A Brush with Death
When I awoke the morning of June 30th, 2010, I had no idea it would be a day that would change my life forever. I thought it was just a normal start to a typical Wednesday. The smell of summer was in the air and the dew was still sparkling on the individual blades of grass. The other true sign that summer had arrived was my bike. Since I started riding ten years ago, motorcycles have been more than a means of transportation. They are a source of fun, entertainment, and happiness. Nothing is more liberating than feeling the wind passing over my body as I cruise down an open highway. On this morning, like many other summer mornings, I jumped on my brand new, baby blue Honda chopper to ride to my daughter’s swimming lesson. Little did I know, the cinnamon flavored gum I was chewing would be the last thing I would taste, minus blood, for quite some time.
As I approached the road construction on I 35-W, the smell of freshly poured asphalt stung my nostrils like salt. The arrangement of the brightly colored orange construction cones had traffic dancing from lane to lane to keep the passing vehicles away from the workers. Through one of these lane changes a storm drain came upon me like a point blank, line drive shot in a game of dodge ball. I had no time to react and I flew through the air like a dog bone, end over end. The impact of the crash launched me about 25 yards into the ditch on I 35-W and County Road I. My bike was nowhere to be found.
I landed sideways on my right ankle, shattering it. I still have a scar from the resulting surgery that reminds me of the accident every morning as I put my s