I started riding motorcycles fifteen years ago. It is
something I wanted since I was a kid, but just never got around to. Once I
settled down, and stopped drinking, it all just fell into place. My friends
rode and we bonded over bikes. Even my brother rode, and the estranged
relationship we once had dissipated once our shared hobby emerged.
My first accident happened in a parking lot with no other
vehicles. My friend and I still laugh at that one, which happened fourteen
years ago. The bike slid across the asphalt and I went the other way.
Fortunately, the leathers I wore took the brunt of the mess. It took me weeks to get to the doctor and by
that time, the damage was done. There was no one diagnosis, but I had trouble
lifting my arm for about two years.
I had roughly ten bikes since that first one. Some for the
street, some for the dirt and a couple in between. It is hard to count up all the injuries but
they were plentiful. Eight weeks before the birth of my twin boys, I crashed my
dirt bike and broke my thumb, which had to be pinned for six weeks.
The injuries kept coming, year after year, and were mostly
minor. This last one shook me the most. Staring at an on-coming car from the
ground as my motorcycle slid in front of me scared me. Once it was all over,
and I crawled to the side of the road, I knew I was okay, maybe not fine, but
okay.
It is a good feeling
to know people care, but I am tired. That’s not completely true; I am the
opposite of tired. I am active. I have twin seven-year-old boys that want to
run and play. And I want to be there to do that. The back brace I found myself
in made some of my favorite activities impossible, but this is temporary. I
will heal. But the bikes are going.
Riding has been good to me, and has provided some of my best
memories. Right now, though, my attentions are elsewhere and the price is more
than I want to pay. I don’t condemn bikes, and if my sons choose to ride, I will
support their decision, and hope they enjoy it as much as I once did.