Q: Does time really slow down when you’re in an accident?
A: Yes. Oh yes.
I bought a motorcycle. The whole idea originated at about the time I fell out of an airplane, when doing things that made my heart stop and that created the World’s Largest Sudden Outburst of Endorphins made a lot more sense. I left New Zealand with the conviction that above all else, I must procure a motorcycle license, and soon!
The class to get the license was sort of funny.
About two-thirds of the students already owned motorcycles, had been riding around illegally on them for years, maybe, and were just now getting around to the whole license thing. Why they didn’t just march down to the DMV and do it all for free is beyond me, but it may have been something to do with the little T-E-S-T and the fact that interestingly, in general, motorcycle riders don’t tend to be the sharpest knives in the drawer.
Yeah, so this class was mostly a lot of standing around (outside) listening to specific instructions on just what we were going to do (outside) when we got on the motorcycles that had been assigned to us (outside), turned them on, and rode around in a particular manner (outside).
It almost snowed that weekend, but not quite. It did, however, rain.
In the classroom the night before they warned us about hypothermia. “It makes you stupid!” the instructor cackled. “You can’t think! If you get that cold, you shouldn’t be riding!” Inside the warm classroom, we chuckled knowingly at one another. WE would never get that cold. WE were taking the class that told us not to.
So, alternating standing with riding all that next day, eventually my shivering stopped. Just like Mr. Hypothermia said it would. And on the way home, all I could think about was getting into a scalding bath and being warm again.
Have I mentioned the huge temperature fluctuations in the hot water here?
Depending on how active the water heater has been lately, hot = anywhere from barely tepid to furnacelike.
This was a tepid day.
I did eventually warm up, but the whole thing brought home the fact that Them Thar Motorcycles Are Dangerous-like.
Still, I insisted on buying a motorcycle almost immediately. Whereupon I promptly parked it in the garage, too scared to ride it much. Then Matthew brought his helmet down, thinking he’d dust off his own ancient almost unused motorcycle license and see if he could ride mine.
Yeah, that didn’t go over so well. I hated that he seemed better at it than me (whose bike was this?) and that he offered to take me for a ride — behind HIM. Nossir.
So, I got over the thing of being precariously and vulnerably perched on a machine that could kill me, and rode it. Got really comfortable. The idea was to ride it around town, pick up groceries (when not using a bicycle), and also be able to take it out on the open road. Power between the legs. So to speak.
Friday, it was beautiful here. Sunny, warm, just gorgeous. So of course I hopped on and went around, drove down to the beach, drove up to a lake I hadn’t seen before, had a nice ride. I planned out the whole rest of my afternoon: I had already been for a run in forest in the morning, so I thought a bike ride after I got home would be perfect. It was so nice out.
Missed the turn onto my street.
It has happened before; there’s a blind hill just beyond the turn, and you can’t see oncoming cars until they’re almost right on you, so on the bike I’m a little shy. Something about being blindsided while on the motorcycle and being crushed/run over by an oncoming car acts as a wee deterrent. So — shit — here comes a car, I twist the throttle and go on up the hill. Turning around, when I get back I don’t recognize my own street. Sure, I never approach it from that side, why would I? Missed it again.
That’s okay, there’s another way to get there; I’ll just go around.
At the top of THAT hill, something happens there by the stop sign. Time slows down. I think about using my leg to keep the motorcycle from falling over, but I wonder because I’ve had issues with that hip before. Maybe I’d get hurt. But the decision is made for me, and I feel the entire weight of the bike crushing my foot, which inside its heavy boot is bent in a way I am pretty sure feet are not supposed to bend. From there to laying under the bike yelling FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK I’m a little hazy. Also the part about getting my foot and bruised crushed leg out from under it.
I do remember the guy from around the corner approaching me gingerly, not wanting to scare the crazy yelling lady, and not wanting his toddler’s ears to burn with so many repeat refrains of FUCKFUCKFUCK, and he helped me pick the 350-plus pound motorcycle up because I was pretty sure I was incapable of anything at that point.
I did ride it home.
I didn’t get the foot xrayed. What’s the point? I’ve always known when bones break. How can you not know this? I even once made a bet with my parents, so sure was I that my (other) foot was broken, and offered to pay the doctor’s bills if I was wrong.
I was not.
Plus, fun little indicators like PAIN and BRUISING and SWELLING and DIDIMENTIONPAIN are also a tipoff.
So this, happening a mere three days before I was supposed to move to a! new! house! just seemed Extra Ironic. With sugar on top, and a cherry.
However, I have an arsenal that depends heavily on the strong conviction that energetic healing, even from afar, really works.
So tomorrow I move. I can walk: slowly, carefully. The pain went away almost immediately, once the Big Healing Honchos started working on it. This from semi-excruciating to simply uncomfortable, in a few minutes. And tomorrow two guys come and put my stuff into a truck that’s far too big for the amount of stuff I own and we (I) drive it to my new place, the one I went over and cleaned today. This time tomorrow, new house. (And no internet, but that’s a different story…)