October 5, 1980
October 5, 1980, was a sunny autumn Sunday in New England. Four of us
met in Manchester, Connecticut for a fall foliage cruise on our bikes.
There was my close friend and riding partner, Eddie, and a friend from
work, Ron. Ron brought a friend of his, Brian, along for the trip.
Eddie had his Harley, Ron and friend each had large 1000cc Kawasaki
motorcycles. I had my 1980 Yamaha 650cc Special II, known as the best
British twin ever made. The four of us met for coffee and breakfast. The
plan was to head up I-91 into southern Vermont, cross over the Green
Mountains south of Stratton Mountain, pick up Rte 7 on the western
border of the state, and follow that down through the scenic Berkshires
of Massachusetts. Finally, we could pick up Rte 44 in Connecticut, and
follow that back through Hartford and on towards home. When we finished
breakfast, we fired up the bikes and headed west towards Hartford, where
we took I-91 north.
It was cool out on the interstate in the early morning, but we needed to
put some miles behind us to reach the beginning of the scenic portion of
our ride. In an hour, we were through Springfield, Mass. We continued up
into Vermont were we headed west on Rte 9. From there we picked up Rte
100 in Wilmington and followed it north about 25 miles, where we headed
east on the Stratton-Arlington Road. The road turned to hard gravel and
we slowly made our way over the crest of the Green Mountains; we passed
the parking area for the Long Trail and Appalachian Trail at a point
where each trail crossed the road near the crest. We headed down the
scenic eastern slope to finally join Rte 7 and head south. This stretch
was beautiful but busy as the leaf peepers were out in force.
We crossed into Massachusetts and soon we were approaching Pittsfield. I
was leading on the left center, Eddie behind me and to the right; Ron
and Brian staggered the same way behind us. It was about 5:00PM as we
approached a busy intersection, the traffic in front of us going
through. The sun was in front of me, glaring in the scratches of my
plastic face shield. I saw nothing and we continued through.
I looked up to see a large car heading at me from the left! Oh man, I
knew this was it. I lay forward on my tank and with a twist of my wrist
I screwed it on, the front end rising in response to the acceleration.
It was only fractions of a second, but I waited for what I knew was
coming. The impact was terrible. I was airborne and saw the asphalt
rising up to meet me. I had my right arm up before me. I hit on the
right side, arm and head first, I felt my body hit on the right side and
my feet had a terrible electric current light up in them. There was
another hit on my left side as I bounced over on my back and slid
halfway up a sidewalk, my helmet taking a hit in the rear from the curb.
I lay there for a second with people screaming behind me, looking up
into the sky and at the wires overhead. My heart was racing. I was
moving and feeling around for something broken in my body, I was sure
there would be something, but for now, it was a pure adrenalin high. At
least I was alive. The screaming in the background continued. A strange
man knelt down over my face and talked to me in a calm voice.
“Take it easy, son. I’m an off-duty police officer and an ambulance is
on the way. Just stay ..”
There was a thud and a grunt as a vicious hockey-style hip check sent
the officer flying from my field of view, to leave Eddie standing above
me yelling, ”You OK, man? What is it? Tell me!”
Other police and ambulances arrived, and soon the story became clear. I
was okay, but I knew I was going to hurt later. Pittsfield was one of
those towns in Massachusetts that still had stoplights on the side of
the road, they did not hang over the intersection. As we approached this
busy crossroads with walk-signs, route signs and telephone poles on the
side of the road as well, the sun was directly in front of me glaring on
the plastic face shield of my helmet. The stoplights were on the far
side of the intersection, amid everything else. I never saw the red
light.
The car that hit me was a large Pontiac from the early 1970’s. Their
left front hit my bike about four inches behind my leg. If I had hit the
brakes instead of accelerating, or hesitated for an instant, I may have
lost my leg. At the very least, I would have been seriously injured.
My helmet had a large gouge and crack on the right side at the site of
first impact, a smaller one was on the left. I was glad that it had been
my helmet, and not my head, that made contact with the asphalt.
Eddie ran into the car that had hit me. Imagine their shock; they hit me
and, as they watch me go airborne, Eddie comes in through the windshield
on their right. Eddie, who had seen me get hit, pulled himself off of
the hood of their car and came to attend to me. Eddie was a veteran of
two combat tours of duty with the Marines in Vietnam. As he told the
story later to the off-duty police officer that he had unceremoniously
ejected from my view, Eddie felt that there was no person on the scene
who could have provided better emergency trauma care than Eddie could.
That sat well with the officer, who was not in uniform, and everything
related to that body blow was forgotten with a handshake.
Everyone wanted me to go to the hospital to be checked out. I declined,
I just wanted to go home. The old grandmother, who had been sitting as a
passenger in the front seat of the car that hit us, went to the hospital
in one of the ambulances; she was having trouble breathing. Ed and
I accepted our traffic tickets for failure to obey a traffic signal; it
could have been worse. The post-accident process took about two hours.
Now, in the dark and cold, we got on the rear of Ron and Brian’s bikes
to make the long three-hour ride home.
That night was agony. I could barely stand from the pain in my feet.
They have never been the same. I had a ten-inch ugly black bruise on my
right buttock that marked where I carried my wallet in my jeans. My back
and head hurt terribly. Let’s just say that as far as my marriage was
concerned, a marriage that would formally dissolve less than two years
later, this was not a night given over to succor and comfort. After my
wife went to work on Monday, I struggled through the day, wondering if I
should go to the hospital.
Tuesday I was not much better. Eddie called, telling me he was on the
way over to pick me up. “For what,” I asked.
“We need to get our bikes out of there, or we’re going to owe a lot of
money in storage costs. It doesn’t take long to add up. I’ve borrowed a
truck.“ Eddie worked at a garage; I knew he was right. We did not have
insurance, either. This was legal for operating a motorcycle, but all
expenses would be out of our pockets.
“Ed, I can hardly move.”
“It doesn’t matter, I need company for the ride, and it will take all
day. I’ll carry you where ever you need to go.” That day, a day that was
a long and painful one for me, we retrieved
both bikes from the town of Pittsfield.
One day in the end of October, we left at five in the morning and drove
up to Pittsfield together to appear in court. We wore sports coats and
ties, and we brought along with us a Polaroid camera to take pictures of
the intersection. We found the intersection on Rte 7 and took about ten
photos. Then we found the court. We were waiting alone in a large
courtroom and no one else appeared. We asked someone walking in the
corridor if we were in the right place; he informed us that we were in
the Superior Court, we wanted the district courtroom in the basement.
This was much more informal than above. Many here seemed to be the
flotsam and jetsam of society. Ed and I were the only ones wearing ties
and sport coats, except the attorneys of course. We reported to the
judge and apologized for being late, we explained about being upstairs
in the wrong courtroom. We showed him our pictures and told our story of
the accident. When we were through, we stood before the bench awaiting
his decision and his justice.
First, he said that he was familiar with the intersection and knew it to
be a dangerous one. He also knew that Massachusetts was replacing those
stoplights with ones suspended over busy intersections. That being said,
other people saw them and obeyed them, and it was up to us to do so as
well. He also acknowledged that he had talked with officers who were at
the scene on the day of the accident, and they had told him we caused no
trouble, treated the officers with respect, and he was taking this into
consideration as well. He said he also knew about Eddie’s bone-jarring
check on the off-duty officer who had been kneeling over me. He didn’t
finish that thought; he just smiled. He also noted that, although
operating a motorcycle without liability insurance may be legal in
Connecticut, it is illegal for a motorcycle to be without liability
insurance in the State of Massachusetts.
He said he appreciated the way we had brought pictures of the
intersection and how we calmly stated our case, he also said he
appreciated the respect we had shown the court by wearing ties and
jackets. His judgment was this: a small traffic fine for each of us on
the red light violation, and an order to pay the costs incurred by the
owner of the car that had been involved in the accident. We were lucky,
the woman in the ambulance had been given a check-up and some oxygen at
the hospital, and then sent home. There was no lawsuit hanging over us.
We were given a form and told whose signature was required when our
financial responsibility was met and all costs were paid. He told us
that severe consequences would ensue if our financial responsibilities
were not met quickly and totally. We both said thank you to the judge,
and we meant it.
That is how the adventure of October 5, 1980, ended. It cost Eddie and
me about 2,000 dollars each to repair the car, pay for the ambulance and
hospital, pay for towing and storage of the bikes. My feet have never
been the same, and back problems later in life may have been a result of
that crash. However, I have only considered myself lucky when I look
back and think about it.
The events of that day have always been with me. From that day onward,
every time I threw my leg over my bike before a ride, memories of that
day and the accident would come for a visit. I did not feel haunted, it
was good to be cautious; bad things happen in an instant out there.
Sometimes, especially late at night when I am half-awake, I can relive
it all in vivid detail; I’m accelerating through the middle of the
intersection, leaning forward over my tank, waiting for the impact. And
the sweat comes to my palms. Every time.