"As motorcyclist's we are constantly aware of the dangers of riding, whether it be approaching an intersection we navigate everyday or the twisties of a new road we have been anxious to try. This is a fictional story about those inherit dangers. I hope you enjoy it."
Rick
Danger on State Route 43
By Rick Slark
It was mid November in Gaithersburg and the winter season was beginning. Dillon my close friend had recently completed a motorcycle safety course and earned his motorcycle endorsement. Anxious to ride, he asked me and three other friends to ride to the Montauk River on Saturday. All of us agreed so long as the weather held out.
The Montauk River area is an outdoorsman’s paradise. Each year thousands of motorcyclists come from all over the state to ride the twisty roads and enjoy the breathtaking scenery. Dillon had never ridden through this area on his motorcycle and was dying to give it a try.
SR 43 is the most famous motorcycling road in these parts and for good reason. It is eighty five miles of asphalt that snakes its way through the foothills of the Appalachian Mountain range. The roads are full of sweeping curves, narrow lanes, and plenty of opportunities to get a knee down. Some of the most beautiful scenery in our state is visible from this road, but danger is only one mistake away. Sheer drop offs are around every corner and with no guardrails for protection a rider must pay close attention. If one gets hurt in this desolate area, emergency help is a long way off.
On the morning of our ride, I awakened to the sound of rain pelting against my bedroom window. I continued lying in bed as I listened to the thunder roll across the sky. Michelle, my wife rolled toward me and said “Surely you aren’t riding to the river in this weather.” “I hope not, but I’d better give Dillon a call.” I replied. Dillon answered on the second ring,
“Hey buddy, tell me we aren’t riding today!” I said.
“What do you mean?” Dillon replied. “Of course we’re riding! I’m not going to let a little rain stop me!” He continued.
“It’s more than a little rain, Dillon. It’s coming down hard.” I said, staring at the newly formed puddles in my backyard.
“I know, but it’s my only day off for two weeks, I’m riding! The other three guys already cancelled. Come on Seth,” Dillon said gruffly.
“You have no idea how dangerous that road is when it’s wet.” I said. Dillon interrupted, “You don’t think I can handle it do you?”
“Listen, you just got your endorsement and this isn’t the best road to practice your skills.” I said firmly.
“I’m a good rider and I will be just fine!” Dillon said.
“Alright,” I said reluctantly. “I will meet you at the Dairy Mart in forty five minutes,” and ended the call.
Michelle overheard the conversation and glared at me with a stare of disapproval, then said, “You caved Seth, you guys should not be riding that road in this weather, especially Dillon!” I knew she was right.
It was 8:15 AM. As I rolled into the Dairy Mart, the rain was beating down and temperatures were in the mid thirties. Dillon was waiting for me in the parking lot and I pulled alongside him.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“I just got here. He replied.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked again.
“I’m sure, stop worrying!” Dillon replied. I wiped my visor with the back of my leather glove and we rolled toward the street.
Dillon had been leading the way for the better part of an hour as we approached a section of SR 43 called Bennington’s Gap. The gap begins with a series of steep S curves which flattens out to a long section of straightaway then finally into another series of curves. It’s thrilling and exhausting. I motioned to Dillon that I was coming around him, I rolled on the throttle and he quickly disappeared in my review mirrors as I roared through the gap.
On the other side of Bennington’s Gap is a small gravel pull off with a terrific view. Many riders stop here to take catch their breath, but on this rain drenched day I waited alone. I had only been waiting a minute when I saw Dillon coming through the final hairpin curve and he soon rolled beside me.
“Oh my God; that was freakin’ amazing!” Dillon shouted exuberantly.
“Let’s ride that again!” I assured him there was plenty of great riding ahead and encouraged him to be patient.
Soon we approached the notorious; Thunder Alley, the best section of the road to run wide open. In proper weather conditions an experienced rider can accelerate to speeds over one hundred and twenty miles per hour before braking hard into enter a series of descending curves that bend back upon one another. Most of the accidents that occur on SR 43 occur here. I had told Dillon I would meet him at the vacant country store just after the alley. Once again I lost Dillon in my mirrors and as I began snaking my way through the alley. With the poor roads conditions I had to be more cautious than usual, but it was still a rush.
Adrenaline was coursing through my body as I pulled into the parking lot of the abandoned store; I lit a cigarette, and set back to wait for Dillon. I’d only been waiting a couple of minutes when I impatiently muttered “Come on!” My agitation turned to worry when after five minutes; Dillon had yet to show up.
“He is never this far behind me” I muttered to myself. I fired up the bike and headed back toward Thunder Alley.
I had only gone about ¾ of a mile when I spotted a silver F150 pickup truck parked awkwardly in the middle of the road with its emergency flashers on. As I rolled up closer, I saw Dillon’s twisted Fat Boy lying on its side and Dillon beside it writhing in pain. The left fender of the pickup had a large dent and pieces of plastic and chrome trim littered the pavement.
“Oh shit!” I said as I dismounted and quickly ran to Dillon. As I approached I could see his left leg was bleeding profusely and one of the men from the pickup was cinching a belt around his mangled thigh. The femur was protruding through the skin and his foot was turned backward. He was bleeding from his head and was unable to move his left arm.
“Did someone call the squad?” I asked one of the men and he assured me that he had. Dillon was drifting in and out of consciousness, but managed to tell me he had gone into the corner too hot and had gone left of center colliding with the truck. I told him that none of that mattered now and that help was on its way.
Dillon has been my best friend since third grade when his family moved to our town; we have been inseparable ever since. We attended public school together, played on the same sports teams, and even graduated from the same community college and watching him writhe in pain and not be able to help was almost more than I could bear.
For twenty frantic minutes I did my best to comfort my friend, but nothing seemed to stop the pain. I was so relieved to finally hear the faint shrill of sirens in the distance. A few minutes later a volunteer emergency team arrived on the scene, but with a quick assessment they recognized the severity of the injuries and dispatched a care flight team.
Another twenty minutes passed before a brightly colored helicopter landed in the middle of the highway. Everyone on the scene covered their faces as water, gravel, and other debris, was blown around by the massive rotor. I walked alongside the gurney as the paramedics rolled it toward the chopper all the while assuring Dillon that he was in good hands and that I would call his wife Grace. When the helicopter was air born I reached for my phone and made one of the toughest phone calls of my life.
“Grace, this is Seth. There’s been an accident!” I said, and then proceeded to give her the details of the calamity. I told her that I had spoken to Michelle and that she was on her way to drive her to the hospital and that I would meet them in the emergency room as soon as possible.
I remained at the accident site as the State Highway Patrol continued their investigation. At one point I noticed the driver of the pickup sitting alone beside the road trying to light a cigarette, but his hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t light it. I walked over to offer my assistance. I sat down next to him and neither one of us spoke for a long while, finally he broke the silence and said “It happened so fast. We came around the curve and there he was; coming right at us. I swerved to the right but there was no place to go. He hit us so hard!”
“I know it wasn’t your fault.” I said as I put my hand on his shoulder.
The rain continued as the accident scene was cleaned up and an hour later the road was re-opened, with nothing left to do, I headed to Birmingham General.
It was nearly 5:45 PM. By the time I arrived at the hospital. I was soaked, emotional drained, and afraid of what news awaited me inside that emergency room. I walked through the sliding doors to a small nurse’s station. I asked them about my friend and they informed me that Dillon was in surgery and then lead me to the waiting room.
It was a medium sized room and a few family members had gathered. A television was on, but no one was watching it, the lights were low and the smell of burnt coffee permeated the air. I looked around and saw Grace and Michelle talking quietly in the corner, it was apparent both had been crying. They both jumped up when they saw me and began crying again. I gave Michelle a big hug and assured her I was fine. I then turned toward Grace not knowing what to say.
She spoke first, “How could you let this happen? You should have been there!”
“It was an accident Grace, there was nothing I could have done.” I said. Just then the surgeon walked into the room, his scrubs and coal black hair all disheveled.
“My name is Dr. Adar,” the man said, “your husband is stable and should be fine, but…” he paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “His left leg was badly damaged in the accident and despite our best efforts we were unable to repair it. We had to amputate his leg just above the knee.” At that moment it seemed as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. We were all in disbelief. Dr. Adar continued… “We were able to save enough of the thigh so that a prosthetic limb will work well. He should lead a fairly normal life,” and then he turned and left the room.
Dr. Adar was right. Three years have passed since the accident and Dillon is doing great. Physically, he has fully recovered and has adapted to his prosthetic leg remarkably well. He continues to ride motorcycles and we make it a point to ride SR 43 several times a year.
