I was 19 when I got my first street bike. It was a 1979 Honda CX500 in black with split five spoke wheels and chrome that gleamed with a devilish glint that I've yet to find elsewhere. My Dad gifted it to me, and I couldn't have been prouder of that little monster.
Being as young as I was, stubborn arrogance drove most of my decisions, including the neglect of parts that needed serious attention, like tires, brake pads, oil changes, and anything that didn't directly affect how shiny my bike appeared.
I remember clearly the day I learned the error of my choices. It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon, and I'd just bought a sandwich at a small deli at Third Place Books. I had no clear plans for the rest of my day, and I planned on buzzing around the greater North Seattle area until something struck my fancy.
With my goofy full-faced helmet on, I fired the bike up and scooted north on Ballinger, west on 178th, then bore right at the fork towards 180th and Perkins. I remember the long left-hand sweeper just past 33rd that was clearly marked a 25mph zone. I downshifted to 2nd and leaned into the corner, rolling a smooth 35mph. What happened from there is a series of snapshots.
The front tire slid out from under me.
The bike fell towards the pavement, my torso still upright with my hands still on the handle bars.
My ribs crashed into the sign post with the motorcycle crushing me into it further.
The bike, still running, vibrated on top of me in the ditch.
I picked the bike up and stood.
Walking into the middle of the street, where I noticed the left side of my rib cage was crushed in what looked like a perfect half circle the size of a basketball.
Collapsing to the pavement.
I laid on my back on the yellow center line, staring at the clear blue sky, listening to birds. The earth seemed peaceful and serene. And I knew I was going to die. The pain in my chest was on the other side of the shock that overtook my senses, just waiting to break through and shut down reasoned thought. On the other side of my consciousness were people who jumped out of their cars while trying to ask me if I was okay, if I'd been hit by a car, if anyone had called an ambulance. I just laid still and silent and watched a lone cloud disappear behind the canopy of evergreen trees above me.
An ambulance arrived, the world sped up into fast forward as the worst pain I ever experienced set in, and in rapid succession the largest human I'd ever met, with a push-broom mustache and hands the size of shovels tried to calm my now panicky breathing by enveloping my right hand in his huge mitts and gently patted the top of my hand while cooing softly. The absurdity of the moment calmed me immediately, and I was placed in the back of the ambulance.
In the hospital, I saw family and friends over the railing of my bed. The blue sky was replaced with low-quality flourescent lighting, the birds' songs with those of an emergency room; beeping, medical jargon, and the sound distinct to humans in panic.
11 years later, I've grown familiar with the pain of 6 ribs that will forever be at least slightly broken. My lower left lung, removed due to the damage caused by the tearing and ripping of 6 shattered ribs, is sorely missed when I'm engaged in most physical activity. But what I miss most is that 1979 Honda CX500. Sure, the bike survived the accident with a twisted triple-tree and two bent front forks, but even after I fixed the tires, forks, and all the previously ignored wear items, the bike never rode the same again.
I've owned a couple of street bikes since that accident. I've ridden some long miles and had some unique adventures. But I've never known the serenity of that moment either just before or just after I bounced off a sign post in Lake Forest Park. And for that, I gladly thank that little black Honda.
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