Friday, August 11, 2017

Crash Report And Afterword

Well, I dumped my bike the other day, on the way home, third time in 17 years, and it’s got me wondering if third time is, indeed, the charm.
It was clear and dry, traffic was light, as I headed home from a nice little ride for lunch at an old dive bar in a town named after a lake nobody has seen.  After passing under the second to the last traffic light before the one that leads to our house, I was following two cages at a reasonable distance when they began to slow down at a point where they should not have needed to, so I grabbed my front brake in preparation for whatever foolishness they might be about to perform on the street, not a panic stop by any means, but a strong pull intended to gain a little distance while the situation developed.  It’s the kind of maneuver an experienced motorcyclist does without thinking, the kind I’ve done many times in many places with no problem.
This time, for some reason that will remain unknown, my front end suddenly washed out from under me with no warning or time to react and dumped me and the bike on our left sides in the middle lane of a four lane road at about 40 miles per hour.  Later, we saw a flap of cardboard that just possibly could have found itself under my front tire just as I hit the brakes, which could explain why, but we’ll never know for sure.
It happened too fast to react at the time, but, looking over the damage later, it was easy to reconstruct.  I landed mostly on my left hip and shoulder, then attempted a shoulder roll on to my helmet, which gave up the faceshield on the left side as we ground to a stop in the turn lane.  Somehow, I badly scuffed the toe of my left boot in the process, wore almost through the left sleeve of my Harley FXRG riding jacket, which did its job and sacrificed material to keep my upper body injuries to some minor scratches along the left elbow, and one inexplicable but nasty little gouge under my right glove along the base of my thumb.  My nice padded riding pants were, unfortunately, rolled up in the right saddlebag because it was such a nice day, so I only had some denim jeans on, which explains the huge technicolor bruise that is forming along that left hip right where the pads are in the riding pants that I was not wearing, as well as a nasty combination road rash and impact bruise delivered to the outside of my left knee inside my jeans, also at the location of the knee pads in the riding pants I was not wearing.  ATGATT means All The Gear All The Time, Goddammit!
Bikers are everywhere, we know, and this incident made that clear.  As I lay on the pavement mouthing bad words and looking up at the sky, a County employee who was mowing the tall grass along the side of the road and saw it happen stopped his tractor and ran over to help me out.  It turns out he has an FXR like mine, that he has owned and loved for years, like mine, and he helped me pick up my poor wounded bike and get it off to the side of the road and up a shady driveway.  The first cop on the scene went sailing on by, followed by three others, two fire trucks, and aid unit, and possibly a Battalion Chief, I disremember all of them.  Somebody must have told them something bad happened when the old guy went ass over teakettle in front of about 40 cars.  The cop who took my information was telling me about his bike, and the nurse in the Urgent Care facility that said I had no broken bones turned out to have a couple of Dynas at home.
My poor Harley, my beautiful 1992 FXRS-Convertible that I’ve had for years and was slowly but surely turning into another FXRT, which I believe is the highest form of the best bike Harley ever made, took a hard knock this time, one that may well be a death blow.  The left side saddlebag is toast, as well as the tour pack, from grinding on the ground, and the front end somehow got twisted and torqued so bad that it caved in the fuel tank in the left front corner as the fork stop sheared off the lower triple clamp, leaving the twisted fork tubes and the bent fender as surety that the ride was over for the day, at least.  Somehow, it even managed to rip the speedo cable out as it bent the mounting bracket and ground away the corner of the housing in the process.  The footboard on that side took a hit, as did my fancy heel-toe shifter and both mirrors, which might explain that gouge in my right thumb.  Every time I look I know I will see more damage, all from falling down on blacktop; it didn’t even hit anything!
My wife came running to rescue me, like she does, every time without fail.  Thank you, Dear, I owe you for life.  We sent the bike on to the local dealer, who won’t be able to even look at it for a month, and called the insurance company, who will probably look at the year and the mileage and write it off with a sniff.  (Edit: it was Safeco, and they did not.  They did well by me.)

So here I am, limping away, glad to survive another crash, but profoundly disturbed by the randomness and inexplicability of the whole thing.  I had that bike set up just the way I wanted it, and running so good with the latest improvements to cam and ignition, that I considered it good enough to be my last bike ever, the one that always has the best spot in the garage as other toys come and go, the one I could always count on to start and run, take me there, and bring me home.  This time, it didn’t quite finish.  I know better than to make rash decisions after a jolt like this, so time will tell if this is a sign for me to hang up the keys or not.  Wish me luck as I find out.  :-{)}

The Rest of the Story
Did you ever lose a bike, either by way of a crash and an insurance company total loss or by selling it, and wonder how it made out once it had left the protective confines of  your garage?
I suspect this question is more relevant to a vintage motorcycle enthusiast such as our illustrious selves than it would be for the typical dilettante who runs out and buys the latest hot stuff only to quickly tire of it, whereupon it languishes in the garage, if not the back yard, until someone comes along to free it from such servitude and bring it back to life under circumstances where it will be cherished, and maintained, and ridden once in a while, if only to the TT.
Still, if you’ve lavished attention and money on a bike over the years, put up with its tendencies, upgraded its weaknesses, even taken it to the limit, that of new paint, you tend to develop some emotional attachment to the machine, such that to let it go is a wrenching experience – less for you, more for them.  This effect is even more pronounced when the loss is due to an accident, where you lose your bike to an insurance company, who does unspeakable things to it, possibly.
I’ve been through this twice now.  Once, in 2000, where, after a long day riding through the desert of eastern Oregon on the way back from Sturgis, my front wheel somehow got hooked up with the left rear corner of my buddy’s trailer and dumped me and my ’89 FXR on the pavement in downtown Bend, Oregon in the middle of rush hour.
After all the dust settled from that unfortunate incident, my insurance company agreed to just send me the check, rather than have the work done at the dealer, which I accepted with glee, since it bought me an upgraded exhaust and front brake system, and I was happy to live with the minor blemishes remaining from the crash.  Then my agent said, “Oh, by the way, all those items listed in the factory repair estimate are no longer covered by your insurance, because you repaired them yourself rather than have the dealer do it.”
So I had to let it go.  When that happens, the best you can hope for is a good owner that will love and take care of your old bike the way you did.  I remember when I took my first Harley, a 1971 FLH, back to work one day to show it to the guy from whom I had bought it, and he looked at it, shook his head and said, “Well, I guess you didn’t fuck it up too badly.”  I felt pretty good about that.  So when the guy who bought my ‘89 FXR showed me how he was going to cut the frame to lower the seat so his wife could ride it, I just sighed, and wished him luck.
In this latest version of the lose-your-bike scenario, with my ’92 FXR on the losing end of it, I was determined to at least find out what happened, since both the insurance claims adjuster and the dealership seemed just as determined to prevent me from finding out what happened next, other than that a salvage company would pick it up from the dealer, whereupon a check would be released to me to compensate for the financial losses, but not the emotional ones.  So I hatched a plan.
I’m one of those guys who keeps all receipts in a file as long as I own a vehicle, so I dug through it and pulled out the most recent Dyno-tune results, as well as any relevant sales receipts, and put them in a manila envelope, along with the following letter:
To whoever winds up with my old bike:
This was a good old bike for me, and never let me down, until this latest incident.  I’ve put a lot of time and money into it over the years, and it should last a long time and be a good bike for you if you get it up and running again.
On the day I crashed, I had taken the detachable windshield off because the weather was so nice.  I will hold on to it for you, and give it to you if you want.  If I don’t hear from you beforehand, I will take it to the Tenino Swap meet and sell it.  Here’s my number, please give me a call if you have any questions or want the windshield.  Signed, me.

Then I took the envelope down to the dealership and put it in the tour pack on back of the bike.  Two days later the salvage company picked it up, and off it went.
Two weeks later, out of the blue, I got a call from the new owner!  As it turns out, he lives in California, near L.A.  A buddy of his is apparently in the habit of coming up to Washington and Oregon to buy up cheap FXRs to resell in California, where they are apparently a hot commodity, thanks to the Sons of Anarchy and the trend adopted by many real motorcycle clubs to turn FXRs into hot rods for the street.  (You entrepreneurial types should have your ears pricking up at this tidbit.)
During a long and pleasant conversation, I got the satisfaction of transferring to the new owner all the history of the bike, the parts I had replaced or upgraded, including the special unique parts I had made myself.  It was especially gratifying to find out that this guy was another enthusiast like myself, and that he had bought the bike to make into his own personal vision of motorcycle perfection, which he intended to keep forever.
The funny thing was, he didn’t want the windshield, but allowed as how he was going to find an FXRT fairing for the front of it.  I laughed at that revelation, and allowed as how I had been collecting fairing bits and pieces for it myself for some years, including a slightly damaged fairing body, and would he like me to put them all in a box and send it to him, for a small fee?  I could hear his smile over the phone at that news, and the deal was quickly done.  He promised to send pictures.
So it feels good to know that my old bike, after a traumatic experience ending in dislocation from its old life, had wound up in a new place where it would be loved and cared for just like it had in my hands.  I don’t think you can ask for much more than that, even if you’re a machine.  :-{)} 

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