Underblog Rides Again

Crash

by Jill McElmurry

Day Two of Girls Gone Motorcycling features Jill McElmurry, author-illustrator, punk rock impresario, dedicated blogger, and fearless motorcycle passenger. Well almost. But she has really good reasons.

In 1977 I was being paid to do ink-n'-paint for John, an artist/animator in Montecito, CA. It was a pretty fun job. We worked about fifty steps from the beach in a sunny little hut surrounded by oleanders, eucalyptus, and palm trees. Sometimes John and I walked on the beach at lunch or else I sat outside eating whatever it was I liked eating at the time, something with alfalfa sprouts, no doubt. I can’t remember how I got to and from work. My orange Karmann Ghia was 'in the shop' after one of my roommates accidentally let it roll off a cliff. Our mechanic neighbor said he'd fix it for a reasonable price, but ended up keeping the car for nine months. I could see it sitting next door as it disappeared under layers of leaves and bird shit. I guess I rode my bicycle to work or bummed rides from a friend, or hitched maybe. In any case, one day John offered me a ride home on the back of his motorcycle, a BMW something or other. He taught me how to be a good passenger: hold on tight and lean into the turns. Then he began the jumping ritual it took to start the motor. I climbed on back and just before we left, he handed me the helmet.

"Wear this," he said. He only had one.

"No, I’m ok. Go ahead," I said. But he insisted so I put it on.

It took fifteen minutes to get from Montecito to where I lived in Santa Barbara via the scenic route, ten by freeway. John chose the freeway. When we started down the ramp from Coast Village Road my heart was thumping, but there wasn’t much traffic and once I got used to the speed, it seemed ok, even fun. As we passed the turnoff for the Bird Sanctuary, the bike did this weird wiggly swerve. Then another. And another. I thought John was playing around, doing a little motorcycle dance in the middle of the freeway. "Cut it out!" I shouted, gripping his shoulder, but he couldn’t hear me, or maybe he could but he didn’t respond and the bike kept swerving. I was mad at him for playing around. What a jerk! Then my senses did what senses do when something unexpected and frightening begins to happen: they snapped to full attention while simultaneously s-l-o-w-i-n-g e--v--e--r--y--t--h--i--n--g d---o---w----n. I experienced the moment with uncharacteristic calm. I noticed the color of the cars and the people in them, the freeway shrubs, the seagulls,the lavender hills, and asphalt racing under me like swift water. The swerves became swervier and swervier until finally the bike flipped and the two of us went flying. I lay on my back watching cottontail clouds drift across the blue sky, my arms and legs spread out as if I were tanning on the beach. At some point, it dawned on me that I wasn’t on the beach, but in the middle of the freeway with a helmet on my head, and I sat up. John was scrambling towards me. The bike lay on it’s side.

"Are you all right?" he said in a shaky voice,

"I think so," I said, while a traffic jam formed behind us.

"We had a blow out," he said, "I tried to keep the bike upright as long as I could."

John’s motorcycle dance had been a lifesaving maneuver. He wasn’t a jerk after all. Nor was he bloody or scratched and he still had all of his parts, as far as I could tell. Actually he looked fine except for mussed up hair and a scared look on his face.* I took off the helmet and ran my hand over a huge dent where it had hit the curb of the median strip. When the police arrived I handed the helmet to John and said goodbye, maybe we hugged. He had to stay there and take care of his motorcycle.** Sitting in the back of the cop car I peeled off layers of clothing searching my body for wounds. That was the worst part. I didn’t know what I’d find: half my intestines might be hanging out, or maybe a rib would be poking through the skin. All I found was a hole in my sweater and a bloody scrape on my elbow. I started to shake.

"You’re very lucky," said one of the cops. "We consider motorcycles to be unsafe vehicles."

At home, I tossed my bloody sweater in the direction of a chair, fell on the bed, and shook for a couple of hours. I replayed the motorcycle dance and the sparkling fullness of those moments when everything slowed down before the crash. They were the most vivid moments of my life.

* One of his fingers was broken.
** John sold his motorcycle soon afterward.