Monday, April 20, 2009

Shouldering On...


So there I was...

A painful shoulder... a borrowed motorcycle sizzling under water... flooded motorcycle boots... mud in my helmet...

Pops, two brothers and a friend all on the other side of the mountain with no idea where I was... The day getting late... The sun going down... Dinner waiting at a deli in Guerneville...

Did I survive?

Of course I did.

But first I had to get the motorcycle righted and dragged out of the water, which, if you've just plunged over a small cliff and landed on your head and shoulder, can be quite painful.

But I did it- using my left arm for everything, with my right arm pressed into my side or stuck in my shirt.

Firstly and foremostly, I had to figure out how to dump the water out of the tail pipe. Too much water in the tail pipe means you can't have exhaust come out of the same. When your motor can't "breathe", it can't run. So what I needed to do was to get the front wheel straight up in the air, which isn't easy with only one good arm.

I had an idea. I used my legs and scooted the motorcycle to a small inclination, then backed it down into a small ditch which had the effect of lowering the back wheel which put the front wheel in the air. Trial bikes are really light, so once I was counterbalanced a little bit, I could squeeze the bike with my legs and lean back and pop the front tire straight up. Water poured out of the tail pipe and I half expected to see fish emptying out as well.

Step one was finished. Then I pulled out a spark plug wrench and took out the plug, kicked the Montessa over a few times (which hurt my shoulder like a knife insertion), placed the plug back in, and crossed my left hand over to the throttle and kicked some painful more...

It sputtered but it started.

Soaking wet, with my right arm stuffed inside my shirt like a sling and my left hand crossed over to operate the throttle, I rode slowly back up and over the mountain on a bumpy fire road to be greeted by some worried but vexed family members who were all packed and ready to go home by now, as it was indeed almost dark.

I approached them wet and muddied from top to bottom, my right arm stuffed inside my shirt.

"I crashed", was all I had to tell them.

The doctor described it thusly- "the impact from your shoulder hitting the ground drove the clavicle inward and strained the ligaments strapping it down to your sternum"...

I described it as "a knife stabbing me in the joint everytime I moved my arm".

After six weeks of explaining to my gym teachers why I couldn't do what they asked at school, the shoulder healed and I forgot about it.

Until I gave my younger brother his first unasked-for flying lesson...

(cont.)

2 comments:

fairyhedgehog said...

That sounds so painful.

Jeannie said...

Doesn't sound like a lot of fun.