My 250cc Yamaha YDS2 motorcycle and i are getting to know each other quite intimately in a sensual way. When i push near the limits of traction while turning or braking or both, it shares the texture of the roadway with me and also lets me know how close it is to losing purchase with the pavement. Yes, somehow my sensory nerves meld with the nervous system of the machine and i can feel the asphalt through its tires. Also, the motorcycle knows what i desire of it; whether a casual sweeping bend or a full braking attack with to-the-limit leans in both directions in executing an s-curve, it reads my body language as well as my mood.
Of course none of the above is strictly true, but it comes close.
Regardless, it’s a pleasant Spring Saturday in El Cajon in 1965. I donned my black leather jacket, – a freight-train-riding partner from two years previous – and Wellington boots. I used the anti-theft key to remove the pin that locks the steering head, inserted the ignition key, and rolled the Yamaha out from its place in my parent’s garage. I then zipped up my jacket, pressed closed the snap at the neck, donned the Snell-approved Bell motorcycle helmet, and ran the helmet strap through the two metal loops with a final return of the strap through the first loop. With those preparations complete, i removed the gas tank cap to verify it had plenty of fuel-oil mixture, resecured the cap, opened the gas valve under the tank, and turned the key to RUN. While holding the brake lever, my steed came to life on the second push on the kick-starter. Two-stroke engines have a very small compression ratio at idle compared to four-stroke engines, so they agree to start up with very little encouragement. The musical two-stroke engine popped and puffed occasional smoke rings from its dual exhausts. I slipped on my black leather gauntlet gloves, mounted the machine, pushed the kickstand back into its resting position, pulled the clutch lever, pushed the shift pedal down into first with my left boot, and eased onto Evilo Street.
My destination was unimportant. Riding was the goal.
I was curious to check out the bends of Navajo Road in La Mesa. I hadn’t been on that road for years; long before acquiring the motorcycle bug. As i recalled, it had turns and bends that could lend themselves to a ballet of balance and speed. I rode north on First Street, west on Broadway, and continued as it became Fletcher Parkway, all the while resisting the urge to open the throttle and carve sinuous curves through the stultifying traffic of cars with their brain-dead drivers.
The winding 2-lane road connecting Fletcher Hills with El Cajon Valley no longer exists; replaced by the rather sterile multilane divided Fletcher Parkway. I had a fondness for that old road regardless that it scraped off a considerable amount of flesh and some of my chin bone when my sister’s bicycle threw me over the handlebars at over 40 mph. The front wheel had been neither trued nor balanced and something was loose between the handlebars and front forks. C’est la vie.
Through the business district of Fletcher HIlls with memories of the time the temperature idiot light went red here on one of Dad’s Jurassic V8 Fords just as i crested the grade. Dad diagnosed it over the payphone: a blown-out freeze plug. He picked one up at Pep Boys on the way and hammered it in at the gas station where i had stopped. Fresh water and on we went.
Fletcher Parkway morphed into a 4-lane highway with nothing but a few housing developments set back on either side. I reached and made the turnoff to Navaho Road as my heart rate and speed picked up. Unfortunately, the bends in Navaho Road were so gentle that they were only a challenge at speeds near 90 mph but dust and dirt washed from new housing developments by a recent rain covered much of the road, making my attack on the road a fool’s journey. I tried. I scared myself trying to find a line with clean asphalt. I considered practicing several repeats here but the pavement was just too dirty in too many places and there were several idiot cars blocking my lines.
Regardless, it had been an invigorating ride so i mentally patted myself on the back for making the right decision in leaving Navaho Road and heading home on Fletcher Parkway. I even found myself cruising along at a stately 60 mph in the right lane on this broad expanse of road bordered only by dry shrubland; a good deal slower than on the out trip.
A grayish Pontiac Tempest was waiting at a stop sign to cross the parkway up ahead on my right at Westwind Drive. It accelerated out on a collision course. Braking hard and veering left, i was convinced the driver would realize her mistake and slow, giving me room to pass in front of her. She continued accelerating into my path. In my panic, i asked my tires to both decelerate and turn left more than they were capable. We slid down on our left side with my legs still astride the motorcycle; left leg sliding on the pavement and the Yamaha lightly resting on it. We were moving remarkable smoothly in this manner but we were swiftly rushing inexorably (inevitably, unceasingly, dreadfully, fatally) to collide with the left front left side of the car.
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It was as though the side of the car was doing the rushing. I only had time to extend my arms to cushion the impact. Pain.
The autopsy determined death was caused by multiple traumas resulting from impact with the side of the automobile but principally by broken cervical vertebrae and severed spinal column.
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A simple problem: how does one alter course when there is no available traction with the surface? In this situation, i was accompanied in my trajectory by a motorcycle with about twice my mass. Newton’s Third Law states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. If i could force the Yamaha away from me with sufficient velocity toward the rear of the upcoming car, i might gain enough velocity to pass in front of it.
I bent my free leg – the right one – until my Wellington boot was in my crotch and its heel was on the padded black seat next to the gas tank. I shoved the Yamaha away from me with a force inspired by deadly reality and pulled my head and arms back as my chest lightly brushed the car’s front bumper. The motorcycle collided with the car creating a horribly loud pounding, screaming, and grating cacophony. I was alive and continuing along Fletcher Parkway at about 45 miles per hour. As i slid and tumbled, the curb of the parkway’s median strip was my next concern. However, my collision with the curb was merely a light glancing blow taken by my helmet. Then stillness. As i lay up against the curb. I took two seconds for a systems check; arms, legs, torso, and head all seemed to still be attached and functioning so i gingerly rolled to my knees, stood, and then glanced back toward the wreck where everything was quiet. I could see that my Yamaha, my partner in speed, was lodged under the Tempest. I had sacrificed it to save myself. Good thing.
A car from the opposite direction stopped and a balding man in a light patterned shirt jumped out as i started walking back to the intersection. “Are you alright?” he shouted.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” I checked my left leg that had been under the motorcycle. The levi’s were scuffed but not torn and there didn’t seem to be any bleeding.
“Man, you looked like a ragdoll flopping down the road!”
“Yeah. I tried to stay loose. Less likely to break something.” I took off the gauntlet gloves. Both showed light to deep abrasions.
“Well that was something.”
Abruptly, the Tempest started to back up, grinding over my poor Yamaha.
“Stop, stop,” i yelled as i ran the last few yards and around to the driver’s side.
The woman looked at me and the car’s engine stopped straining. The electric window rolled down. She looked at me with an expressionless countenance and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “You’re alive.”
I screamed, “Goddamn right I’m alive” And as i slammed my gloves down onto her window sill I shouted, “Bitch!” I turned and stomped off.
The good samaritan in the patterned shirt took my place at her window and i could hear them talking. After taking about a dozen deep breaths, i returned to apologize. Plaintively, she said, “I thought I killed you. I thought you were still under there.”
A car heading back toward El Cajon stopped and the driver asked if we needed an ambulance.
I answered, “She might. I’m OK.”
The woman said, “I’m fine.”
“I’ll stop up ahead and call for a tow truck.”
“Hey, thanks,” i said.
I looked at my Yamaha still lodged under the car and the damage it inflicted on the Tempest. The car’s front left tire was torn open and the wheel was canted at a steep angle. I saw no leaking gasoline so i decided it was safe for the woman to continue sitting in the car. I looked carefully at the Tempest’s front bumper; i thought i could see where i had wiped the dust off as i flew by.
The woman was obviously traumatized by the incident so it took a few minutes for us share IDs. The car was a loaner from the Pontiac dealership in La Mesa while her car was in the shop.
A policeman arrived and took statements. The woman said she did not see me, which was clearly the case. I had to explain several times how the motorcycle ended up behind the car’s front axle and i was unhurt. He kept wanting to put in his report that i went over the car.
After a long while, a tow truck arrived and lifted the car off the Yamaha and the driver used towels to soak up much of the car’s engine oil from the scarred pavement. He then took the car and the woman away. A second tow truck picked up the motorcycle and gave me a ride back to my folk’s house in El Cajon. I gave the driver instructions to take the Yamaha to Guy Urquhart’s Motorcycles in San Diego where they would determine if it could be repaired.
Guy Urquhart called on Monday to tell me that they could straighten the frame and replace everything that was broken or damaged, i.e. nearly everything. I gave him the telephone number of the Pontiac dealer’s insurance agent.
On the following Friday, i received forms from the insurance agent requesting a statement from me describing the incident and detailing injuries, medical costs, and material losses such as ruined clothing. I listed the leather jacket, the gloves, and the helmet which was only lightly scratched except where it scraped the curb leaving a bit of a furrow. In total, i requested $135 compensation outside of repairs to the Yamaha.
A week later, i telephoned the insurance agent’s office since i had not heard back from them. The secretary put me on hold for a minute and then returned to say that an adjuster would come to talk with me. Would the following Wednesday evening be OK? “Sure,” i said, although i was getting pretty frustrated with the delays in settling this.
Finally Wednesday evening came, the doorbell rang, and two gentleman with attache cases stood on the porch. I invited them in and we took seats around the kitchen table.
“So, Mr. Smith, you wrote that you were going about 55 mph on Fletcher Parkway when the car pulled into your path.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know the speed limit on that stretch of road?’
“It’s 55 mph.”
“Could you have been going a bit faster than that?”
“I could have but i wasn’t. I was going 55.”
The one asking questions frowned a bit at that answer.
“You are asking for replacement of a leather jacket and a helmet. Do you have those handy? We just want to verify they need replacing.”
“Sure. Just a minute.” I went back to my bedroom, dug them out of my closet, and took them into the kitchen.
“You can see how badly scuffed the right shoulder is and it got these other scratches as well.”
One took the jacket from me and the two of them stood and inspected it briefly. “And the helmet?”
I held up the helmet and pointed out the gouge made by the curbing.
“How did these get damaged? Did they fall out of your car?”
I was dumbstruck for a moment, closing my eyes in disbelief. Finally i said, “I was wearing them. I always wear them when i ride my motorcycle.”
“You were on a motorcycle? This Yamanta is a motorcycle?”
“Yes, but it’s pronounced ‘Yamaha’.”
“You didn’t get hurt?”
“I was kinda sore for a few days.”
Silence. The two men looked at each other for some seconds.
“Mr. Smith, this changes things. I think we can wrap this up for you.”
In a few minutes i had signed an agreement to seek no further compensation, they signed an agreement to repair or replace the Yamaha, they left rather hurriedly, and i held a check for $135.
They left a pile of papers with me, among them was the damage report on the Tempest. The right front steel wheel was not only bent, it and the spindle were broken. The left tie rod, power steering assembly, motor mount, and fender were all ruined. The radiator was destroyed, the oil pan ripped open, and the frame bent. Apparently the motorcycle hit the left front wheel and continued as far as the radiator while the Tempest decelerated and ground over the hapless Yamaha until it was under the oil pan.
The insurance company declared the Tempest to be a total loss; not a candidate for repair. Ironically, the motorcycle shop was given the go-ahead to repair the Yamaha.
Two weeks later i stopped by the motorcycle shop to see how the repairs were proceeding. To my chagrin, my Yamaha was as bashed up as the day it happened. I asked two mechanics working nearby and they were very helpful in answering my questions. They assured me that the last important part was expected to be delivered within the week and then they would concentrate their efforts on repairs. They even pointed out their hydraulic device for straightening frames.
One of the mechanics turned directly to me and somberly asked, “Did you know the rider?”
“That’s me. I was riding it.”
Now both mechanics faced me. “Never seen a bike looking like this where the rider was still around.”
I gave them a short description of how i came away without injury. They shook their heads and wordlessly turned back to their work.
Epilogue
While seated on the commode at my folk’s house reading a copy of Reader’s Digest, i found an article describing why motorists often fail to see approaching motorcycles. Basically, people usually look to see whether a car is coming and the brain often dismisses motorcycles as irrelevant. The author suggested that motorcyclists ride with their headlights on; thus giving the motorcycle an identity of a vehicle. From that point on, i always rode with my headlight on. Some years afterward, motorcycle manufacturers were required to activate the headlight whenever the engine was running.
About a year after my crash, the same situation occurred on Fletcher Parkway two intersections away where Garfield Avenue crosses. A truck driver pulled out in front of a motorcycle. The motorcyclist died instantly.
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