James Burleigh
Well-known member
Senator Smith: “What time did you leave the ship?”
Second Officer Lightoller: “I didn’t leave it.”
Senator Smith: “Did the ship leave you?”
Officer Lightoller: “Yes, sir.”
Not sure why the above exchange that took place in NYC the week after the Titanic disaster came into my mind when I thought about sharing my accident story on the forum. Maybe because I empathized with Mr. Lightoller, who in spite of being highly trained and experienced in the operation of his ship, suddenly found his ship crippled and going down right underneath him, and there was nothing he could do about it.
But the analogy isn’t perfect, because although the officers of the Titanic anticipated the possibility of icebergs, I can’t help but feel that—despite the thousands of miles of roads I travelled, the six or seven skills-improvement classes I attended, the several articles on M.C. safety I published, and all the riding-technique books I read—I could not have anticipated and avoided the possibility that such a small, familiar, innocuous object would cause my ’05 to go down right underneath me in the middle of an intersection. Call it a freak accident.
Anyway, my FJR left me, and then I left it. After the accident, I rode myself to the hospital, parked the bike, and never got on it again. I sold it soon after and haven’t owned a bike since. That was more than two years ago. In fact, during that time I went completely ‘civilian.’ I came to think anyone who rode a motorcycle was nuts!
But I have to say, I never stopped dreaming (the type you do while sleeping) about riding. I dreamed more about riding over the last two years than I did when I rode full time the previous 13 years when I got my first bike, an ’03 Sportster. And in almost every dream, I knew I didn’t have a bike anymore, and in the dream I always resolved to get one. Then I’d wake up. After a fleeting moment of regret, I’d go on my way, by car.
But just recently my mind seems to have turned a corner. Or maybe it didn’t turn a corner so much as sweep through a curve—one of those broad, dry, newly paved, positively cambered sweepers you can look all the way through to the exit and the promise of more and better ahead. Because in my mind’s eye, I have leaned into that curve, looked through to that exit, and glimpsed the possibility of getting another bike. An FJR to be exact (what else?).
-------------------------------------------------------
Anyway, here’s what happened:
On a Wednesday morning before work I dropped my bike off at my dealer for a routine service. Later that morning I got the call it was ready and went back to pick it up.
My dealer is located on a very busy urban arterial that feeds an interstate highway a quarter mile away. The road is two lanes, one in each direction, separated by a broken line.
After I paid the bill and suited up in my Aerostitch and attendant gear, I nudged the bike out onto the street from the dealer’s driveway, where I stopped perpendicular to traffic and waited for my opening; I wanted to turn left.
The traffic was thick that day. I waited for a couple of minutes without any opportunity to safely jump in. So I finally said to hell with it and went right instead. I turned right onto the arterial, then immediately right onto the street next to the dealer, then right again behind the dealer, up a block, and right again to get onto the street that would cross the arterial and get me headed back to work. (These right turns are germane to the story: they saved my life.)
So after those four right turns I was now heading down the two-lane street where, about a mile up I would turn left to continue up to my work. Approaching the intersection where I would turn left, I slowed and entered the left-turn pocket (which had no separate green turn arrow; just go when safe). No traffic was coming at that moment, so I continued into the intersection, slowed, and began my lean.
Suddenly, in the middle of my turn, the handlebars locked up. I couldn’t get them to move the distance I needed to balance my committed lean angle, and the bike just slowly started to fall to the ground. I fought it, trying to keep it upright by putting my left boot on the ground and wrestling the handlebars. But it was too heavy and took me down with it. I fell hard onto my back; the bike came down on my left lower leg. Lying pinned on the ground in the middle of an urban intersection, to my horror the rear wheel continued spinning, propelling the bike up into me.
I managed to kill the engine (I had heeded the advice of M.C. safety authors to always use the kill switch to turn off your bike so it becomes second nature). Soon a young man standing nearby came to my aid. Together we righted the bike and walked it to the curb. (If that ever happens to you, try to calm your mind long enough to ask the Good Samaritan for his or her contact information.)
Standing now safely on the side of the road—I was dumbfounded! What the f**k just happened? Why did I just crash?
I lifted the bike up onto the center stand to inspect the bike (that’s when I first became aware of the sharp pain in my lower left leg). I looked at the front tire and rim, and checked the tire pressure. All okay.
Then I looked at the forks. They seemed fine. Next I turned the handlebars left and right. When I turned them to the left…clunk! Something restricted their movement. I looked down into the fork well and reached inside. That’s when I found the cause.
My satellite radio antennae, or what I call the radio ‘puck’ because it’s small and round like a hockey puck, was dangling down inside the fork well, connected by the wire that ran under the dash. The puck was resting between the left fork and the side panel. It normally sits on the gas tank, secured by its magnetic base. When I turned the fork to the left, it struck the puck. Clearly, when working on the bike, the mechanic had removed the puck, then failed to replace it on the tank. (I think a lot of riders secure their pucks onto their handlebars or dash shelf, wisely it would seem.)
By this time my leg was hurting enough to attract my full attention. Rolling up my ‘stitch and blue jeans, I saw a bruise below my left knee, on my calf, that had swollen up quite large (about the size of a half softball). I figured it needed looking at. So I replaced the puck on the tank, confirmed that the bike was functional, and rode to the hospital (through heavy rush-hour freeway traffic, distracted, upset, in pain). I parked the bike and limped into urgent care. I called my wife to come get me.
Urgent care sent me to get an x-ray. By the time I was out of x-ray and heading back to my appointment with the doctor, I was no longer able to walk on my own from the pain, and had to call for a wheelchair from the hallway. There was no broken bone, thank goodness. I was diagnosed with a very large hematoma that resolved itself after several months and left a lasting discoloration.
-------------------------------------------------------
So that was my accident. I think I was lucky ("lucky"). If I had made the left turn into thick traffic from the dealer’s, and gone down onto the pavement on that busy street, I have no doubt I would have been hit and seriously injured or killed by one or more cars not expecting the motorcycle in front of them to suddenly just drop onto the ground (if the drivers’ eyes were on the road at all). Instead I took four rights and that first left on a lightly traveled street, where I was lucky no cars came along while I was on the ground.
And when I think about a scenario where I crash turning left from the dealer, it occurs to me that no one would ever have figured out that I crashed because of a dealer mistake. Everyone would just have figured I made a stupid mistake.
I filed a claim against the dealer and was paid what I asked (counseled by my long-time friend who works as a liability attorney). They are great people and an ethical business. It was a stupid mistake. I hold them no grudge or animosity.
As for lessons learned, I don’t know if I learned any safety lessons, beyond what some authors will tell you: conduct a pre-ride inspection every time you ride. In future, if I get another bike, I may ensure that the handlebars have free range of motion in both directions.
And finally, as my wife might ask (the question many men dread), “How did you feel about it?” Well (honey), the accident came at the perfect time for me. I was using the bike almost exclusively to commute (dry/wet, hot/cold, light/dark, summer/winter), and the fun had gone out of it long ago. But before the accident I did not own a car, so could not see a way out of commuting by motorcycle (I didn’t want to buy a car; of course ultimately I did).
The accident was the perfect moment, and excuse, to walk away, literally, with minimal injury. So that’s what I did. But now, if I decide to take it up again, I can imagine a new chapter in riding, one where I ride only on my own terms. I may start by renting or borrowing a bike to see how it goes. We’ll see…
Second Officer Lightoller: “I didn’t leave it.”
Senator Smith: “Did the ship leave you?”
Officer Lightoller: “Yes, sir.”
Not sure why the above exchange that took place in NYC the week after the Titanic disaster came into my mind when I thought about sharing my accident story on the forum. Maybe because I empathized with Mr. Lightoller, who in spite of being highly trained and experienced in the operation of his ship, suddenly found his ship crippled and going down right underneath him, and there was nothing he could do about it.
But the analogy isn’t perfect, because although the officers of the Titanic anticipated the possibility of icebergs, I can’t help but feel that—despite the thousands of miles of roads I travelled, the six or seven skills-improvement classes I attended, the several articles on M.C. safety I published, and all the riding-technique books I read—I could not have anticipated and avoided the possibility that such a small, familiar, innocuous object would cause my ’05 to go down right underneath me in the middle of an intersection. Call it a freak accident.
Anyway, my FJR left me, and then I left it. After the accident, I rode myself to the hospital, parked the bike, and never got on it again. I sold it soon after and haven’t owned a bike since. That was more than two years ago. In fact, during that time I went completely ‘civilian.’ I came to think anyone who rode a motorcycle was nuts!
But I have to say, I never stopped dreaming (the type you do while sleeping) about riding. I dreamed more about riding over the last two years than I did when I rode full time the previous 13 years when I got my first bike, an ’03 Sportster. And in almost every dream, I knew I didn’t have a bike anymore, and in the dream I always resolved to get one. Then I’d wake up. After a fleeting moment of regret, I’d go on my way, by car.
But just recently my mind seems to have turned a corner. Or maybe it didn’t turn a corner so much as sweep through a curve—one of those broad, dry, newly paved, positively cambered sweepers you can look all the way through to the exit and the promise of more and better ahead. Because in my mind’s eye, I have leaned into that curve, looked through to that exit, and glimpsed the possibility of getting another bike. An FJR to be exact (what else?).
-------------------------------------------------------
Anyway, here’s what happened:
On a Wednesday morning before work I dropped my bike off at my dealer for a routine service. Later that morning I got the call it was ready and went back to pick it up.
My dealer is located on a very busy urban arterial that feeds an interstate highway a quarter mile away. The road is two lanes, one in each direction, separated by a broken line.
After I paid the bill and suited up in my Aerostitch and attendant gear, I nudged the bike out onto the street from the dealer’s driveway, where I stopped perpendicular to traffic and waited for my opening; I wanted to turn left.
The traffic was thick that day. I waited for a couple of minutes without any opportunity to safely jump in. So I finally said to hell with it and went right instead. I turned right onto the arterial, then immediately right onto the street next to the dealer, then right again behind the dealer, up a block, and right again to get onto the street that would cross the arterial and get me headed back to work. (These right turns are germane to the story: they saved my life.)
So after those four right turns I was now heading down the two-lane street where, about a mile up I would turn left to continue up to my work. Approaching the intersection where I would turn left, I slowed and entered the left-turn pocket (which had no separate green turn arrow; just go when safe). No traffic was coming at that moment, so I continued into the intersection, slowed, and began my lean.
Suddenly, in the middle of my turn, the handlebars locked up. I couldn’t get them to move the distance I needed to balance my committed lean angle, and the bike just slowly started to fall to the ground. I fought it, trying to keep it upright by putting my left boot on the ground and wrestling the handlebars. But it was too heavy and took me down with it. I fell hard onto my back; the bike came down on my left lower leg. Lying pinned on the ground in the middle of an urban intersection, to my horror the rear wheel continued spinning, propelling the bike up into me.
I managed to kill the engine (I had heeded the advice of M.C. safety authors to always use the kill switch to turn off your bike so it becomes second nature). Soon a young man standing nearby came to my aid. Together we righted the bike and walked it to the curb. (If that ever happens to you, try to calm your mind long enough to ask the Good Samaritan for his or her contact information.)
Standing now safely on the side of the road—I was dumbfounded! What the f**k just happened? Why did I just crash?
I lifted the bike up onto the center stand to inspect the bike (that’s when I first became aware of the sharp pain in my lower left leg). I looked at the front tire and rim, and checked the tire pressure. All okay.
Then I looked at the forks. They seemed fine. Next I turned the handlebars left and right. When I turned them to the left…clunk! Something restricted their movement. I looked down into the fork well and reached inside. That’s when I found the cause.
My satellite radio antennae, or what I call the radio ‘puck’ because it’s small and round like a hockey puck, was dangling down inside the fork well, connected by the wire that ran under the dash. The puck was resting between the left fork and the side panel. It normally sits on the gas tank, secured by its magnetic base. When I turned the fork to the left, it struck the puck. Clearly, when working on the bike, the mechanic had removed the puck, then failed to replace it on the tank. (I think a lot of riders secure their pucks onto their handlebars or dash shelf, wisely it would seem.)
By this time my leg was hurting enough to attract my full attention. Rolling up my ‘stitch and blue jeans, I saw a bruise below my left knee, on my calf, that had swollen up quite large (about the size of a half softball). I figured it needed looking at. So I replaced the puck on the tank, confirmed that the bike was functional, and rode to the hospital (through heavy rush-hour freeway traffic, distracted, upset, in pain). I parked the bike and limped into urgent care. I called my wife to come get me.
Urgent care sent me to get an x-ray. By the time I was out of x-ray and heading back to my appointment with the doctor, I was no longer able to walk on my own from the pain, and had to call for a wheelchair from the hallway. There was no broken bone, thank goodness. I was diagnosed with a very large hematoma that resolved itself after several months and left a lasting discoloration.
-------------------------------------------------------
So that was my accident. I think I was lucky ("lucky"). If I had made the left turn into thick traffic from the dealer’s, and gone down onto the pavement on that busy street, I have no doubt I would have been hit and seriously injured or killed by one or more cars not expecting the motorcycle in front of them to suddenly just drop onto the ground (if the drivers’ eyes were on the road at all). Instead I took four rights and that first left on a lightly traveled street, where I was lucky no cars came along while I was on the ground.
And when I think about a scenario where I crash turning left from the dealer, it occurs to me that no one would ever have figured out that I crashed because of a dealer mistake. Everyone would just have figured I made a stupid mistake.
I filed a claim against the dealer and was paid what I asked (counseled by my long-time friend who works as a liability attorney). They are great people and an ethical business. It was a stupid mistake. I hold them no grudge or animosity.
As for lessons learned, I don’t know if I learned any safety lessons, beyond what some authors will tell you: conduct a pre-ride inspection every time you ride. In future, if I get another bike, I may ensure that the handlebars have free range of motion in both directions.
And finally, as my wife might ask (the question many men dread), “How did you feel about it?” Well (honey), the accident came at the perfect time for me. I was using the bike almost exclusively to commute (dry/wet, hot/cold, light/dark, summer/winter), and the fun had gone out of it long ago. But before the accident I did not own a car, so could not see a way out of commuting by motorcycle (I didn’t want to buy a car; of course ultimately I did).
The accident was the perfect moment, and excuse, to walk away, literally, with minimal injury. So that’s what I did. But now, if I decide to take it up again, I can imagine a new chapter in riding, one where I ride only on my own terms. I may start by renting or borrowing a bike to see how it goes. We’ll see…
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