The freedom of riding a motorcycle was, to me, a one-of-a-kind experience that I thoroughly enjoyed every time I rode.
My first motorcycle was a small Kawasaki 350 that I used to ride around. I did not like it very much, as it was hard to start and not easy to handle.
One night, I was supposed to follow my brother Bill to his place for a party, but I had trouble starting the bike, which delayed me. Once it finally started, I went full throttle to catch up to him and found myself going ninety miles per hour into a hairpin turn.
I had no choice but to drop the bike. It flipped end over end before crashing. I slid on my hip and tumbled for a while. I was scraped up badly but had no broken bones.
I was not far from home, so I managed to get the bike upright and walk it back, though I was limping badly.
Soon after, I went looking for another motorcycle—and found the bike of my dreams.
This time, I owned a Honda 750. It was my pride and joy—a chain-driven, four-cylinder machine with a beautiful rainbow-glitter paint job and a high-gloss finish.
Ann and I took summer trips on that motorcycle. Sometimes Joe and my brother Bill joined us on their bikes.
The date was Wednesday, August 17, 1977. Ann and I had a jealous misunderstanding the night before.
The next morning, I reached into the fridge for a beer, which was not my usual routine. I called my friend Joe and asked if he wanted to go riding. He said, “Sure.”
Before long, we ended up at a bar. Then another. We worked our way back toward work, stopping at several places along the way, ending at the classroom—our final stop before our shift.
When it was time to start work, I called my boss to say I couldn’t make it. He said, “I completely understand, Dan,” as he could hear how drunk I was.
My emotions were still raw from the night before. I gave the bartender twenty dollars and asked for one shot of every kind of liquor behind the bar. Being a regular, he obliged.
I drank them quickly. Later, my blood alcohol level measured 0.38, even five hours after the accident.
I could barely hold the bike upright, but Joe and I left anyway, heading toward my brother Bill’s home in Ontario.
At a stop sign in Ontario Center, I became determined to beat Joe in a race. His bike was more powerful, but I wanted to prove something.
We took off. This was in town—in a 30 MPH zone.
A police officer with radar clocked me going 90 MPH. I kept accelerating. By the time I crossed into the oncoming lane, I was likely over 100 MPH when I hit a station wagon head-on.
The driver was shaken but survived. I was thrown over the car and landed 160 feet down the road.
My body was shattered. Both legs were broken below the knees, and my left femur was broken. My helmet cracked. I had a collapsed lung, and my back was severely torn from sliding across the pavement.
The ambulance crew did not expect me to survive the night. A police officer didn’t even issue a DWI, assuming I wouldn’t live.
By chance, there was a football game nearby with an ambulance already on site. Officers performed CPR until the ambulance crew took over.
The crew chief later told me that I was declared dead at the scene.
I was revived multiple times and placed in intensive care. Family members came from all over to say goodbye while I was on life support.
I spent thirty days in the hospital, much of it heavily medicated with Demerol.
After being discharged, I wore a full body cast—from my chest to my toes—for a total of a year and a half.
At one point, after the cast was removed, I could walk with a cane. But I went back to the classroom. When my favorite song by the Doobie Brothers played, I couldn’t resist dancing.
I left my cane behind, started dancing—and felt my leg crack again.
The next day, the cast went back on.
My father would drive me to appointments in his station wagon, where I had to lie in the back.
This accident should have been a turning point. It showed me I was heading down the same path of alcoholism as my brother Kenny.
I tried to quit drinking—for my family and myself.
But over time, I slipped. I began moving around more, going out again, and eventually drinking again.
Looking back now, I no longer believe in coincidences. I believe I am accountable for my actions—and that God saved me from complete destruction.