Memories

For almost 2 years the memories of going down evaded me.  There were spots of memory but I couldn't remember the actual sequence of events that happened between getting ready to pass a pickup and laying on the ground looking up at the sky and wondering how I was seeing the sky from my bike.

It's hard to live with doubt when you ride a bike.  When I learned to ride I'd been around good riders who taught me well.  I've learned since we have moved away from that club how safety consciousness is very rarely at the top of the list for most clubs and groups.  But for the American Biker Knights, because we cared for ourselves and each other, we constantly worked to become better riders, and better at riding together.  When I started to ride, I had brushes with stupidity, made my share of mistakes, took mountain curves too quickly with some serious adrenaline floods.  But I never doubted my own innate instincts.  After the first couple weeks of riding my bike I went on rides with the club into the Rockies by Denver.  I let go of my mind and that was when I truly became a biker.  I stopped thinking and starting being one with the bike.  Feeling the curves, flying along the canyons like a bird.  To feel the joy of flight is why I ride.

The day I went down was a long ride.  It was supposed to be about 10 hours, but we'd stopped and it probably would have been somewhat longer.  But it was beautiful.  Even in the beginning of August you never know if you might hit snow in some of the passes but Monarch Pass found us flying around the twisties with not a flake in sight.  We rode hard and fast, something that both John and I love to do, racing and playing, drunk with the feeling of freedom.

Highway 149 between Gunnison and Hinsdale County hold some of the most beautiful views you can see.  We slowed down some to really be able to look around us as we rode.  People in that area don't like bikers as a rule.  If you look up statistics about Hinsdale, you will find out 2 things.  Alfred Packer, the famous and terrible cannibal was tried and condemned there, and it is the most remote county in the country.  We came to a stretch of long flat highway and came up on a white pickup that was going ten under the speed limit.   Easy pass.

John and I had ridden together so much that we had an exact way of passing cars on a 2 lane highway safely.  He went out, and level with the driver decided whether to accelerate or tuck back in.  While he moved next to the driver's side, I moved up behind the vehicle to follow or to fall back.

That day, John went out, got to the driver's side, accelerated and passed the truck.  As he accelerated so did I to take his place beside the truck.  This is the critical moment for any one driving and passing on a two lane highway.  Commit or slide back.  The decision is a split second deal.

I remembered seeing John accelerate, and I remembered my intention to move out to pass.  And then... nothing.

I looked up in the sky.  It was a beautiful blue with no clouds to be seen.  It felt like I was crying but I didn't know why.  All the sudden I heard a lot of voices and John was in my field of vision.  It never really occurred to me to move even though on some level I knew I had to be in the middle of the road.  And then the pain hit, and the rest of about 2 months is a blur from pain and medicines and lots of other stupid trauma shit that no one should really ever go through

But I was stubborn, and I was tough.  And even with my cast 2 months afterwards I was riding on the back of John's bike with the club.  It took a while but I moved from his to my own again.   As I rode I found that I reacted unconsciously to certain things and didn't know why.  And still I couldn't remember.  So I went from being a confident skilled rider to someone I didn't know.  I couldn't remember the accident so I didn't know if those instincts I had relied on and believed to be so infallible actually were.  I lived with doubt about every move and choice I made on every ride.

The mechanics came back quickly.  But the confidence did not, and I went through several periods of time where it was harder to deal with the doubt than it was to just not ride.  I wasn't a very pleasant person to be around those times.  But riding a bike while doubting your own abilities is terrifying.  Ability and experience and a good dose of attitude are most of what lies between a biker who's down and a biker who's squeaked past the accident waiting to happen.

I considered hypnotherapy, other times I just let it go.  And then, memorial day weekend this year we were in the car driving to Las Vegas.  And the same situation hit us.  Two lane highway.  John and I passing.  And the element I couldn't remember.

We pulled out beside a semi and were in that magic moment, the moment between life and death really.  There was on-coming traffic and for just a second John considered tucking back.  And at that same moment the trucker decided we were in danger and hit his brakes.  And I collapsed into an absolute crumble on the seat beside John completely reliving the accident.  I didn't remember, I was transported back into time and relived everything I had not been able to remember.

When I went to pass the white truck, I pulled out and was level with him, and in that magic moment decided to tuck back due to the oncoming traffic.  But the pickup driver panic'd and slammed on his brakes at the same time.  I tried to tuck back expecting open space and there was the truck.  To avoid the collision I jerked the bike back into the oncoming lane.  I had no idea what the driver was going to do and had no confidence that slowing down or speeding up would get me where I needed to be.  In that split second I saw three choices.  The truck, the ditch to the left (very steep and a very sudden barbed wire stop) or lay down my bike   with control instead of just letting the accident happen.  I remember leaning over to my right.  I remember the absolute moment of knowing what I was doing and wondering if I was going to survive as I knew I was too far over to come back up and that it was going to be just a second before I hit.  I remember trying to push away from the bike and clearing it enough for it not to fall on me but not enough to miss the handle bar smashing into my face.  I remember the sky and knowing I was alive and for a few seconds since there was no pain, thinking I should get up.

Sometimes we pray to forget things that have hurt us, damaged us, changed our lives in so many ways.  Every day for almost 2 years I prayed to remember what had damaged me.  And on a two lane highway somewhere in the Mojave desert my prayers were answered.  And after some time to process my memories, I realized that my instincts were ok.  I hadn't failed.  In the split second of time I had to chose my course towards life or death, I took my best chance at life.

It's taken a couple months to soak, but that knowledge has finally given me back myself.  I can't pin down the day but sometime in this last month I stopped being scared.  I have started wanting to ride every where again. I resent it if I have to take the car.  But even more importantly, when I got back on my bike it felt good and I finally trusted myself again.  I became the biker bitch I had grown into and loved before the accident.

Taking back my power on the bike gave me back power in my life.  I think that is what makes women who ride different.  Men are raised with their power.  From the time they are little, men are infused with the expectation that they will go out and make a difference on the world in some visible way.  Women, at least when I was growing up, were expected to make their mark on the world by raising their sons to do so.

When I stepped into my boots, tied on my dew rag and put my arms through my vest I put on the mantle of power.  When I threw my leg over my steel horse, put her key in and turned over that engine I felt the power run through me.  When I faced death with a smile on my face as I chased the sun down the mountain canyons I felt more alive than I had ever before,  My favorite music was hearing the wind rush past me.  The magic was that once Wraith was safely in the garage, my boots off, the vest hung up and my dew rag thrown in the drawer, I was still that strong tough biker chick.  I was the 5'4" girl who almost took out an asshole at a gas station on the way home from Sturgis because he had attitude with me.  (That's another story).

For the last two years, I have lived in the shadow of that woman.  I have lived in pain knowing that I had been her but she was lost and inaccessible.  But today, I put on my boots, tie my dew rag around my head, put my arms through my vest to straddle that 1200 cc of pure joy.  I have my power and joy back, both on and off Wraith.