Things Best Said

In case you’ve missed the news that a new Ghostbusters game is coming to your favorite console this Christmas…

Once again, today is the day - Ride to Work Day. With gas prices at an all-time high this should be a no-brainer.

Actually, I was thinking that since I ride everyday I might take the Xterra just for a change of pace.

I got a nice card in the mail from the hotel I stay at when traveling to Taipei - The Brother Hotel.

While I would assume to get these type of cards from my dentist, doctor and chiropractor - to whom I have spent copious amounts of money - I wouldn’t have guessed I would receive a card all the way from Taipei.

Every year I’m hunted down by my birthday. And every year it catches me about a week after my wife asks how I would like to celebrate. I always seem to reply, “I have no idea”. For a week or more we’ll banter about a party, a dinner or a trip to some distant locale. Invariably a decision will be made way too late for most people to arrange for babysitters, dog kennels or mail order dates…as you’ll see in a moment.

So, as awkward as this may seem, writing my own invitation, I’m inviting all of you to join me for a pint and some food. No clowns, no facepainting, just a pint (or two) with some nice people in a decent place.

If you’re free on Saturday night July 12 @ 7:30pm, join us at Dan McGuinness on Demonbreun Street near Music Row in Nashville.

Additionally, as I get older, 34 this year, I’m reminded that the gifts I want (those I haven’t already purchased for myself) are too pricey to expect any of my friends to purchase. And, because of that, people feel shy about not bringing a gift to the yearly function -no worries here. In return, you shouldn’t expect I’ll pay your bar tab.

Bring whomever you like and use them to escape when you get tired. No need to RSVP, no pressure to say you won’t make it.

Cinco de Mayo, as a holiday here in the US, is strange. I doubt very many people of Mexican heritage know what it celebrates, and us gringos, fewer still.

So, on this strange day I was riding home on my ST, fighting my way through traffic and construction zones. At 6 o’clock the traffic is still full of commuters racing one another from stoplight to stoplight. Each edging their way, improving the odds of getting home sooner. Or, as on this day, they’re rushing down the main drag to the Mexican restaurants where they will sit in a que waiting for a table, or at the bar and help the Mexican people celebrate “drink-o de mayo”.

Such a group was headed in the opposite direction as me. Dressed in their pseudo-medical scrubs; the kind worn by 2nd or 3rd tier healthcare workers but not by serious doctors, they probably chatted and cackled about their day in the office. Each one talking louder to be heard, laughing at the day’s events and each promising that they will be the first to finish their frozen margarita. In the background, I’m sure, played some tune from the local pop station. While only vaguely resembling music, the Top 40 song fills the gaps in conversation as these women refill their lungs.

The road ahead of both of us turned rough as we entered a construction area. A bit of gravel, lengthwise grooves cut in the road and a copious amount of signage told us this area would be torn up for many weeks.

I pulled up to the stoplight, my left turn signal on. I crept forward, the first vehicle in line. The massive line of oncoming traffic told me I’d have to wait until the light was yellow-turning-red before I’d be able to go. A minute later it was time.

I rolled forward as the last of the cars pushed through the intersection and began to make the turn. Now, on my right as I turn, an extra car has come through the intersection. At a speed of only a few miles per hour I grab the brakes. Forward momentum and hard breaking make the front forks sink as all the weight and energy is transferred there.

Mental note: At this moment, in my minds eye, I’m looking through my helmet, across 35 feet of grated road, across the hood of an oncoming car, through the windshield and into the face of the, now freaked out, woman behind the wheel.

The car, not bigger than a Suzuki Swift, hits the brakes then swerves out to avoid my forward motion. The car bumper, so low to the ground, takes a swipe at my front wheel — only catching a small whiff of rubber. While not much, it’s enough to redirect the motion of the bike and knock it out from underneath me. As the bike goes over, I try to save it. After just filling up the gas tank my nearly 700lbs bike wasn’t going to be saved by my 180lbs.

My adrenaline is pumping and I’ve started to get that ringing in my ears. The kind that drowns out all other noises. Through that, I can hear people, sitting in their cars, yelling out at me “are you okay?”. I ignore them as I attempt two or three times to pick up my bike from the intersection. After putting my legs into it I managed to get the bike upright and move it off the street. As soon as I do and the intersection is clear I hear brakes squealing…other people coming through the intersection without much attention paid don’t see the Suzuki Swift trying to pull over.

I walk around the bike. No real damage that I can see. A scuff on the tire from her fender, my fender is pushed to one side but not rubbing on the wheel, and my right-side tip over wing is marred from sliding on the road. I expected so much worse.

I pull off my helmet and make my way to the woman who is standing next to her car looking toward me. While I wait for traffic my mind wants to start screaming across the tops of vehicles at her. I want to call her every name I can think of as well as make up a few. I want to unleash the adrenaline that’s under my skin through a verbal assault.

Walking across the street we both ask “are you ok?” I’m trying to calm down a bit but I can’t. I ask about her, if she’s okay. I ask about her car, if it’s okay. All seems well but I’m still mad.

I launch into a mini rant about how “F*@$ing stupid it is to run a red light…how dangerous it is to hit a motorcycle”. The tears begin to well up in her eyes as she says “don’t cuss me” and continues with a story about her husband being a motorcycle rider. She trying to hold back the tears but they’ve started and won’t stop.

I don’t care about any excuse or story she has but I’m now ashamed by how rude I’ve been. I mumble a half-hearted apology for yelling at her.

More of the scrub-dressed people have joined us, two more carloads have pulled up. They all ask the same questions…”what happened?”, “Are you okay?”

As I look at them all, I’m struck by what day it is.

“Look, I’m sorry I was rude and yelled at you. It looks like you’re all on your way out for Cinco De Mayo.” They nod or say something affirming my deduction.

After a few minutes of confirming that all is well with her vehicle and being mostly sure my bike, the tough bitch that she is, is likely to be just fine, we part ways. The adrenaline is subsiding and I’m calming down.

One last onlooker walks back to my bike with me, he tells me he’s a rider too and asks if the bike is okay. He tells me how lucky I am and how he hates to see careless drivers mess it up for motorcyclists. I thank him for stopping and hanging around. I am truly appreciative.

The final mile or two home (because, of course, most accidents occur within 5 mils of your home) was quiet. The bike ran fine and all was well except the fork braces needed to be knocked back into place. I took a deep breath inside my helmet, thanked my bike, my gear and my lucky stars.

As someone at work said to me after I relayed this story, “you’re lucky this happened before they were out for Cinco de Mayo”.