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. 

Wednesday off

My student was absent this Wednesday, and I made a lazy bottom decision to take the day off. A reasonable thing to do. Jesse was due home from Afghanistan today and when I got his text, off went my reply of what I was doing, "Riding BMW on forestry road. I will call back when I get home." Sadly, I forgot to include Earl in that text. He hadn't a clue where I was.

And where did I decide to go this beautiful Feb 22? After a ride on Love, first thing in the morning, I strapped the snowshoes on the BMW and headed to Angeles Crest Highway, hoping for a place to use them. My favorite place to ride, but getting there isn't something I want to highlight.

None of the weekend riders were on hwy 2 and snow was just as scarce. The forestry roads were unlocked with gates wide open. They were all closed last summer when I first discovered this ride. Not a lot of snow this year, except in the shade. So, I started off on a dirt road which was only 6 miles to the small village of Lone Pine. It was warm and dry, then the road wrapped around the hill to the north side and a patch of snow was in front of me. 100 yards, shouldn't be a problem. For any one else maybe, within 40 feet the back tire slipped on the icy slush and the bike went down, cracking my ankle on the aluminum panniers. Sliding out from under I switch the key off and stood up. Shaky and weak, I tried to lift the bike, it was not budging. There was a banana in my back pack, a little bit of brain food as I looked at all the possibilities. I lifted the bike once before so I was pretty sure I could get it back up. Wasn't happening. Scooting the scooter to face up hill, since it was decided, there would probably be more patches between here and the final mile, up hill would be better for me to drive, no brake required. Again I tried to upright the bike, with the right footing, it popped up, threw my leg over the seat and started it, released the clutch and the rear tire spun. Off the bike, more situation look over, moving the snow from in front of the back tire and slipping myself on the slushed over ice, since the snow was only on the road, pine needles were gathered and a path made to the end of the dirt...the whole situation was rectified in less then 30 minutes. Nicely done, if it wasn't corrected on my own, it was a mile walk to the highway and wait for a traffic car that might be able to help me. And probably a lecture from a stranger that I shouldn't be on a dirt road in the first place.

It was a great ride. New roads discovered and new lessons learned.

Even at 52.

Some of the In Between

After the initial restructuring of all my "necessary" gear on the Cajon Pass, I veered off the freeway to highway 395 and my first fuel up. Heating up too. 104 degrees @ 10 am. Voting against the larger fueling station, I found a single pump a top the rise, and not disappointingly, the old man sitting out front with a fly swatter across his lap. Drooping, red eyes, thin as a pretzel and legs knotted just as tight, he watched me fuel up, check my bungees, which I later traded for tie downs you crank to get your load secure, and in his all-the-time-in-the world drawl asked me how long I'd been on the road.

Today. I told him. He took a big breathe, (a sign of the beginning to his adventure)

"Wife and I use to ride." He flipped the swatter on his knee and told me the story of when they were riding and got into an accident. He had always told her to wrap her arms around his shoulders and get her feet up into his crotch, if it looked like they were going down. It did. She followed his instructions, got her feet up into his crotch and wrapped her arms around his head, blocking his view. He chuckled, it was a few months before we were able to get up, but we made. Didn't ride after that.

We were about ready to part ways when he motioned with his swatter to an object I had been fixing in the bungee cords earlier.

I pointed to the pair of flat iron pieces under the spare fuel can. "These are the wind breakers my husband made me for the highway bars if it gets too cold." He nodded his head and waved me on. Never asked where I was going, never told him.

I never used the wind breakers. They were just too warm when attached to the highway bars. They were left at Collin's on the way home, in Seattle. Abbey made a sticker for one of them. With her highway prayer on it.

"Lord, keep my mama safe on the roads as she travels her dream. In Jesus Name."