It was a damn fine day to crash a motorcycle.
I'd headed east from Lake Orion that morning beneath a sky streaked with narrow bands of altostratus that drifted with almost uncanny precision between myself and the sun. The temperature had been just chilly enough that leathers and a full-coverage helmet felt comfortable rather than confining. I gave thanks for that to Whoever's In Charge; I knew from experience that the May ride to the ABC Rally in southern Ontario was about as likely to involve snow as oppressive heat and humidity.
Still, it felt good when I pulled off my helmet after boarding the ferry at Marine City. The ship groaned and creaked softly as it rocked on the blue-green chop of the St. Clair River. I'd wondered as always whether the old tub would sink before it made the Canadian shore, and whether my insurance would cover the loss. But we made the crossing without incident, and after the usual perfunctory approval from the customs officer I’d puttered sedately thru Sombra, north along the river for a mile, then east again. Crossing the railroad tracks I’d figured I was close enough to out of town, and under the blithe assumption that the “grey roads” on the Ministry of Transportation road map weren’t patrolled by the Ontario Provincial Police, I twisted the grip on my then-new BMW R1100RS and launched across the flat expanse of farmland that lay ahead.
For years I’d been riding a venerable BMW R60/6 opposed-twin, complete with dual drum brakes, wire wheels, and a power plant that might have generated a devastating 40 horsepower when it was new. My circle of BMW riding buddies--folks I’d left behind in Arizona when I’d returned to my Michigan homeland in 1991--had long since quit riding twins in favor of the water-cooled, four-cylinder “K-bikes”. But in 1993 my admittedly wavering faith in the Boxer was justified by BMW’s ground-up redesign. My new machine was everything my old bike wasn’t: sleek and fast and high-tech, unapologetically high-performance, with a revolutionary suspension system running state-of-the-art tires and brakes.
And yet, in many subtle ways that only a long-time Boxer aficionado would ever perceive, the bike was still everything my old bike had been…right down to the uncompensated engine torque that rolled the bike gently to the right when I revved the engine at a stoplight, and to the dreaded name BING cast into the dual throttle bodies. I was a happy fellow indeed, and had begun to believe most sincerely that BMW had designed and built the R11RS specifically for me.
Into the distance stretched a ribbon of black; on it a small bead rapidly resolved itself into the figure of another lone motorcyclist. As I closed I could tell I was looking at another BMW, not all that surprising given how close we were now to the rally site. The bike was an old one, a genuine vintage machine dating back to the late 60’s if not earlier. I was closing fast, and couldn’t grasp many more details…a large bundle of camping gear lashed across the luggage rack…a long braid from beneath the helmet rim, snapping in the wind…a Michigan license plate.
I rolled the throttle back a tad and swung well out into the oncoming lane, so as not to scare the hell out of this person (no telling yet if it was a man or woman) who might well have assumed s/he was quite alone on this byway to nowhere. As I passed I looked over and gave a little wave with my left index and middle fingers, and he (gender confirmed now that I could see the beard) nodded back without taking his hands from the bars. Then I was gone by, and unable to resist the opportunity to show off, I took the RS up to its top speed of 134-136 mph, depending on who you believe.
Not for long. You can’t drive those kind of speeds for long east of the Missouri River, and certainly not on a two-lane farm road like this. A little town up ahead and I tapped the excellent Brembo brakes to return to a speed that wouldn’t get me deported.
I glanced in the mirror, half-expecting to see flashing blue lights, but what I saw instead was this guy on the old Beemer. Still bolt upright in the saddle behind the big fairing, but gaining on me at an impressive rate. He must have been flogging it for all it was worth.
We were in formation by the time we made the turn in the center of town, and we continued riding together for the next twenty miles or so with him usually fixed steadily in my right-hand mirror. Usually—it took a while for him to catch up as we left a town or accelerated from an intersection. The old bike apparently didn’t mind cruising at a fairly decent clip, but getting up to speed was another matter.
I felt somewhat sorry for the guy behind me. My new bike had proven itself so competent, so responsive and forgiving in its handling, that I felt more confident in the saddle than I ever had before. I didn’t think I’d ever again ride one of the flimsy contraptions on which I’d racked up more than 150,000 miles. This sense of comfort and security was beginning to lull me, though; I was riding with a decidedly lazy style by the time I swung onto the riverside drive north of Port Stanley. I was spending a fair amount of time watching the scenery, which was more convoluted and hence interesting than the flatlands we’d left behind. Yet it felt good to close my eyes once in a while, to shut out the glare despite my dark Gargoyle sunglasses; my friendly eclipse-clouds had long since vaporized. The day had warmed considerably and I was looking forward to stepping off the bike and getting the helmet and jacket off. Thinking how nice it would be to find a café with a view of Lake Erie, to have some of what passed for lunch in southern Ontario and maybe a beer, to finally actually meet this brother-stranger who’d been riding with me for the past half hour.
In other words, I was serving myself up plenty of big thick slices of that statistical pie they show you in motorcycle safety class.
I’d been taking it fairly easy, fortunately; but I was still doing well over the speed limit as I leaned into a sweeping left-hander with a rocky hillside to my right and an Armco barrier between the opposing lane and the river bank.
I saw the patch of barely-discolored pavement maybe two seconds before I hit it.
I couldn’t tell what the stuff was, but it looked wet and it was all the way across the lane. I was too close, too fast to go around it. Maybe I wouldn’t need to do anything; if it was only water, it wouldn’t mean a thing.
It wasn’t water. My Canadian riding buddies would later joke that it was fish oil, taking a jab at the local industry. Sounds about right because it was essentially frictionless. As I came across it first my front and then my rear tire, those fantastic Bridgestone BattlAx meats that I found so confidence-inspiring, broke loose. I found myself almost instantly in an uncontrolled two-wheel drift.
My life didn’t flash before my eyes; I wasn’t going that fast and there was no truck barreling towards me in the oncoming lane. But here came that old heart-in-the-throat, sphincter-clenching feeling that I hadn’t sensed since my last close-call in Phoenix traffic a good five years earlier.
My old dirt biking skills kicked in; I was just in a bit of a cross-up, nothing more; it must have looked fabulous to anyone not sitting where I was. But I wasn’t kidding myself. I was expecting the bottom to fall out any millisecond now.
And then I was out of it. As I came off the slick, with a couple little squeaks those marvelous, lovely, wonderful Bridgestones hooked right up and suddenly the whole incident was nothing but a bad dream.
I’m going to stop right now and kiss these tires, I thought to myself.
Then I thought, I never would have recovered from that if I’d been on my old bike, on those old technology tires…
…like that guy behind me…
I glanced in my mirror just in time to see his bike go sideways, then suddenly spit him off, flip completely at least once, and tumble onto the shoulder in a cloud of dust that swallowed both machine and rider.
* * *
I pulled the brakes and whipped thru a u-turn, and raced back to the crash. The bike was on its side a dozen feet from the rider, who was lying on his back on the shoulder.
I put my bike on the stand and stepped over to him. I could see his eyelids blinking inside the scratched faceplate of his helmet, and breathed a sigh. Even as I watched he brought his arm around and tried to lift himself up.
"No you don't", I said, kneeling and gently but firmly placing my hand on his chest. "Don't move!"
"My bike..."
"Never mind your bike. How are you?"
He didn't fight back and laid back down. "Shit."
"Any trouble breathing?"
"No. I'm OK."
I scanned the rest of his body. No obvious bleeding, no limbs twisted at unnatural angles. He'd be glad he’d chosen to wear stout leathers this day. They weren't even torn, but they definitely had a few thousand more miles on them then they'd had a few minutes ago.
"You sure?"
"How's my bike?"
I glanced over.
"You stay here." I raised my voice, intending a commanding, authoritative tone, but I think it came out more like a strident shriek. "Don't move!"
I went to his bike, which was leaking gas onto the shoulder. It was over on the right-hand side, so I had to lift it, then straddle it and lower the kickstand. I heard a loud pop that startled me. As I swung my leg off I saw a stain developing in the duffle bag lashed to the luggage rack, and the smell of warm Labatt’s wafted into my helmet. I had to chuckle.
I looked back and could see the rider stirring. I ran back to him.
"Hey!" I said.
"I'm OK, dammit!"
"Hang on." I knelt down and again, put my hand on his chest. It took more effort than the last time, but I pushed him back down. "I'm going to loosen your helmet strap. Don't move."
I pulled my gloves off and unfastened the strap. I reached around the back of his neck. Didn't feel anything protruding but also knew I didn't know what the hell I was feeling for.
"You know you should be on a backboard--""
"Screw that. Get this helmet off."
I shuffled around until I was directly behind him. I grabbed the helmet with both hands and pulled it, with as little twisting as possible, off his head. When it finally came free his head dropped to the gravel with an audible clunk.
"Shit!" we both said. Before I could do anything else he reached up and grabbed his neck, rotated his head a couple times, then rolled over on his side. Resigned, I sat back and found myself leaning against the guardrail. Then I pushed myself to my feet and dropped the helmet as I could see him starting to get to get up. I offered a hand, and helped pull him to his feet. He staggered a bit and I pulled him back vertical.
He was in his late thirties, dark blonde hair and a goatee. Tall. Sturdily built.
I was still holding his hand. I shook it.
"Ian Mayhew", I said.
"Lazlo Hemingway", he said, shaking back. Then he was looking past me at his bike. "Shit."
"Hey, it looks like it will still roll", I said. "And you can even walk. You're lucky as hell."
As I unfastened my own helmet, finally, I heard a car approaching from behind us. We both whirled and watched as an OPP cruiser rolled up, light bar flashing, and parked on the shoulder a few yards from my bike. The door swung open and a gal younger than either of us stepped out. Her red hair was done up in a long coiled braid, which quickly disappeared under her uniform cap.
"Having a bit of trouble, eh?" she asked as she approached.
"Uh, well..." I began.
"The lady there reported the accident.". She nodded over her shoulder, and Lazlo and I both looked across to the inside of the curve. A hundred feet or so further up the road the rocky hillside was cut by a steep dirt driveway. At the end of it was a custard-yellow cottage where an elderly woman was standing in the porch doorway.
Lazlo and I looked each other, then back at the officer. Her nameplate read “Williams”.
"Accident?" we both said.
"There's an ambulance on the way."
"What accident?" Lazlo said.
"No accident here, ma’m", I said.
Officer Williams looked at Lazlo's bike. It was covered with dust, clearly bent and scratched in several places, and leaking beer into a growing puddle near the rear wheel. She glanced at the scarred helmet lying on the shoulder.
Officer Williams attempted a stern tone. It reminded me of my little sister trying to convince me that I'd be in real trouble when dad got home.
"It appears to me", she said, and gazed pointedly at Lazlo, "That you, sir, failed to maintain control of your vehicle while attempting to negotiate this turn."
He looked back at her without so much as an eye twitch.
"Ma'am, my friend Ian and I thought it would be a good idea to stop for a rest break at this very scenic overlook." He nodded slightly (and at this point he did wince a bit) in the direction of the river, which was almost visible beyond the rail.
She started to speak, then drew in a breath.
"That's your story?"
"Yes, ma'am. But thank you very much for your concern."
"Your license and registration, please", she said. She turned to me. "Yours too."
"Mine?" I asked. "Why?"
"The same reason I want his. Both of these vehicles are illegally parked."
I repressed a smile and Lazlo and I fished for our wallets. The ambulance arrived then. Officer Williams walked over and spoke to the driver, who glared ferociously at us more than once before finally driving off. The cop went back to her car, chatted on the radio a bit.
Lazlo and I sat on the guardrail. Lazlo kept looking toward his bike, then back at the cop car. He started to brush some of the dust off his leathers, then stopped. The silence got to me eventually.
"Nice day", I said, pointing up toward the clear blue sky.
Lazlo scowled.
Officer Williams came back.
"Gentlemen", she said, "My American guests. The Province of Ontario wishes you a pleasant and above all safe visit, and expects you to continue to travel, in a reasonable and prudent manner, on to your destination. Which is", and she once again adopted the stern little sister voice, "A distance of no less than twenty kilometers from this very spot. Am I right?"
"Yes ma'm", we replied in unison.
She handed us our papers.
"Get out of here." She spun on her heel and went back to her car.
Thankfully, she left without waiting to see if Lazlo's bike would actually start.
I'd headed east from Lake Orion that morning beneath a sky streaked with narrow bands of altostratus that drifted with almost uncanny precision between myself and the sun. The temperature had been just chilly enough that leathers and a full-coverage helmet felt comfortable rather than confining. I gave thanks for that to Whoever's In Charge; I knew from experience that the May ride to the ABC Rally in southern Ontario was about as likely to involve snow as oppressive heat and humidity.
Still, it felt good when I pulled off my helmet after boarding the ferry at Marine City. The ship groaned and creaked softly as it rocked on the blue-green chop of the St. Clair River. I'd wondered as always whether the old tub would sink before it made the Canadian shore, and whether my insurance would cover the loss. But we made the crossing without incident, and after the usual perfunctory approval from the customs officer I’d puttered sedately thru Sombra, north along the river for a mile, then east again. Crossing the railroad tracks I’d figured I was close enough to out of town, and under the blithe assumption that the “grey roads” on the Ministry of Transportation road map weren’t patrolled by the Ontario Provincial Police, I twisted the grip on my then-new BMW R1100RS and launched across the flat expanse of farmland that lay ahead.
For years I’d been riding a venerable BMW R60/6 opposed-twin, complete with dual drum brakes, wire wheels, and a power plant that might have generated a devastating 40 horsepower when it was new. My circle of BMW riding buddies--folks I’d left behind in Arizona when I’d returned to my Michigan homeland in 1991--had long since quit riding twins in favor of the water-cooled, four-cylinder “K-bikes”. But in 1993 my admittedly wavering faith in the Boxer was justified by BMW’s ground-up redesign. My new machine was everything my old bike wasn’t: sleek and fast and high-tech, unapologetically high-performance, with a revolutionary suspension system running state-of-the-art tires and brakes.
And yet, in many subtle ways that only a long-time Boxer aficionado would ever perceive, the bike was still everything my old bike had been…right down to the uncompensated engine torque that rolled the bike gently to the right when I revved the engine at a stoplight, and to the dreaded name BING cast into the dual throttle bodies. I was a happy fellow indeed, and had begun to believe most sincerely that BMW had designed and built the R11RS specifically for me.
Into the distance stretched a ribbon of black; on it a small bead rapidly resolved itself into the figure of another lone motorcyclist. As I closed I could tell I was looking at another BMW, not all that surprising given how close we were now to the rally site. The bike was an old one, a genuine vintage machine dating back to the late 60’s if not earlier. I was closing fast, and couldn’t grasp many more details…a large bundle of camping gear lashed across the luggage rack…a long braid from beneath the helmet rim, snapping in the wind…a Michigan license plate.
I rolled the throttle back a tad and swung well out into the oncoming lane, so as not to scare the hell out of this person (no telling yet if it was a man or woman) who might well have assumed s/he was quite alone on this byway to nowhere. As I passed I looked over and gave a little wave with my left index and middle fingers, and he (gender confirmed now that I could see the beard) nodded back without taking his hands from the bars. Then I was gone by, and unable to resist the opportunity to show off, I took the RS up to its top speed of 134-136 mph, depending on who you believe.
Not for long. You can’t drive those kind of speeds for long east of the Missouri River, and certainly not on a two-lane farm road like this. A little town up ahead and I tapped the excellent Brembo brakes to return to a speed that wouldn’t get me deported.
I glanced in the mirror, half-expecting to see flashing blue lights, but what I saw instead was this guy on the old Beemer. Still bolt upright in the saddle behind the big fairing, but gaining on me at an impressive rate. He must have been flogging it for all it was worth.
We were in formation by the time we made the turn in the center of town, and we continued riding together for the next twenty miles or so with him usually fixed steadily in my right-hand mirror. Usually—it took a while for him to catch up as we left a town or accelerated from an intersection. The old bike apparently didn’t mind cruising at a fairly decent clip, but getting up to speed was another matter.
I felt somewhat sorry for the guy behind me. My new bike had proven itself so competent, so responsive and forgiving in its handling, that I felt more confident in the saddle than I ever had before. I didn’t think I’d ever again ride one of the flimsy contraptions on which I’d racked up more than 150,000 miles. This sense of comfort and security was beginning to lull me, though; I was riding with a decidedly lazy style by the time I swung onto the riverside drive north of Port Stanley. I was spending a fair amount of time watching the scenery, which was more convoluted and hence interesting than the flatlands we’d left behind. Yet it felt good to close my eyes once in a while, to shut out the glare despite my dark Gargoyle sunglasses; my friendly eclipse-clouds had long since vaporized. The day had warmed considerably and I was looking forward to stepping off the bike and getting the helmet and jacket off. Thinking how nice it would be to find a café with a view of Lake Erie, to have some of what passed for lunch in southern Ontario and maybe a beer, to finally actually meet this brother-stranger who’d been riding with me for the past half hour.
In other words, I was serving myself up plenty of big thick slices of that statistical pie they show you in motorcycle safety class.
I’d been taking it fairly easy, fortunately; but I was still doing well over the speed limit as I leaned into a sweeping left-hander with a rocky hillside to my right and an Armco barrier between the opposing lane and the river bank.
I saw the patch of barely-discolored pavement maybe two seconds before I hit it.
I couldn’t tell what the stuff was, but it looked wet and it was all the way across the lane. I was too close, too fast to go around it. Maybe I wouldn’t need to do anything; if it was only water, it wouldn’t mean a thing.
It wasn’t water. My Canadian riding buddies would later joke that it was fish oil, taking a jab at the local industry. Sounds about right because it was essentially frictionless. As I came across it first my front and then my rear tire, those fantastic Bridgestone BattlAx meats that I found so confidence-inspiring, broke loose. I found myself almost instantly in an uncontrolled two-wheel drift.
My life didn’t flash before my eyes; I wasn’t going that fast and there was no truck barreling towards me in the oncoming lane. But here came that old heart-in-the-throat, sphincter-clenching feeling that I hadn’t sensed since my last close-call in Phoenix traffic a good five years earlier.
My old dirt biking skills kicked in; I was just in a bit of a cross-up, nothing more; it must have looked fabulous to anyone not sitting where I was. But I wasn’t kidding myself. I was expecting the bottom to fall out any millisecond now.
And then I was out of it. As I came off the slick, with a couple little squeaks those marvelous, lovely, wonderful Bridgestones hooked right up and suddenly the whole incident was nothing but a bad dream.
I’m going to stop right now and kiss these tires, I thought to myself.
Then I thought, I never would have recovered from that if I’d been on my old bike, on those old technology tires…
…like that guy behind me…
I glanced in my mirror just in time to see his bike go sideways, then suddenly spit him off, flip completely at least once, and tumble onto the shoulder in a cloud of dust that swallowed both machine and rider.
* * *
I pulled the brakes and whipped thru a u-turn, and raced back to the crash. The bike was on its side a dozen feet from the rider, who was lying on his back on the shoulder.
I put my bike on the stand and stepped over to him. I could see his eyelids blinking inside the scratched faceplate of his helmet, and breathed a sigh. Even as I watched he brought his arm around and tried to lift himself up.
"No you don't", I said, kneeling and gently but firmly placing my hand on his chest. "Don't move!"
"My bike..."
"Never mind your bike. How are you?"
He didn't fight back and laid back down. "Shit."
"Any trouble breathing?"
"No. I'm OK."
I scanned the rest of his body. No obvious bleeding, no limbs twisted at unnatural angles. He'd be glad he’d chosen to wear stout leathers this day. They weren't even torn, but they definitely had a few thousand more miles on them then they'd had a few minutes ago.
"You sure?"
"How's my bike?"
I glanced over.
"You stay here." I raised my voice, intending a commanding, authoritative tone, but I think it came out more like a strident shriek. "Don't move!"
I went to his bike, which was leaking gas onto the shoulder. It was over on the right-hand side, so I had to lift it, then straddle it and lower the kickstand. I heard a loud pop that startled me. As I swung my leg off I saw a stain developing in the duffle bag lashed to the luggage rack, and the smell of warm Labatt’s wafted into my helmet. I had to chuckle.
I looked back and could see the rider stirring. I ran back to him.
"Hey!" I said.
"I'm OK, dammit!"
"Hang on." I knelt down and again, put my hand on his chest. It took more effort than the last time, but I pushed him back down. "I'm going to loosen your helmet strap. Don't move."
I pulled my gloves off and unfastened the strap. I reached around the back of his neck. Didn't feel anything protruding but also knew I didn't know what the hell I was feeling for.
"You know you should be on a backboard--""
"Screw that. Get this helmet off."
I shuffled around until I was directly behind him. I grabbed the helmet with both hands and pulled it, with as little twisting as possible, off his head. When it finally came free his head dropped to the gravel with an audible clunk.
"Shit!" we both said. Before I could do anything else he reached up and grabbed his neck, rotated his head a couple times, then rolled over on his side. Resigned, I sat back and found myself leaning against the guardrail. Then I pushed myself to my feet and dropped the helmet as I could see him starting to get to get up. I offered a hand, and helped pull him to his feet. He staggered a bit and I pulled him back vertical.
He was in his late thirties, dark blonde hair and a goatee. Tall. Sturdily built.
I was still holding his hand. I shook it.
"Ian Mayhew", I said.
"Lazlo Hemingway", he said, shaking back. Then he was looking past me at his bike. "Shit."
"Hey, it looks like it will still roll", I said. "And you can even walk. You're lucky as hell."
As I unfastened my own helmet, finally, I heard a car approaching from behind us. We both whirled and watched as an OPP cruiser rolled up, light bar flashing, and parked on the shoulder a few yards from my bike. The door swung open and a gal younger than either of us stepped out. Her red hair was done up in a long coiled braid, which quickly disappeared under her uniform cap.
"Having a bit of trouble, eh?" she asked as she approached.
"Uh, well..." I began.
"The lady there reported the accident.". She nodded over her shoulder, and Lazlo and I both looked across to the inside of the curve. A hundred feet or so further up the road the rocky hillside was cut by a steep dirt driveway. At the end of it was a custard-yellow cottage where an elderly woman was standing in the porch doorway.
Lazlo and I looked each other, then back at the officer. Her nameplate read “Williams”.
"Accident?" we both said.
"There's an ambulance on the way."
"What accident?" Lazlo said.
"No accident here, ma’m", I said.
Officer Williams looked at Lazlo's bike. It was covered with dust, clearly bent and scratched in several places, and leaking beer into a growing puddle near the rear wheel. She glanced at the scarred helmet lying on the shoulder.
Officer Williams attempted a stern tone. It reminded me of my little sister trying to convince me that I'd be in real trouble when dad got home.
"It appears to me", she said, and gazed pointedly at Lazlo, "That you, sir, failed to maintain control of your vehicle while attempting to negotiate this turn."
He looked back at her without so much as an eye twitch.
"Ma'am, my friend Ian and I thought it would be a good idea to stop for a rest break at this very scenic overlook." He nodded slightly (and at this point he did wince a bit) in the direction of the river, which was almost visible beyond the rail.
She started to speak, then drew in a breath.
"That's your story?"
"Yes, ma'am. But thank you very much for your concern."
"Your license and registration, please", she said. She turned to me. "Yours too."
"Mine?" I asked. "Why?"
"The same reason I want his. Both of these vehicles are illegally parked."
I repressed a smile and Lazlo and I fished for our wallets. The ambulance arrived then. Officer Williams walked over and spoke to the driver, who glared ferociously at us more than once before finally driving off. The cop went back to her car, chatted on the radio a bit.
Lazlo and I sat on the guardrail. Lazlo kept looking toward his bike, then back at the cop car. He started to brush some of the dust off his leathers, then stopped. The silence got to me eventually.
"Nice day", I said, pointing up toward the clear blue sky.
Lazlo scowled.
Officer Williams came back.
"Gentlemen", she said, "My American guests. The Province of Ontario wishes you a pleasant and above all safe visit, and expects you to continue to travel, in a reasonable and prudent manner, on to your destination. Which is", and she once again adopted the stern little sister voice, "A distance of no less than twenty kilometers from this very spot. Am I right?"
"Yes ma'm", we replied in unison.
She handed us our papers.
"Get out of here." She spun on her heel and went back to her car.
Thankfully, she left without waiting to see if Lazlo's bike would actually start.
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