Be careful when coming to Moab, especially on weekends. Motorcycle traffic on the trails has exploded over the past couple of years (2006-7). The guys who work in the bike shops ride motorcycles in their spare time!--it's that bad. The freeride bikes just aren't enough for them anymore. Over the years I have had a few close calls with motorcycyles. Until recently the worst experiences were a couple of real creeps intentionally trying to roostertail me in the sand. Well, it finally happened. Below are photos of my body and bike after being hit by a motorcycle on the road into Courthouse Pasture in April of 2007, clusterfucked by five motorcycles traveling at highway speeds, definitely racing, nearly abreast on a narrow sandy 4WD road--two on my right, two on my left, one in the middle, staggered by about hundred feet each, but all going in excess of 50 miles an hour and coming out of a blind turn. The second pair was going well over 50 mph, traveling down the wrong side of the road high on the berm, trying to catch the first pair. The last one was doing the same. No one slowed, except the fellow who hit me--AFTER HE HIT ME. The fellow on the bike who ran me over told Miki over the phone that it was I who hit his motorcycle head-on. He stated that he had the right of way because he was going uphill (about a 6% grade). He said I froze in front of him. Think about it: A non-motorized vehicle going 5 to 10 miles per hour and a motorcycle going around 50 miles per hour coming out of a blind turn in the middle of the trail after his buddies had teed me up like a golf ball by forcing me onto the opposite side of the trail. When I was hit I was getting out of the way at the speed I was coasting. I had one wheel in the right side of the trail and one on the middle hump. Did he close on me fast? Yes, he did. Could he avoid me? Not at the speed he was traveling. Did I have a chance to get out of the way? NO, unless I was the fucking Flash. The fellow who HIT ME is a guide for a local mountain bike tour company, Western Spirit. He is a good example of what you will be getting with them. One of his party passed me on the road as I walked out alone, cupping my arm, dizzy from the impact. He had left to get his black Suburban to pull our van out of a rut it got into trying to get me to the hospital. I stopped the black Suburban and asked the fellow for his name, which he gave me. He was literally bright red, sweating like a pig, trembling, his hands shaking on the steering wheel. Will he apologize? He should. It would serve him well, I think. He has a conscience--or he wouldn't be sweating and shaking or helping get me out of there. He was the only one in the bunch who exhibited any concern for me on this day. No one admitted anything and no one offered to help with the hospital bill or my damaged bike. Here is what I expect: The American way: Keep riding your goddamn motorized popcycle with your testosterone homo-repressed buddies across the wildlife while the country is at war for oil to the tune of 1,000,000 killed, then blame the Iraqis and the guy you hit while you were trying to show your buddies how fast you could make that blind turn in an area of multi-use with kids all over the place on bikes of every kind.
A telling follow-up:
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The photo above and the one on the right show the angle at which the motorcycle hit me. The one above also shows the complete rear end of the bike bent to the right from the impact. The photo on the right shows the nick on my ankle where the motorcycle's foot peg grazed it. The peg then hit the back of my bike on the seatstay just above the pivot at the axle. If I had been one inch further to the left, the peg, traveling at around 40 miles per hour or so--and me at 8 mph or so--would have crushed the ankle. I was told that I got out of this without serious injury because I go to church. I think this does not let the BLM off the hook. They are the ones who are supposed to regulate this use. How many 14 year olds flying off the sides of canyons and motor/non-motor accidents does it take to make these people get a license and insurance? Yes, the guy who hit me had no insurance and the motorcycle was unregistered.
This photo shows the damage to the left hand chainstay. The tubing on our DREAMRIDE FULLY is very stout. The strength of the welds is amazing (the welder is the best in the business, Sherwood Gibson). The pivot held together, another demonstration of Sherwood's engineering magic. The force of the blow bent the chainstays and seatstays to the right, putting the bike out of alignment. The stays will certainly be replaced. The overall frame will then be put on an alignment table. The bike remains intact for now, as the insurance company does it's investigation.
This photo is of my upper arm taken at the computer as I wrote this. It looks better than it did a few days ago. There is a laceration on the outside of the bicep that is filled with golden seal. The muscle just behind the blow is hard as thick cardboard and the entire area is really lumpy from the hardening hematomas. I lost some muscle mass from this, too--the muscle was torn where the laceration is. I refused to have the wound stitched because I didn't want to be in the hospital for very long. The emergency room doctor, looking like he'd been on the job for forty hours, walked over after working on the computer and fiddling with a clipboard, pulled back the dressing and poked the bare wound with his finger WITHOUT WASHING HIS HANDS. The nurse scrubbed the open deep cut with a fucking BRUSH! In the reception area there was a anxious man whose wife had come to the hospital for a cut on her hand and contracted a staff infection. And they tried to sell me one of their $600 slings! I ran from the hospital as fast as I could. Miki took care of me better at home. Golden seal, by the way, is an anticeptic root ground into a powder that lessens scarring and kills pain. We use it on cuts and scrapes, always. I took the bandage off as soon as I got home and found that I was already having a reaction to the salve the nurse put on the wound. What the hell is that stuff? Staff germ gel? Oh, Moab. What a place to live. The fellow who hit me told Miki on the phone, "We are just a couple of locals who had an accident on the trail. Can't we just forget it?" It should be easy for him.
Miki was in Moonflower, our local health food store--you know the kind with the body odor and high prices, and one of the girls working there came over to say she was dating that guide for Western Spirit. She had the nerve to tell Miki it was "your husband's karma" to get hit by her boyfriend on a "motorcycle." A couple of months later Miki was talking to a friend who was working in the same market who told her that the girlfriend of the guy who hit me had been fired and was in the domestic abuse shelter. That guide from Western Spirit had beat her up. Karma! Ain't life grand?
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