When I unburied Shadowfax and turned the key there was no pulse. I was so happy to feel the handlebars in my hands again I decided that if I coasted it down the driveway I could compression start it. It laughed with surly backfire and then skidded to a halt. I ran, coasted, popped the clutch a few more times until my Dad’s house became a small speck up the gradual hill. Defeated, I put the motorcycle in neutral, turned it around and pushed it up the hill and back into the garage.
The battery cells were bone dry so I went to the parts store to buy some battery acid, filled it up and plugged it into the wall. When I eventually got it started it would only run with the choke fully open, and even then it sounded like a laughing asthmatic with bronchitis playing with dud firecrackers. I left it to warm up and did some internet diagnosis. The posts I read said that I would probably have to pull the carbs and clean them and the jets. The garage was already full of bolts and parts from pulling the battery, and changing the oil and filters. Rather than making matters worse, I decided to buy some fuel additive and sputter the bike full choke down to the gas station and put in some high-octane fuel. It didn’t help, but I figured out how to work the clutch, choke and throttle so I could keep it running even at red lights. Even in its injured state, it was still running and I was having a really good time. I passed Dad’s driveway and continued towards Red Rocks and Calico Basin, two of my favorite hiking and climbing spots. The golden sun and warm breeze relaxed my tense muscles and when I stopped on top of a hill at a pullout, Shadowfax was purring like a kitten.
Two days later, loaded with camping gear, the motorcycle and I headed towards Phoenix via Hoover Dam and Route 66. I rode in a pack of Harleys and Victories for a while on the Arizona side of the Dam, but Shadowfax starting getting antsy.and we pulled ahead of the pack to experience the open road. When I got to Phoenix it was just about sunset and the thermometer was pushing the mid-80s. That night we celebrated my friend Melissa’s birthday with Flamenco and Fondue. The next morning the motorcycle and I were riding the twists and turns of the back roads of Arizona and New Mexico finally ending up at some private hot springs in the Gila Wilderness. It felt like I was consuming a little slice of summer in early March.
The last stretch of the journey passed through Truth or Consequences and then to Albuquerque where a huge accident closed I-25 in both directions. I was third in line at the road block, but after deciding that I may be there for hours, I cut across the dirt median, found an exit and skirted Albuquerque’s surface streets before finally finding the freeway again close to the I-40 convergence. The wind was blowing so hard from the west that I was riding in a straight line but tilting at 45 degrees. I’d had gusts on the Pacific Coast, but nothing like this. By the time I filled up in Santa Fe, the wind had died and I had resigned to the fact that I would not be home before dark.
Espanola, one of the towns between Santa Fe and Taos is known as the low rider capital of the world. Neither my motorcycle nor my truck are low riders, so the town has no draw for me. I was riding through at normal speed and minding my business when a blue BMW decided to turn suddenly in front of me from the turn lane to a parking lot to my right. Unfortunately, the car turned so close to me that it only got half way across my lane before I smacked the passenger’s door. It happened so fast that I only got a “Fff…” out before I hit the car, felt an extreme pain in my torso, flew weightlessly through the air and hit the pavement. The ground never felt so comfortable as it did after experiencing the disconcerting weightlessness that preceded. When I opened my eyes I saw stars and tried to get enough air into what I thought was my shattered torso to keep the oxygen flowing to my brain. It would have been a great photo, the huddle of strangers silhouetted against the deep purple of a sunset sky. They asked me questions and amazingly I remembered the answers. I also remembered to have them turn the gas off, but not soon enough: the smell of gasoline, of Shadowfax’s blood, oozed from my gear permiating the hospital room, and later my truck and the front room of our house. I never did get to see the damage caused to the motorcycle, I was strapped to a back board and rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. I was told it flew a long way and was totaled. I asked for photos, we’ll see when they come.
The few hours spent in the emergency were relatively uneventful. They did some x-rays and an ultra sound, but there didn’t appear to be any broken bones or bleeding organs. I’m really sorry that when the hospital called Cass to have her come pick me up, they only said that I was conscious and alive. She was pretty shaken up when she arrived. “Conscious and alive” leaves a little too much to the imagination. They let me go by 8:30 pm.
This was almost a week ago. Random pains and bruises have surfaced as my overall body pain has subsided. Since the accident many people have asked me if I would ride again. I have been hesitant to answer. I will say that if I do ride again, it will probably be on a BMW GS and I’ll definitely be using the back roads that bypass Espanola.
