The sun was beaming down through the trees. The chipseal road was dappled with shadow from the light felling through their gaping branches.
Shadows. Chipseal. And sand.
A sunny fall afternoon was perfect for riding, but the sandy turn looked just like any other to me. The pebbly surface of the pavement should have held fast to the tires. They have lots of tread and they are high quality. But there is nothing any French engineer can do to help when the ground moves beneath those Michelins. The road looked sturdy; appearances are not always honest.
These are the thoughts you have as you are skidding across a roadway on your back. "Where did that come from? Why did I not see that?" Not, "Will I be okay?"
Some of us live to lean a motorbike, and each corner is an opportunity. If you take it too slowly, that's an opportunity squandered. Hundreds, thousands of times, you look at the turn, you pick out a line, you tease the throttle. When you reach the apex, the sweet spot when the accelerator is slacking, the bike is leaning, and it's like a skydive. For a moment, you are in a freefall, massaging the throttle to prolong the moment as best as possible. Then you flex your wrist, and pull out of the fall like a Snowbird exiting a diving stunt, defeating the awaiting earth at the last second.
This time the freefall lasted too long, and now I am on the road. I feel the padding on my back supporting me above the rash-inducing stones as the tarmac moves below me. Something went wrong.
Hundreds, thousands of times I've taken this same curve. Sometimes it was steeper, sometime it was more open. It's been asphalt, or chipseal. It's been wet, it's been dry. It's presented itself many different ways, but it's always the same curve; pick a line, feather off the throttle, lean the bike, flex the wrist and pull it back up. But this time, it did not come back up. Something went wrong.
Sliding across the ground, my thought are about this turn of fate. I do not pray. My only savior at this hour is named Shoei, and Shoei does not care for my prayers. On my back, slipping across the road, there is a satisfying clunk as the back of my helmet strikes the ground; not on my knees but on my spine I confess that my faith is in Shoei and Shoei alone. In a split second, a few hundred dollars spent on a humble dome became the best investment I have ever made.
The Yamaha will live to see another day. It is twisted, it is scratched. But it will be repaired. And if that were not possible, it would be replaced. The rider also lives to see another day. He can also be repaired, because the damage is minor. A scraped knee, a little rash above the belt line, a couple of sprained fingers. The soreness will be gone a few days or a few beverages later.
I cannot see the Yamaha sliding ahead of me as I coast along behind it. I was sitting on it once, and I was following it next. As the rear tire shook loose of the pavement, there was nothing to do but lie down and wait. It must have pulled the handles out of my hands, as my fingers are sore from the shock. 180° spinning, and then resting in the soft grass in front of me, the bike is stopped.
It will be repaired and so will the rider. Wear your helmets, kiddies.
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