle was doubly so. But I wanted a better room, and I wanted that extra hour behind me in the morning. So I gassed up my bike, stretched for a moment, then fired up and roared into the gathering darkness. As I crossed the border the speed limit moved up from 65 to 70 MPH.
(Sunset on US 50 about 30 miles from the Nevada border)
(Same spot, different angle. Deserted road, new blacktop, no
shoulders)
Not far from the Utah-Nevada border the road curls lazily between some hills then begins to climb a low mountain range. As I straightened from a shallow right-hand curve my headlights picked up two does standing at gaze just off the right side of the road. Their bodies were facing away from the road; their heads were turned to stare blindly into my onrushing triple headlights. I immediately hit both brakes and began slowing, but the deer did not tense to jump as I approached them. I began to relax and started scanning the sides of the road further up for the taletell green gleam that reflects from a deer's eyes. Where there were two deer there might well be more.
I was a scant few dozen yards from the two does, my headlights already fading from them, when suddenly a great antlered head shot up from behind them. A four-point buck had been grazing in their shadow. How he could be oblivious to the noise and lights of my onrushing bike I have no idea. But he looked and leapt in one fluid, deadly motion. Suddenly the road in front of me was completely blocked by his body. His rear legs were just inside the solid right-hand line. His front legs stretched almost to the dashed middle line. His head was raised, looking beyond the onrushing triple lights right at me. And he was so close. I knew I could never swerve around him either to the front or the back. I had time only to scream Mom's favorite swear word and stand on my footboards. There was a thump and a wrench and I was flying.
(The front of Becky's card)
Laura asked me if everything went into slow motion when I hit the deer. I guess it did. But my memories are mental and tactile rather than visual. I hung weightless in pure dark, with no visual indicators to tell me where I was or when the world would claim me. I was there long enough to berate myself bitterly that my helmet was strapped on the top of my backpack instead of the top of my head. I hated that I was done so suddenly. I had not the slightest doubt that my life had just ended. All the rest would just be brief inconsequential details.
Then the earth smashed me from the sky. I hit with a hard double-thud; first my body, then my head. I landed on my stomach with my hands over my face. I felt my elbows jam into my stomach, then felt my forehead crack terribly against asphalt. I had on my leather jacket, and I was wearing leather gloves. But because the night was warm I was wearing gloves without fingertips. I could feel my fingers and forehead abrading away against the asphalt as if I'd pushed them into a rough-grit belt sander. I rolled onto my back to get my face and hands away from the road surface. I wasn't wearing leather chaps; I could feel my levis shredding. I curled my head into my chest and pulled my legs up so I'd slide on the heels of the stout boots I was wearing. I slid. And I slid. I became aware of clatter and sparks off to my right; the Harley was on its right side sliding just a few feet behind me. When we finally came to a stop, the bike & I had independently scraped over about a hundred yards of prime Nevada pavement.
Finally, it was dark and quiet. I lay there and tried to decide whether or not I was going to come back alive. Breathing was first; I wasn't doing it, and my body really didn't want to start. When I finally got the first breath it hurt so badly I thought maybe it had been a mistake to take it. But the next one was easier, and the one after that almost routine. So I started checking to see which body parts were still with me. I could still feel my feet, so I had both legs. And they seemed to be workable. My fingers beyond the first knuckles were a mess, but they all moved. So did my arms. I wasn't feeling much in my forehead, which I thought might be a bad sign. I was lying in the middle of the road, in the middle of the desert, in the deepening night. I decided maybe it would be a good idea if I moved.
Amazingly, I could. My back seemed okay, and so did my neck. I rolled over, then pushed myself to my hands and knees. Blood started to run into my eyes, and I knew I had a nasty scalp wound. I pushed myself to my feet and clamped one hand to my forehead. To the left and right the road stretched dark and silent. Incredibly, my bike was still idling. Gas was running from the tank onto the road. I switched the bike off, then tried to push it back up onto its wheels. But a Harley is a very heavy bike. I discovered that I couldn't get any strength from my right arm or my right leg. I had a small first-aid kit and my cellphone in my backpack, which was bungee-corded onto the sissy bar and resting on the passenger seat. But the scraping of the road had pulled the pack around under the bike; I couldn't get into it. And without removing the pack I couldn't release the straps that held my suitcase on the back of the bike. I was looking for some clean cloth to hold against my forehead.
Then I had a happy thought. My helmet, battered and scraped, was still fastened to the top of my backpack. It was lined with absorbent terrycloth, and it would put a steady pressure on all of my head. It was because of that pressure that I'd taken it off, but I needed it now. I retrieved the helmet and put it on. The bleeding stopped, and in a few minutes I started to feel less light-headed.
I don't know how long I worked alone on that dark road. It felt like an hour; it was probably five to ten minutes. My bike was down just inside the middle line on the westbound lane. Despite repeated attempts I was unable to move it. The rear lights were working, but all that was left of my proud three headlights was one bulb dangling from a wire shining weakly straight down. I was afraid that when someone finally came they wouldn't know what was in their way until they'd hit it. I still couldn't free my cell phone. I sat for a time with my back against a reflector, then went back to work. Finally I saw headlights approaching. Thankfully, they were coming from the west, so the vehicle would be in the clear lane. As the vehicle approached I saw a line of running lights visible above the headlights. It was a semi.
I wasn't really thinking very well, but I knew not to stand in his lane. I stood just outside my bike on the edge of the road. I couldn't raise my right hand, but I waved my left arm back and forth over my head. The truck didn't even start to slow until it was already beyond me; for an instant I was afraid he wouldn't stop. Then the noise of the engine changed and the brake lights came on. The truck seemed to go a very long distance down the road before it stopped and pulled onto the shoulder of the road. Then the cab door opened and a man climbed down. He came running at top speed back down the road.
Of course he hadn't been able to see me until he was right on top of me. I was in a black leather jacket, with a black helmet on my head and bloodsoaked jeans. From a distance all he saw was a very faint unmoving light, like a flashlight directed down at the road. By the time he figured out it was low to the road instead of far in the distance he was rolling past. But he told me that the deer I hit was just off the road beyond where he finally stopped his truck. It gave me a sobering visual confirmation of just how far I'd slid.
I can't remember the good samaritan trucker's name; I wish I could. He was headed for Salt Lake that night. He stayed by the road and helped me for nearly an hour. He got the bike up, then with my help got it into neutral and rolled it off the road. He put out reflective markers so people would know to slow down. He got all that done before another car came by; I really had chosen a quiet road for my ride. He called 911; they dispatched a Nevada patrolman and an ambulance. When neither had arrived after about 20 minutes he called again and asked if he should give me a ride in his truck to the border. We were told that I was to stay put until the ambulance arrived.
When the patrolman and the ambulance finally did arrive I was resting in the cab of the truck. Everyone looked at me really funny; it wasn't until later that I learned (in the E.R.) that a couple times a month they get called to pick up a biker somewhere in the stretch between Delta and Ely. But the bikers are never walking around when they find them; mostly they're already dead.
Well, the rest of my evening really went downhill after that. I was strapped to a backboard and tossed in the back of a 1-ton truck without working suspension. My bike was hauled on to Ely, because I was in Nevada and that was the closest town with a towing service. I was given the choice of being taken on to Ely or back to Delta. Ely was closer by about 45 minutes. Both towns had small hospitals. But I was told that if the doctors found any major problems I'd be sent by ambulance or helicopter to a major medical facility. In Delta that would be the University of Utah or Utah Valley. In Ely it would probably be Reno or Las Vegas. I knew someone was going to have to come & get me either way. And I figured if Terry was willing to come & claim what was left of me, I shouldn't make it any harder than I had to. So I opted for Delta.
The E.R. doctor was a really cheerful young chap who seemed to have a lovely time trying to see which injury was going to get me first. I can tell you from personal experience that after two hours on a backboard a hospital gurney is amazingly soft and comfortable. We did lots of X-Rays to see whether or not I still had a spine. Then we did an MRI to see if I still had a brain. Amazingly, they claimed they found one. I admit that from the time I'd seen the buck jump I had been doubting I owned any such organ. The doctor took my list of complaints (forehead, fingers, right shoulder, right elbow, right knee, right shin, left hip) and began checking things out. There were a couple of phone calls to Terry in there, to let her know that they'd scraped me up from the road and were hopeful there might be something worth salvaging. The doctor couldn't find any internal injuries or broken bones (he missed my right clavicle) and finally settled in to harvesting as many of my souvenir road pebbles as he could get. He worked for nearly 3 hours on this task; but he only complained once. When he took off my helmet & saw my forehead, he said I hadn't left enough skin for him to sew back together. He seemed to genuinely regret it. I know I did.
Terry came out the next morning and brought me home. Bless her, she didn't say "I told you so" even once. The doctor gave her a quick lesson on debriding wounds and told her to soak & scrub me twice a day until all the wounds closed. He also told her to coat all the open areas with neosporin before wrapping them in gauze. He told her he'd managed to find enough skin to put three stitches into my forehead; they'd need to come out about Saturday. The rest of the road rash he thought would heal up just fine, except maybe my knee. He recommended we see an orthopedic surgeon to find out what was wrong with my shoulder, and also to check out my right knee.
I spent the next week back in my good old gravity chair. Terry cheerfully nursed me, bathed me, scraped off endless peeling skin and then rewrapped me as a mummy. I fell in love with my nurse ... again. Terry set up an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon who repaired my ankle. He couldn't see us for a week, but that was as quickly as anyone could help us. We went in to the local IHC quickcare facility on Saturday to get the stitches removed from my forehead. The doctor there said they weren't ready to be removed. He did manipulate my shoulder vigorously and declared that my clavicle was broken but my shoulder joint looked okay. I almost left a cartoon hole through his examining room wall, like Roger Rabbit. He gave us a brace for broken collarbones, but neither he nor the nurse knew how it should be worn. Not very helpful!
Saturday night the skin around all the wounds turned red and broke out in tiny blisters. By Sunday afternoon it itched so badly I wanted to remove the rest of the skin the road had left me. When we saw the orthopedic surgeon on Tuesday, the first thing he said was, "Neosporin rash!" I had developed a great allergic reaction to Neosporin. Bless Dr. Jackson! When he walked in he greeted me by name. He treated my separated left shoulder (December 2001) and repaired my broken ankle (January 2003). He also worked on Holly's knee before her mission. Maybe we're seeing too much of each other? He verified the broken collarbone, told us the best thing to do (wear the brace properly, move the arm as little as you can, ignore the pain and wait 6-8 weeks). He checked out my knee and elbow and declared both were structurally sound; just bruised and swollen. Then he sent in his nurse to clean & rebandage everything and instruct Terry on using different medications on the wounds. He even removed the stitches.
But the rash didn't subside. It spread until I looked like I had chicken pox. Nasty red bumps everywhere! I couldn't sleep at night; I'd put on sweats and pace the house. I kept my hands jammed in my pockets clenching on handkerchiefs to try & stop myself from scratching. I looked up all my pain meds on the internet. Rash was listed as a possible side-effect for them all, so I quit taking them. Finally on Friday Terry got me in to see a dermatologist. He confirmed that the problem was still the Neosporin; even though we'd quit using it, my body's allergic reaction had been so engaged that it wouldn't shut down. He prescribed prednisone to shut down my immune response. The next few days were still intense, but gradually things got better.
And my skin began closing and healing at a remarkable rate. Within a few weeks nearly all the abraded areas were covered with new pink skin. My bruises started fading and the swelling left my joints. I started riding the exercise bike in the basement to get some kind of physical activity. I started on very low settings, but soon my knee regained its mobility and I was able to push the resistance up slowly. By about two weeks most of the bandages were off. My fingers were working well enough to type at the computer again, though I couldn't work for very long without making my shoulder a bit angry.
By the 21st I was beginning to go a bit stir crazy. So Pat loaded me up in his truck and we drove to Ely to retrieve my bike. I didn't know what we'd see; I actually expected to find a twisted wreck. Our insurance company was heavily exposed in Lousiana, and we aren't getting much response from them at all for something as small as a single motorcycle.
Once in Ely we quickly found the towing company that had retrieved the bike. Denny, the proprietor, was a big gruff man who turns out to be a Harley enthusiast himself. He rolled up the door on his own garage and there sitting next to his personal shiny black bike was my poor abused motorcycle. But as I peered at it, I was amazed at how good it actually looked. Like me, it had escaped with much less damage than it deserved. Denny tossed his leg over the bike, gave me a big grin, and fired it up. It started immediately! He put it in gear and drove it onto the trailer.
After closely examining the bike I was really impressed by the Harley engineers. The deer smashed off the headlights and the horn, and pushed the fender down onto the wheel. When the bike laid over onto its right side it slid on the front fender, the mirror bracket, the footboard support bracket, and the right side saddlebag. Some rocks flipped up from the road and pitted the gas tank, but the handgrips and the side of the bike did not hit the road surface. I don't yet know how much damage the deer did to the "springer" front fork. The techs at Salt Lake Harley (where I bought the bike) assure me that they can easily make it better than new.
I don't know that I'll ever be "as good as new", but mostly my scars will be superficial. Broken collarbones are common; the bone will be lumpy and a bit shorter than it used to be, but I'll have full mobility and full strength. I saw Dr. Jackson again yesterday. He was pleased at how much I'd healed in just 4 weeks. He cleared me to drive again, and told me to start using my arm in full mobility. No lifting anything heavy though, and no weight training for at least another month. But I'm to start exercising for complete range of motion. Already I can lift my arm from my side to clear over my head. It hurts a bit and pops a bit, but it's getting smoother every day. All my abrasions have healed but one spot on my right knee. And even it has shrunken to about the size of a quarter.
I've already had one offer to buy the bike. Will I sell it? Will I ride again? I don't know. Wisdom says it's time to let this passion go.
But when have I been wise?
(Dale continues to heal: October 5, 2005)