Orange Shoes

I was comfortable in the armored shoulders and elbows of my red motorcycle jacket, the neon glow green tennis ball-like helmet snug on my head, it was warm inside the new coat that I hadn’t worn much, but now, extremely glad that I chose to put it on this foggy morning. I didn’t want to move from this spot, I had already tried to roll onto all fours, and gave a eventful push to rise, a strain to stand up right, and couldn’t.  The pain in my thighs hollered to stay down till I could get my breath back. An inhale, rising my diaphragm, closing my eyes, using the concentration learned from Lamaze and practiced many times with the birth of each child, a breathe to relax selective parts of my body, namely the parts in highest pain.  Warm and comfortable in this quiet helmet world lying on asphalt in a residential area I was passing through on my way to work.

“Are you alright?  Are you alive?”

Exhaling, I opened my eyes to an orange pair of shoes.  Bright orange running shoes. 

The quiet bubble broke as the situation rolled over me.

“Yes, I’m alright.” I answered, not able to see a face.

“Are you a female?” the shoes wanted to know.

“Yes.” I then pulled myself up on one arm and sat side saddle, like a lady, looking down at my bare leg, when my knee hit the pavement, a tear in my cotton seersucker pants, from pocket to hem, bared my leg, I was glad to have some what of a tan this early in spring. 

March 27, that dreaded, inevitable left hand turn caused me not to go to work today, some one in the office needed to know that. I wanted my phone.

I looked around for my motorcycle.  Scooter was on its side 20 feet from me. Rigamortis must have sat in, for the panniers and a frame rod were sticky out as if grasping for some hand to help them up. Like troopers, they took the brunt of the impact, dented and torn from the bike; they very well could have saved my legs.

A white car had pulled out in front of me, I knew I couldn’t miss it, and turned to get around the car, it’s right headlight hit the back pannier. Flying over the handlebars, I saw my hands in front of me and thought, if I land like this I will break an arm. Subconsciously, I must have rolled.

My first motorcycle accident, but according to the tow truck driver, it should be my last. There are two types of people, he philosophized.

Those are going down and those that have been down. He reasoned, I should not go down again.
I think that is based on an average.  My friends that have gone down, have pins in their calves, or missing calves, broken collar bones or broken legs, or loss of life. I had bruised thighs, pulled groin muscles and shear thankfulness that I didn't hurt more.
Ameliorating of my lower body was quick.  Within the week I was back on my horse;  real four legged creature, not the other wise known Iron Horse motorcycle; riding in the local gymkhana club.  Nobody knew I walked away from a motorcycle accident just a week prior.

As my sister-in-law walked with me from the ER to my husband's truck waiting curbside, she reminded me of something I had told her many years before when she and her 3 daughters were in a car accident, a verse I had read in Proverbs.
"You can prepare a horse for battle, but safety is of the Lord."
For her, she was glad everyone had seat belts on when she rolled her pick up in the fast lane on the freeway.  For me, it was the heavy jacket and helmet for protection, but ultimately, it was the grace of God telling me, He had more for me to do. More for me to experience.  
I would have enjoyed a quick trip to heaven, but there are people that would have been greatly hurt if I went missing.
So, I am still around, still pestering the lives of those in my family.

The Inevitable Left Hand Turn

Down But Not Broken

We all know it to happen at some point when riding two wheels and being physically exposed to mishaps, misjudgments and the inevitable left hand turn in front of you.

On my way to work one morning, and turning right on a surface street into a residential area to avoid traffic and people rushing to work or to drop off their children at school and every one is in their way, I bounced to a stop as a white car turned left in front of me, he didn't stop, I had to ride the tank when I stopped.  Moving up the street, the white car in front of me, another white car pulled out behind him, a left turn in front of me.  Do they not see me? I am in a red jacket, the head lights of the bike are on, my helmet resembles a glow green tennis ball but much bigger. I knew I could not swerve far enough left to avoid a crash this time, the windows were dark tinted, I couldn't see the driver, who didn't see me, because they did not stop. Flying over the handlebars, I hear the crunch of my panniers, it happened quickly, not slow motion, and I rolled from my right thigh to my left and moved to my knees and elbows only to groan and lay back down.  I'm not getting up. I can see my bike 20 feet in front of me, her headlight looking at me for help, the pannier on the right was ripped and contorted, she was broken more then me. Groaning I closed my eyes, breathing deeply to relieve the pain that was in my legs, opening my eyes, from the comfort of my full faced helmet, were a pair of bright orange running shoes.  

"Are you alive?" the shoes asked.

I groaned. 

"Are you a female?"

It's not obvious from the cotton slacks and dress shoes I have on?  Or did.  A shoe was missing, a siren was heard, the ambulance was just on the other side of the freeway less then a 1/2 mile away, I tried to sit up.  My pants were ripped from the crotch to the ankle. I slowly took my helmet off.

"Ma'am, please stay down, leave your helmet on."  The orange shoes had called 911 he assured me, a young girl of 20 looked on me and asked if she could help.

She fetched my wallet from the one pannier still attached to the bike. The lotion, I carry for dry places and left in the pannier from my last road trip, the 2 month one around the nation with out incident, exploded over the wallet as I smoothed it aside to fetch my phone.  The orange shoes, saw my struggle and volunteered to make the call. 

I gave him my husband's number.  He was in Riverside and would be there as soon as possible.  I was not bleeding. I was not broken. I was bruised on both my thighs.

I could hear the woman driver that hit me lament it was her fault, she had ran into me. 

But she never came up to me.  The officer was taking the report. I was to see him later in ER.  Then my daughters came. One, the organizer, taking charge over X-rays and officer reports.  And my other daughter, with tears, "Mom you scared us!"

"I know, I'm sorry. I tried to avoid it."

A week after the accident I was back on my horse, thankful I could walk. I'm stiff and bruised.  But I can walk. I don't have to have physical therapy, I don't have to wait for a prosthetic limb, my ribs are not broken, I'm not in a comma on a respirator.  I'm not the main attraction at a funeral, as has happened to my motorcycle riding friends over the years. I am extremely thankful.

My sister-in-law met me at the hospital.  I was there when she was in a car accident and she reminded of what I had told her for comfort. A verse in Psalm that I had forgotten.

"You can prepare a horse for battle but safety is of the Lord."   

She reminded me I had on the right gear, except for my insulated pants, the road rash was minimal for wearing cotton pants, the bruising would of happened even through the motorcycle pants. 

I thanked the Lord for life.  Now, I wonder why I was spared, but I know I must be worth something if I am still here. I must have more to learn, or more to share if I am writing this now.  No one has read my blog, but maybe some one will and they will know that they are special, too.  We all have a purpose. A simple reason to live.  And that is to give praise to God.

If you are looking for Truth, He is true.  If you are looking for life after death or purpose to this life, He is Life.  If you are wanting a way to Heaven, He is the Way.