The freedom of riding a motorcycle, to me, was 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 get from place to place. I did not like it very much, as it was hard to start and not easy to ride. One night, when I was supposed to follow my brother Bill to a party at his place, I had trouble starting it and ended up leaving late.
Once I finally got it started, I went full throttle to catch up to him and found myself going 90 miles per hour into a hairpin turn. I had no choice but to drop the bike and destroy it. It flipped end over end before its final crash.
After sliding on my hip and tumbling for a while, I was scraped up but had no broken bones. I was not far from home, so I managed to walk the bike back, though I was limping badly.
Soon after, I went shopping for another motorcycle and found the bike of my dreams, a Honda 750. This was a much bigger bike, a chain-driven four-cylinder. It became my pride and joy, with a glittering rainbow paint job and a high-gloss finish.
Ann and I took trips on this motorcycle during the summer. Occasionally, my friend John and my brother Bill would join us on their bikes.
On 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. This was something that was not part of my normal routine.
I called my friend John and asked if he wanted to go riding. He said, "Sure". Before long, we found ourselves at our first bar. From there, we worked our way back toward our workplace, stopping at bar after bar until we reached my favorite one for our final stop before work.
When it was time to begin our evening shift, I called my boss to tell him I could not make it in. He said, "I completely understand, Dan", as he could hear how intoxicated I was.
My emotions were raw from the night before. I gave the bartender twenty dollars, as shots were only one dollar each. and then I told him to give me one of every color, pointing at the bottles behind the bar. Being a regular, he complied. I drank them quickly, fueled by hurt feelings.
I could barely hold the bike upright, but John and I left the bar and headed toward my brother Bill's home in the next town. At a stop sign, I became determined to beat John, whose motorcycle was more powerful than mine. We took off again, racing through a 30 mph zone.
A police officer with radar clocked me going 90 mph halfway to the point of impact. Still accelerating, I must have been going over 100 mph when I crossed into the oncoming lane and struck a station wagon head-on.
The driver was unhurt, though surely shaken. The impact catapulted me over telephone wires, and I landed 160 feet down the road, as officers later told me.
Five hours after the accident, my blood alcohol level was still ".38”, enough for alcohol poisoning. My body had essentially shut down. Both legs were broken below the knees, along with my left femur.
My helmet was cracked. I had a collapsed lung, and my back was torn raw from sliding along the pavement. The ambulance crew did not expect me to survive the night, so the officer did not issue a DWI.
Nearby, a football game was taking place at a local school, with an ambulance already on site. Police officers performed CPR until the ambulance crew took over. The crew chief later declared me dead after removing my helmet, as his son told me years later.
I was eventually placed in intensive care, where my heart had to be restarted for the third time. Family members came from all over to say their goodbyes while I lay on life support in traction.
I spent thirty days in the hospital, much of it under heavy doses of Demerol. After being discharged, I wore a body cast from my chest down to the toes of my left foot in two separate stages.
After the first cast was removed, I was able to walk with a wooden cane. I decided to return to the bar for more "good times".
While there, my favorite dance song by the Doobie Brothers came on. I grabbed Ann and said, "Let's dance". I left my cane at the table, started dancing, and suddenly felt a crack in my leg.
Carefully, someone helped me back to the car. The next day, I returned to my orthopedic doctor and had the body cast put back on. I was not happy at all.
During this time, my father would bring his station wagon so I could lie down in the back for trips to the doctor. This accident became a turning point. I began to see similarities between my behavior and my brother Kenny's struggles with alcoholism.
I unofficially quit drinking, as no one in my family, including me, wanted me to follow that same path.
As I improved, I became better at using crutches. Ann and I did not go out much, but we visited my parents for dinner and card games.
One day, while outside at my parent's home, a friend across the street invited me to see his new motorcycle. I managed to climb onto it, even in my body cast.
"Take it for a ride", he said. I handed him my crutches and rode circles around his yard. We were thrilled, but my family, watching from across the street, was not.
My friend Fred offered me a beer from his cooler. With everyone watching, I accepted it and drank it. They were not pleased, but they accepted it.
As I continued recovering, I eventually got back into driving. Determined, I drove my Firebird despite wearing a body cast, nearly breaking the seat as I had to sit without bending.
I made my way back to my favorite bar, walking in on crutches and receiving free drinks from old friends.
I survived all of this, and as I write these words, I no longer believe in coincidences. I began to understand that I am accountable for my actions, and that God had saved me from my own destruction, even then.