i could have turned right…
This is the first in a series of posts about a single vehicle motorcycle collision I had in July 2024. The second one is here. Some of the names of folks in the story have been changed.
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Peter and I sat on the porch of Grass Point Lodge B&B sipping coffee and watching Newboro Lake shimmer in the morning sun.
A stunning view. A beautiful day. I could have stayed there forever in the serenity but for the call of the road.
“How do you think I should go back?” I asked Peter who, along with his wife Kathy, owns the lodge.
It was the morning after Canada Day, which I had celebrated with the good folk of Newboro, a charming village a couple of kilometres away. Peter and Kathy had been involved in organising the festivities, which included a parade, hot dogs, ice cream, music, dancing and tons of community spirit. It had been a grand time.
Like me, Peter is a motorcyclist. But he is much more experienced than I and has lived in the region for most of his life. He knows every road worth riding in this part of the Ontario Highlands – and there are tons of them! He and I have ridden together a couple of times and he’s introduced me to a great loop or two.
“How about via Bolingbroke and Maberly?” He offered. “Or up Salem Road to Westport Road, or…”
I was familiar with both routes having ridden each several times.
“You know what? I think I’m going to play it by ear.”
“Good idea,” he chuckled. “Perfect day for a meander.”
I geared up and, as I do before every ride, checked TheFox’s vitals (tire pressures, lights, oil level, chain, brakes and horn) before carefully negotiating the kilometre-long gravel road that led from the lodge to the highway. TheFox is a 2020 Yamaha V-star 250, a small cruiser-type bike not made for gravel or dirt or major highways, but that can manage all three for short distances when required.
I could have turned right toward Smith Falls at the 42, where the Grass Point’s gravel drive came to an end. Instead, I made a left toward Westport. I rode through town and up the big hill on the other side. From there, I might have taken the straightest and quickest route home on County Road 10, through Glen Tay to Perth, onto the 7 to Carleton Place and home to Almonte on the 29.
But what would be the fun in that?
At the top of the big hill, I swung right onto Grady Road, then right again a few kilometres later onto North Shore, which twists and turns through marshes and scrub before winding along next to waterfront ‘cottages’ on Upper Rideau Lake. It’s a favourite that I had ridden several times this season starting in late April.
My friend Jenn had included it in a loop she planned for International Female Ride Day (IFRD) on May 4; I went to check out the road conditions about ten days before.
“There’s sand and gravel everywhere on Grady and North Shore.” I messaged Jenn when I got back. “Lally Road isn’t as bad, but still, the usual gravel in lots of places. You know what Lally is like. Maybe we should consider changing the route…”
“Nah. We’ll just go slow and be careful,” Jenn replied.
I signalled my agreement with a thumbs-up emoji.
When Jenn and I did a joint recce of the loop on May 1, we ‘rescued’ a turtle along the way. You never know what a road is going to serve up on any given day, or even at any given time of day. Thankfully, we spotted the little guy and herded him (or her) to the other side before she (or he) ended up as roadkill turtle soup. (See the video at the end of the post.)
Accompanied by two more women friends, we were back three days later for the IFRD, which we thoroughly enjoyed despite the sand and gravel. We simply paid attention and took our time –as I was doing on July 2 heading back to Almonte.
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A sport bike rider came up behind me along the stretch of Grady Road that runs by the waterfront properties. He wasn’t going insanely fast and I wasn’t going stupidly slow but obviously there was a speed differential otherwise he wouldn’t have arrived on my tail. He maintained a close yet respectable distance behind. I wanted to let him know that I saw him and I didn’t want either of us ending up in trouble, so I lowered my left hand, palm toward him with fingers splayed, the group-ride signal for an upcoming stop or intersection.
Stay where you are, my friend. It’s not safe to pass here.
He slowed ever so slightly and fell back a bit. He’d got the message. We rode staggered for a kilometre or two until we came to a place with a longer interval between curved hillocks.
Now or never.
I double-checked for sand or gravel, immediately traversed to the right track, rolled off the throttle and made a forward windmill-like motion with my left arm. He overtook me without crossing into the oncoming lane and disappeared around the corner as I went back to my original position closer to the yellow line. An elegant pass safely executed by two strangers on a country road. Yes!
I caught him up at the intersection of Grady and Narrows Lock; he was stopped on the shoulder, fingers to phone screen. I pulled alongside him, applied the back brake, put both feet on the ground. He turned his head, looked over at me and smiled.
I pushed up the lower part of my modular helmet.
“You lost?” I smiled back.
“Nope. Trying to decide where to go next.”
I laughed.
“Yeah, we’re spoiled for choice. Tough to pick a Highlands route some days.”
He nodded.
“Where you from?” He asked.
“Almonte.”
“I live in the opposite direction – Sydenham.”
“Never been there,” I said.
Had we randomly met in a Timmy’s parking lot somewhere, the conversation would likely have lasted a little longer. But we were in rural Ontario on a gorgeous summer day with fabulous roads in every direction.
“Well, have a safe ride,” I said.
“You too.”
I drew down the lower part of my helmet until I heard it click into place, dipped my head in his direction, looked left up Narrow’s Lock Road (14), rolled on the throttle and was off toward Perth. As I crested the rise, he followed my lead and once again I windmilled him past when it was safe to do so. We exchanged waves before he left me behind once again.
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Ten or fifteen minutes later, I signalled and then turned right onto Lally Road. There was no one in front of or behind me. I always signal my turns, even when I’m alone. It’s good practice. The thought of continuing straight along 14 didn’t occur to me. I was anticipating the pleasure of riding the Lally twisties at a leisurely pace with no fellow riders to worry about or tug my attention away from the road and my ride. No one to think about but myself and TheFox.
Two traffic control signs appeared in quick succession after I turned: a 50 KPH (black on white) and a 40 KPH (black on pumpkin). I knew the limit would reduce to 30 KPH in an area designated to protect Grey Rat Snakes, but that wouldn’t be for another few kilometres. I maintained the speed at which I was travelling – somewhere between forty and fifty kilometres per hour.
I wouldn’t know until after the fact how many Lally turns I had thus far negotiated (one) or how many Lally kilometres I had ridden (also about one), when, without warning, TheFox began to snake and shake violently and uncontrollably. I hadn’t experienced anything like it before, despite having travelled close to 75,000 kilometres in the two and half seasons since I started riding.
What the fuck!
That thought was immediately followed by another: What the fuck should I do? (Apparently, I have a potty mind as well as a potty mouth.)
Even if I had divined an action to take, there was no time to respond or react. The only thing there was room for was utter astonishment. The next thing I knew, I was upside down gasping for air. This is it.
But my breathing returned to normal surprisingly quickly. Phew. Instinct kicked in and I began to assess the situation. My right leg was underneath TheFox. She was no longer running. We were on what seemed to be a steep downhill incline – a ditch? I wiggled my fingers and toes, then did a quick body scan. Nothing was hurting. Yet.
I saw the top third of a brown UPS truck fly by on the other side of the road. Naturally, the driver was looking ahead. It’s a twisty road. He didn’t see me.
Uh oh.
I tried to push the bike up and off of me, but at about four hundred pounds she was too heavy for me to lift, especially uphill.
Shit.
~~~~~~~~~~
This spring, a group member posted a piece of advice in one of the motorcycling Facebook forums I’m a in:
“Don’t put your phone on a handlebar mount,” the post said. “Keep it on your person in case you and your bike should become separated in a collision or other type of incident.”
As a person who often rides solo, this made sense to me.
But then I won’t be able to see the phone when I need it to navigate. And anyway, someone will always stop to help if I’m in trouble…
So rather than carrying my phone in my riding jacket pocket as the fellow rider had suggested, I bought a Quadlock to replace my old mount, which was broken.
~~~~~~~~~~
The seconds leading up to finding myself in the ditch had been terrifying. Now, I was much calmer. I didn’t feel injured, but I knew I likely was. My immediate concern was extricating myself from the mess I was in and getting myself attended to.
You’ve got a phone. Call 911.
I looked for the phone. I couldn’t see it. Left handlebar. The phone is in the Quadlock on the left handlebar.
But it wasn’t. The mount was there, but the phone was gone. I tried pushing the bike off a second time. Futile. Thankfully, my custom-made steel crash bar was doing its job (eternally grateful to my friend Ryan for designing and fabricating it <3). The bar kept the bike from lying completely flat on top of me.
I looked around. There was a tree slightly in front and to the right and of me. It was within reach. Maybe I can use it as leverage. I stretched forward and put my right hand on the trunk. Then I found purchase with my left somewhere on the bike. Adrenalin kicked in. I grunted and extended both arms and was able to slide from underneath her without hurting myself any further.
I climbed over the bike and out of the ditch, stumbled about fifty feet from whence I had come to a patch of lawn shaded by a big tree and lay myself down in the recovery position facing the road. I would be able to see traffic from either direction. I lifted my visor. Bright red blood dripped from the bottom edge. Shit. The chin bar went up next. What’s that earthy taste in my mouth? Oh, right. Dirt. I spit out what I could.
Two, three, five, seven or nine minutes later, a car appeared heading southeast. I put my hand up and waved. The driver must not have seen me. Focussed on the corner no doubt. Awhile later, a couple of cyclists heading northwest rounded the curve below me. Again, I waved. Again, they didn’t see me.
“Hey!” I called out.
Their heads swivelled. They stopped. Crossed the road. A woman and a man.
You need help?” The man asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Would you call 911, please?”
He took out his phone and dialled. It was on speaker.
“Police, fire or ambulance?” The dispatcher queried.
“Ambulance,” the cyclist said.
Then another voice: “Ambulance,” it said. “What is your location?”
“Lally Road,” I said to the cyclist. He repeated it for good measure.
“Address?”
Fortuitously, the patch of grass on which I lay was the lower part of a large lawn that belonged to a house that sat up on a hill behind me. A quarter-of-a-kilometre-long gravel road led to the house. A small green sign on a metal rod stood sentinel on the grass a few feet away.
The cyclist glanced up.
“3049,” he said.
The usual Q&A followed: What happened? When? Is the victim conscious? Male or female? Age? Any visible injuries? Is she breathing easily? Can she talk? Etcetera.
An ambulance was dispatched. How long it took to get there, I have no idea. I’m thinking twenty minutes as it came from Perth. I chatted with the cyclists while we waited. They told me they’re from New Jersey. I don’t remember his name; hers was Leena. I asked the man if he would go and look for my phone in the ditch.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Leena said. “He’s allergic to poison ivy.”
“I could try calling it,” the man said.
I gave him my number and he headed down the road to the crash site. When he came back empty handed a few minutes later, I remembered that I’d put the phone on silent the night before. Probably forgot to take it off silent this morning. Damn.
The paramedics – also a male and a female – got to work as soon as they arrived.
“Good thing you have good gear,” they said one after the other, just as the first responders had said on the bottom of Clayton Road in August 2022 and the corner of Union and Ottawa Streets on November 4, 2021.
I don’t recall them taking my helmet off, but I guess they must have. Funny how some details are crystal clear and others are either fuzzy or non-accessible. The man put one of those collars on my neck and set up an IV in the top of my right hand “just in case they need it at the hospital” and together they lifted me onto something hard to immobilize my torso and spine as well as my neck.
A pair of Ontario Provincial Police constables joined the party at 12:36 (according to the occurrence report). An attractive male constable looked down at me. (I may be sixty-eight but I’m not dead yet, although the eventuality seems imminently closer these days).
“I wasn’t speeding, officer,” were the first words out of my mouth when I saw the uniform.
“We’re not worried about that,” he said. “We just want to make sure you’re okay. You want to tell me what happened?”
I recounted the story. He listened and nodded.
“I think I must have hit some gravel,” I said. “Maybe I was a little wide on the turn, I don’t know. I wasn’t going fast though; I know that for sure.”
He went to have a look at the site while the paramedics continued to prepare me for the ride to hospital.
“Did you see the gravel?” I asked when he returned.
“Yeah,” he said.
I heaved an internal sigh of relief. I hadn’t actually seen any gravel in the lead-up to everything going sideways – literally! – and I had never experienced a slide before. If it hadn’t been gravel, it would have indicated to me that I had made a serious misjudgement and/or was hugely lacking in riding skills. Neither would have been a good thing.
“Find my phone?”
“No. But I saw the marks where your highway bar hit the pavement,” he continued. “It looks to me as if your bike is a write-off. And yeah, you may have gone a bit wide…”
I didn’t know it then, but his opinion was based on considerable experience. Nevertheless, we were both mistaken on the ‘going wide’ part.
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If I wasn’t wide on the corner what caused me to slide? What, if anything, could I have done differently to avoid this mishap? What injuries did I sustain? What did I learn? What happens next? I will answer these questions and more in a couple of follow-up posts. Stay tuned and follow my FB page here.
© 2024 Susan Macaulay. I invite you to share my poetry and posts widely, but please do not reprint, reblog or copy and paste them in their entirety without my permission. Thank you.
