A Rider's Story

"You're going to get yourself killed." That's a phrase I've heard ever since I hopped on my first motorcycle. But the roar of the engine as I reved it up muffled any advice given to me on that matter. Or, I just simply ignored it.

You haven't lived until you've broken 175mph on a superbike on I-95. At least that's my belief. I've only ridden motorcycles ever since I was old enough to drive. Cars just weren't for me. You're imprisoned within your lane and the field of view inside of a car is inhibiting. The allure of a beautiful machine like a Suzuki 600 is unmatched in its class and the freedom of the open road is something every biker will passionately describe. Not to mention the sheer power you harness between your legs.

I'm not saying that everyone should be cool and get a streetbike. But it's definitely one of those life experiences that the more adventurous types should engage in. Needless to say most riders have the misfortune of encountering dangers, accidents, and mishaps; myself included.

I was young, frivolous, and a risk taker (most of that is still true). My first mishap took place in my old neighborhood. I had recently bought my first scooter - a 125cc Mosquito - and I was already attempting what the average person would refer to as "crazy s**t". I was a show off of course. Oh, who am I kidding? I still am. I managed to pop that little scooter up into a wheelie and for the first time I got a taste of that adrenaline rush I had been seeking since I was 7. It's not an easy thing to do, but I kept trying. I tried so much the scooter eventually threw me off as I tried to recover from a wheelie that had gone to close to midnight. I would have landed just fine, with maybe a few scratches if that light post had not been there. I was flung broadside into a metal post and the scooter landed beside me without a scratch. I got up and tried to shake off the pain, only it didn't go away. I thought I had broken a rib or at least bruised it, but the pain got worse as the day transpired. 12 hours later I was transported via ambulance with a lacerated liver and in critical condition. I spent three days in the ICU. Seven days in the trauma center, and about 600 ml of morphine later, I was released to my parent's house. I spent a full month in bed recovering from the "crazy s**t" that I pulled a week and a half before.

Now, allow me to fast forward a year in my life. In a crazy little town called Orlando, FL where I was living in a dorm, taking classes at the CC, and working a part time job. I had the same scooter still and I blissfully rode it to class and to work. On a sunny wednesday afternoon, after grabbing my lunch from a local sub shop, I made my way north. It was a 50 minute trek to the next town where my job was located. Everything was going great, traffic wasn't so bad, except for that car in front of me...

A flash of a blue car, the back of a brunette's head, then nothing...

Some people just don't pay attention on the road. They don't watch out for single headlights, or they're too distracted with their cell phones, radios, iPods, and Caramel Macchiatos to realize what's happening around them. This girl had made a u-turn without looking, which was the cause of my "mishap". I careened into her broadside.

I woke up in the hospital with a terrible headache, shoe's missing, and my girlfriend waiting by my side. A police officer came in and described what had happened, which was helpful since I couldn't remember anything but the blue car and the brunette. I wasn't wearing a helmet (moral of the story goes here) and as a result had a fractured skull, sprained wrist, and of course, a totaled scooter. My head injury had resulted in the loss of my sense of smell, which Google tells me is called anosmia. So far, that's been the strangest injury I've yet to receive. Thankfully though, it came back a year later. Go figure.

Consequently, I moved back home to Fort Lauderdale since I no longer had my trusty scooter to transport me about. But, that didn't phase me. I worked hard and saved money. Eventually, I bought a Ninja 250 (and a helmet of course). I just had to. It's what I do. I ride. I speed. I take the risks that make life worth living. Luckily, I never had any accidents on that bike. I later sold it to my friend who crashed it two days later. Poor bike. Oh, and by the way, my friend was ok.

Selling the Ninja allowed me to buy my dream bike. A 600cc superbike which I named Casandra. Now, I could go faster, longer, and stronger. And, I did, for a crazy few months. If you lived in SoFla, anytime in the past two years, chances are I've flown by you in a screaming blur of blue and white. You probably cursed me out and thought I was an asshole. Well, you were right. I learned my lesson, somewhat, on a clear Tuesday morning on my way to work. I decided to speed, like I usually do, through the winding road leading to my office's building. I cut someone off and got ready to lean into a turn. Little did I know, there was a patch of sandy rubble at the apex of the curve. My rear tire slipped out and ripped the rest of the bike from my corporal clutches. As I bounced and rolled on the ground for a few dozen yards, the only thought emanating from my mind was "MY BIKE! NOOO!". It slid into a curb where it came to a sudden halt. I stood up and assessed the damage for a second when, suddenly, the guy I had cut off moments earlier politely pulled over and let me know what a huge idiot I was. I managed to pick the 400+ pound bike up off the ground, dust it off, and ride into work. My arm was road rashed and bleeding but, my ego was hurting more than anything else. For days I couldn't stop blaming myself for ruining the pristine paint job of my dream bike. She's scarred now, just like me.

Rain is never fun when you're a rider. I've never felt sad when it rained until I had a bike. My next folly wasn't so bad but it's worth a mention. If only to share an anecdotal account of the camaraderie between motorcyclists. I left work at five in the afternoon and headed on my usual route. I could see the dark clouds looming over head, so I decided to change course. As it started pouring down, I made a snap decision to cut off the line of cars at a left turn so that I could head away from the approaching torrent. Their light turned green in the same instant I made that decision. I crashed, fairing to bumper, with a Porsche Cayenne at the front of the line. A police officer just happened to be posted on the opposite side of the intersection. As I stood up and tried to pick my bike up from the ground while it was pouring rain, the guy driving the Porsche came out and worriedly asked me if I was ok. It wasn't a high speed crash so I arose unscathed. The cop asked the guy if he wanted to file an accident report, to which the guy replied "No I'll take care of it, as long as he's ok. I understand. I'm a rider too". Several apologies later, I rode home wet, bruised and kicking myself again for hurting my bike.

So here I am, two years later, and I still have my Suzuki GSXR 600. I always wear my helmet, but I still take risks. Why not? We only live once. Everyone crashes. Some get back on. Some don't. Some can't. I did.