Nemo Brinker
Tonight we ride
I saddled a red, unbroken colt
And rode him into the day there;
And he threw me down like a thunderbolt
And rolled on me as I lay there.
--Stephen Vincent Benet, The Ballad of William Sycamore
This one is light on the motorcycles but heavy on the gore, and I figured it was an experience worth sharing.
On Monday I was out at Metcalf OHV Park with my old DR350, toodling around and enjoying myself. Termagant was on her DRZ250, and was playing in the beginner area. It was a somewhat significant moment for her--her first ride on dirt since her wreck and ankle break in Baja in December. So she poked around on her bike, getting familiar with it all once more. I'd been lucky enough to have an epic mud and hot springs ride with ThumperX in the last month, and was full of eager dirty moto joy.
I was wanting to hit the trails but didn't want to abandon her, so I worked my way through the drills in Doc Wong's adventure riding class--small tight circles and figure 8s, stop-n-go, stand-and-balance, sliding the rear tire when braking, sliding the front tire when braking...and lifting the front end and doing small wheelies.
I am a relative newcomer to wheelies, having only discovered the joy of hoisting one, and the nerve and technique to pull it off, in the last 6 months or so. Plus the DR350 is underpowered, and anyhow it makes sense to approach learning methodically and with control. So I went gradually, lightening the front end, then just popping the front wheel off the ground, then slightly higher; I was clutching the bike up in 1st gear to get the wheel off the ground. When I felt ready, I pointed the bike straight ahead, slid my butt back on the seat, popped the clutch out, revved, and grinned. Is there any greater form of physical joy expressed through the machine than hoisting a wheelie?
The knobby tire lofted toward the sky, my heart was singing...and I felt the rear tire squirm slightly in the soft dirt. And that's when it all fell apart, and the thin weave of my skill came unraveled. My upper body tensed, turning the bars to the right, and chopped the throttle instinctively. The result was predictable: the bike came down onto the canted front wheel, and flopped over onto its left side. Oh, no, I'm falling...the sky and the ground wheeled around each other.
Normally dirt falls are not a huge deal. But this time, as I hit the ground (it seemed to be happening in terrible, inexorable slow motion) I felt the footpeg strike my left foot, driving into the instep like the Hammer of Thor. The impact reverbrated in a great wave through my body, a silent explosion, sucking all the sound and oxygen from the air.
The foot, my foot--it exploded in silent white flames. I rolled away and somehow, under the influence of adrenaline, stood up. Termagant had seen the fall, stopped her bike, and came running over, yelling, "what happened? You okay?"
The oxygen was still gone. I opened my mouth and nothing emerged, no words, no breath. I knew it was bad when I had no urge to pick up the bike, no urge to see if it was damaged. I reached down, robotically, and switched off the ignition, straightened, and limped over to a picnic table, thumping down heavily. Terma followed me, waiting for my answer. I pulled off my helmet, slid it down to the end of the table, and slowly lifted my left leg, setting it down on the helmet to prop up the foot. I struggled out of my sweaty compression suit, touching the bloody bruise on my elbow. It was the least of my problems.
This is the boot, with the broken foot inside
"Is it broken, you think?" she asked, simply. She handed me a water bottle and I drank mechanically.
"Pretty sure, yeah. Fuck, I can't feel my hands. I think that's the shock. Can you get help loading the bikes before you take me to Highland?"
"No problem. I'll be as fast as I can."
I laid down carefully, to get my leg elevated above my heart. I groaned and squirmed a little--the white roar in my head and foot grew and grew. The foot throbbed with vicious, pounding pressure; I decided to leave the MX boot on, as I knew I'd never get it off again. I could feel the blood retreating from my hands and feet, and the numb buzzing that replaced it. I could barely close the hand, could not make a fist. Wiggling the left toes in the boot brought me close to a faint--dizzy nausea flooded me. I fought the shock as best I could, blood roaring in my ears, vision contracting into a tunnel then expanding outward again.
And rode him into the day there;
And he threw me down like a thunderbolt
And rolled on me as I lay there.
--Stephen Vincent Benet, The Ballad of William Sycamore
This one is light on the motorcycles but heavy on the gore, and I figured it was an experience worth sharing.
On Monday I was out at Metcalf OHV Park with my old DR350, toodling around and enjoying myself. Termagant was on her DRZ250, and was playing in the beginner area. It was a somewhat significant moment for her--her first ride on dirt since her wreck and ankle break in Baja in December. So she poked around on her bike, getting familiar with it all once more. I'd been lucky enough to have an epic mud and hot springs ride with ThumperX in the last month, and was full of eager dirty moto joy.
I was wanting to hit the trails but didn't want to abandon her, so I worked my way through the drills in Doc Wong's adventure riding class--small tight circles and figure 8s, stop-n-go, stand-and-balance, sliding the rear tire when braking, sliding the front tire when braking...and lifting the front end and doing small wheelies.
I am a relative newcomer to wheelies, having only discovered the joy of hoisting one, and the nerve and technique to pull it off, in the last 6 months or so. Plus the DR350 is underpowered, and anyhow it makes sense to approach learning methodically and with control. So I went gradually, lightening the front end, then just popping the front wheel off the ground, then slightly higher; I was clutching the bike up in 1st gear to get the wheel off the ground. When I felt ready, I pointed the bike straight ahead, slid my butt back on the seat, popped the clutch out, revved, and grinned. Is there any greater form of physical joy expressed through the machine than hoisting a wheelie?
The knobby tire lofted toward the sky, my heart was singing...and I felt the rear tire squirm slightly in the soft dirt. And that's when it all fell apart, and the thin weave of my skill came unraveled. My upper body tensed, turning the bars to the right, and chopped the throttle instinctively. The result was predictable: the bike came down onto the canted front wheel, and flopped over onto its left side. Oh, no, I'm falling...the sky and the ground wheeled around each other.
Normally dirt falls are not a huge deal. But this time, as I hit the ground (it seemed to be happening in terrible, inexorable slow motion) I felt the footpeg strike my left foot, driving into the instep like the Hammer of Thor. The impact reverbrated in a great wave through my body, a silent explosion, sucking all the sound and oxygen from the air.
The foot, my foot--it exploded in silent white flames. I rolled away and somehow, under the influence of adrenaline, stood up. Termagant had seen the fall, stopped her bike, and came running over, yelling, "what happened? You okay?"
The oxygen was still gone. I opened my mouth and nothing emerged, no words, no breath. I knew it was bad when I had no urge to pick up the bike, no urge to see if it was damaged. I reached down, robotically, and switched off the ignition, straightened, and limped over to a picnic table, thumping down heavily. Terma followed me, waiting for my answer. I pulled off my helmet, slid it down to the end of the table, and slowly lifted my left leg, setting it down on the helmet to prop up the foot. I struggled out of my sweaty compression suit, touching the bloody bruise on my elbow. It was the least of my problems.
This is the boot, with the broken foot inside
"Is it broken, you think?" she asked, simply. She handed me a water bottle and I drank mechanically.
"Pretty sure, yeah. Fuck, I can't feel my hands. I think that's the shock. Can you get help loading the bikes before you take me to Highland?"
"No problem. I'll be as fast as I can."
I laid down carefully, to get my leg elevated above my heart. I groaned and squirmed a little--the white roar in my head and foot grew and grew. The foot throbbed with vicious, pounding pressure; I decided to leave the MX boot on, as I knew I'd never get it off again. I could feel the blood retreating from my hands and feet, and the numb buzzing that replaced it. I could barely close the hand, could not make a fist. Wiggling the left toes in the boot brought me close to a faint--dizzy nausea flooded me. I fought the shock as best I could, blood roaring in my ears, vision contracting into a tunnel then expanding outward again.
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