Steven's Crashing

I’d hate to start by saying “It was a beautiful summer day”. Unfortunately for originality’s sake, it actually was a beautiful summer day. A particularly long hot spell lasting a good week had finally tapered off and allowed a bit of breathing room for all. This warm day with a cool breeze almost demanded a ride and the back roads of the bay area were teeming with all kinds of machinery.

The ride had started rather normally, my Dad and I got together for a leisurely romp around the east bay, down 680 and up through the central valley along back roads. We stopped in Castro Valley for a burrito, where we argued the pros and cons of the newly adopted state “budget”.

Bellies full, we headed up Redwood Road towards my Dad’s house. Because my father’s thrill-seeking days were long past him, the pace was pretty sedate. Nearing Pinehurst road in Moraga, we came upon an accident with a rider down.

It was obvious that the accident had just happened within the last minute or so. A good Samaritan was in the road attempting to right the fallen motorcycle. Asking if they needed assistance, we pulled over and helped get the bike off the road.

One of the immediate issues was the rear brake peddle had punched a hole in the engine case on the right and emptied the motor of its vital fluids. As if someone had magically made help appear, four more riders had joined the rescue effort.

“We need dirt, someone else is going to crash on this” one commented, and began to scoop dirt onto the oil slick. It almost seemed rehearsed as the other three riders began to collect their own handfuls of soil, soaking up the road hazard.

It was quite an endeavor to behold; this unspoken co-ordination between strangers. As they continued to cover the oil in dirt, some others began to direct traffic.

As this was happening, I turned my attention to the gentleman in his 50’s on the side of the road. As he gingerly held his left wrist, he apologized for the trouble and thanked people for their help. My father and I asked if he needed an ambulance. At first, he thought he would be okay. I knew that he was riding the adrenaline pony and would soon come back to earth. A few minutes later, we convinced him to let us call for help. I introduced ourselves; he told me his name was Steven.

As the scene unfolded around us, I made the 911 call. Several people started offering the man over-the-counter pain relievers. My father, drawing on his experience as a combat medic advised against it. The paramedics would undoubtedly want to give him something more powerful and would be unable to if there was something else in his system.

Steven was in pretty good shape. His left shoulder was obviously dislocated and his right butt cheek would probably be a little rashed up. It was around this time that we noticed that his right shoe was missing. Several of us tried to find the wayward sneaker, but were unsuccessful. “Boots”, Steven mentioned. “I meant to buy boots next”.

I took a brief inventory of Steven’s gear. None of it was really motorcycle appropriate. His helmet was a half-coverage lid. It was fortunate for Steven that he wasn’t going very fast, and also that he was wearing 3 layers of clothing.

It was about then when I began to think about Steven’s place in the statistical world of motorcycle crashes. After a few questions, we found that Steven had only a year of recent motorcycle experience; a return rider from 30 years previous-experience.

Return riders over 40 have been given a lot of press recently, representing the one of the two categories of riders who has been experiencing an increasing fatality rate. Most riders in this category are men in their 40’s and 50’s who used to ride smaller Japanese bikes in their youth. After abandoning the sport in favor of family obligations, they have returned to riding after the kids have grown up. Instead of taking it slow, they go out and find the first large-displacement Harley-Davidson or BMW they can lay their hands on. We all know the rest of the story; their chances of riding incident free aren’t very good.

The other category of rider is the sub-30 riders. While not always on the latest and greatest testosterone-machine, by and large, the under 30 rider chooses some form of sport-bike in which to exercise their need for speed.

What bothers me about this recent press is their concentration on displacement as the root cause of the problem for both categories. When Ben Roethlisberger crashed his Hayabusa, the headlines screamed out “largest sport bike in the world” indirectly damming the machine, not the rider. What the headlines failed to mention was that Ben was traveling at around 30 miles per hour when a driver made an left hand turn into his path. Never mind the fact that he had no formal training and had just become victim to the most common car on motorcycle accident in world; it must be the bike’s fault. Besides a mention of a helmet, no article I read mentioned one word about how proper riding gear probably would have spared Ben from major injury.

In contrast to Ben’s incident, what struck me about Steven was that he defied the description of the return rider. He wasn’t on a large displacement bike. His bike was a 1979 Yamaha XS650; the same bike he had rode 30 years go. So what actually was the root cause in both accidents?

Most everyone hung around to make sure that the police and medics found Steven. One the police had arrived and began to take over, several people left. Steven, my father and I exchanged some conversation until the ambulance arrived. We both wished him well and then continued our ride home.

Lounging in my parents’ garage, I glanced over at my father - another return rider. When I took up the sport, it re-kindled his interest in bikes, and he soon took up riding again.

“Don’t tell your mother about this.” My father stated. I knew that my mother was the type to use the knowledge of the incident to back her argument for my Dad’s second retirement from riding.

When my Dad began to borrow my bike on a regular basis, I insisted he take the Motorcycle Safety Foundations’ basic rider course to brush up on his skills. Isn’t it funny how parents and children exchange rolls later in life?

Fortunately so far, the time and effort has paid off; my Dad has stayed out of the statistics. It would seem that in my opinion, the root cause of both Ben and Steven’s crashing was a lack of the same investment.