In Praise of Leather

Part 3, in which our hero pays for what he did

I calmly walked along the side of the road in order to be in a better position to wave and stop any approaching cars. But this was a rural road so there were no cars to stop and I was able to enjoy the sound of the fire in otherwise undisturbed peace. From a safe distance I watched the flames rise, fueled by the thick coating of oil on the engine, pops and clangs emanating as the battery, gas tank and other sealed compartments exploded. Thank goodness I forgot my tent, I thought, since that meant it was still safe at home, unlike my sleeping bag, my clothes, my swimsuit, my passport, my wallet.... As horrific as the image was, the sound of the burning was rather soothing. After a few minutes the wires to the horn fused together. Like a dying cow, Beelzebud was calling out, announcing its arrival on the Other Side. A family in a small car came around the bend and the driver poked his head out the window. "Looks like you have a bit of a problem," he cleverly observed. Over the noise of the horn I calmly asked him to phone for help and they drove off. The sound died, the flames grew to 6 feet, and the starter kicked in: another demon leaving the machine. The thought of the bike now starting up made me burst into laughter, which is when I noticed the pain in my shoulder. Soon a pickup truck came driving out from behind the smoke and flames. The driver, a man of about 60 years, got out and tried to make a phone call on his cellular phone. Three more vehicles including a large gravel truck arrived and came to safe stops and the men stood next to the wreck, all unsuccessfully trying to make a call from the hollow. The man in the pickup walked over to me and asked if I wanted a ride to the hospital which I gladly accepted. We got in his truck and tried to make pleasant conversation. "So where are you from?" "Boston." "Is that right? What do you do there?" "I make maps." "Oh, is that right??" The kind man did his best to distract me, then escorted me quickly through the emergency entrance of the Aberdeen Hospital of New Glasgow. Still wearing my black helmet with my one-piece black racing suit tucked neatly into my black boots, I think I startled a few of the other patients.

The helmet and suit were off in no time and the experts confirmed what I already suspected: a broken collarbone. The pain wasn't all that bad and I had a good laugh with the nurses about the position I was now in: no money, no vehicle, and no pants. So while I waited for x-rays I sat back and enjoyed being the poster-boy for the well-dressed motorcyclist. When the nurses told me that I could have died and how lucky I was I told them that it was planning and foresight, not luck, that spared me the wire brush in the open wounds. Self-righteous again.

Constable John Fritz of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) came by with all that remained from my motorcycle. The license plate no longer had a flake of paint or sticker on it, the U.S. and Canadian 20-dollar bills had been reduced to charred corners, and then there were lumps of plastic fused with leather, the burnt remains of my cash, driver's license, work ID, and American Motorcyclist Association membership card. A friendly man who insisted I call him by his first name, John spared me the questions I was expecting about what happened and what my speed was. Instead he asked what my plans were and how could he help? He wrote down the name of the wrecker who now had my bike and gave me his number and said to call when I was ready to leave the hospital.

Once I'd shaken the pebbles out of my socks and been cleared to go, I put my smelly t-shirt and boots on again and checked the hospital bill: 41 Canadian dollars! The $700 leather suit had more than paid for itself. Dr. Allen and her staff kindly "borrowed" a hospital coat and sling for me. I looked positively stunning as I stood in the waiting area with only my knees showing between the tops of my dusty boots and the hem of my lime-green hospital coat. A volunteer, retired from the RCMP, helped me make phone calls to my insurance company, my bank, Western Union, and VISA. The bank and VISA were, by the way, completely unhelpful. Soon John returned with a mischievous smile and a pair of grey wool trousers in a Salvation Army bag. I thanked him, put the pants on in the bathroom and--judging from the grins on John's and the volunteer's faces--came out looking very flash. As a tribute to John's generosity I vowed to wear the red pricetag on the outside of the pants. We got in his cruiser and headed for the highway where within minutes he'd radioed for a passing trucker to pull over and give me a ride to Truro, 40 miles west and halfway to my rendezvous point with my sidecar-racing friends, the Lansdowne Lodge.

Howard let me out of his Kenworth truck in the parking lot of Sobey's, a supermarket chain that has a Western Union desk in each of its stores. I made a point of memorizing this fact for future emergencies. I found a good spot for all my possessions--my helmet and a yellow hospital-issued bag with my leathers and the charred remains of my luggage--and put to use the one valuable thing I had with me: my memorized MCI calling card number. I called friends in Cambridge incessantly, finally reaching Pete who agreed to leave work right away and send me some money so I could at least get some pain killers and a room for the night. Moira and Elena, the downstairs neighbors with whom I'd left a key, agreed to go and pack some clothes and, most importantly, my sandals for me. Mike Greenblatt is such a good guy that I didn't even need to leave more than one message asking him to pick up the clothes and drive them to Pete and Sue's place, since they were leaving the very next morning to meet me at the lodge. Within five hours I had bought some Percocet, ginger cookies, a mystery novel and a motorcycle magazine so I could start thinking about my next big purchase. I felt somehow entitled to a beer at the end of this unusual day, so after dinner I walked past gas stations, car dealers and fast-food joints to The Mill, a barn-like modern structure with a huge dancefloor filled with locals dancing to the cajun country band on the high stage. I admired the style and energy levels of the dancers, none of whom were less than 50 years old, and I tried not to reflect on my day.

The next day I quickly and easily managed to get two short rides despite my ragged appearance and 10-year hitchhiking hiatus. This put me only 15 or 20 miles west of Upper Stewiacke and the Lansdowne Lodge. A clean minivan pulled up and the driver helped me put my gear in. He told me his destination was only halfway to mine, but I decided that was OK with me once he told me he was a baptist preacher and asked whether I'd ever contemplated what would happen to me when I died. Given what had transpired just 24 hours earlier, this would have been a sensible time to see his point and renounce motorcycling and my sinful ways in general, but instead I mulled over more important questions while the minister rambled on. KTM Duke, another Guzzi, Morini, the Australian v-twin 250? So many choices...... He not only rambled on verbally but rambled right right through his destination and onward to the lodge. I bit my tongue, nodded frequently and hoped for the sign of the lodge. We found it, I jumped out quickly, said thanks and walked to my destination and the prospect of familiar faces and clean clothes from home.

To the exciting conclusion!