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.
