I ride my bike to work every chance I get, it’s the only time I actually look forward to my hour long commute. Yeah, I could live closer to my job, but that would require moving from the sticks of Havana, Illinois. This is something I wouldn’t even consider. My wife and I have moved six times on our nineteen year marriage, none of which even involved changing our phone number, so I guess you could call me deep rooted.
I was going in to start my first of two 12 hour night shifts. It was July 10th, ’99, a perfect day for a ride. There was poker run going on in a little town I pass through on my way to work. It made it very hard to keep riding to the ‘ol salt mine. A few miles down the road, I spotted a rider stalled on the shoulder. I stopped to see if I could help. I had emptied my saddle bags and tour pack of everything, including tools. I was picking up food on the way to work for everyone in the building, it’s one of the few simple pleasures you enjoy when you work nights and weekends for a public utility. The only thing I could do at this point was offer the brother a ride. He decided to take his chances on the next rider coming along to have some wrenches, so I wished him luck and split. I didn’t realize at this point I would be the one needing the luck.
I got everyone’s order after a longer than usual wait and rode on in to work in downtown Peoria, IL. My building sits on Water Street, right on the Illinois River. This is more salt-in-the-wound of working. I’m also a boater, and here’s all these people having fun zipping up and down the river in their boats, and here’s me wishing that I was one of them…..shit. Everyone inside was happy to see their food. I handed out the orders, and I realized that I’ve been shorted one…..mine. My co-worker that I was relieving told me she’d wait, if I wanted go back and get it. Hell yes, I wanted go get it. I paid for it, I was hungry, plus I got to ride my bike once again, even if it wa just a few blocks.
“Ray’s Pumkin”
The Bub exhaust I put on Pumkin sure rattled nice between the downtown buildings. I waited about two years for this bike. I almost had her set up the way I wanted. With the exception of some different bars, and lowering just a tad, I was pleased. Pumkin was a 1999 Aztec orange Road King Classic. I had bolted on everything I bought for her before our first ride. At this point, I had no idea I’d only ride her about two more blocks before her demise.
I almost turned right about three different times to get to the street that I needed, but I kept telling myself when I caught a red light, I’d turn then. I noticed the car in the center turn lane, but for all practical purposes, it appeared to have stopped, waiting for me to pass by before making a left turn. I couldn’t have been any more wrong. When I realized the car was still coming, there was no time to react or escape the path. I was in the right of two lanes, and I had a building on my right side, and no place to go. My only hope now was the driver would see me, hopefully right now, and hit the brakes just in time. This didn’t happen. I remember being hit and flying through the air, but I don’t remember landing. I give my years of water-skiing credit for helping save my hide and noggin a bit. While air born I remember curling up in a fetal position and holding my head in my hands, just like I had done so many times when my slalom ski had vanished right out from under me on a tight turn. Any skier can tell you the water’s not very soft when you lose it in this manner. Looking back, I’m lucky I did this.
When I sat up, I was in the street. For some reason I had rolled down the street, while Pumkin went to the right and stopped after taking out a stop sign and hitting a wall. She was lying uphill from me. The starter was cranking because the controls were smashed. I remember a deafening silence as I sat in the street, everything was in slow motion. I remember thinking, “Wonderful, I’ve survived the crash, and now there’s probably gas running down the street towards me, and it’s going to ignite from the starter, and I’m gonna burn if I don’t kill the power.”
Then the blood starting flooding down into my eyes about the same time I realized my head was really stinging. I found out later that the burning was because the scalp was torn lose between the two cuts, one on the top, and one on the right side above my temple. I think it took 14 staples to fix this at the hospital later that night. I tried to stand up and walk towards my bike. It was then I knew something was wrong with my feet. I quickly sat back down, and began crawling towards the sidewalk where the bike had come to rest. The curb of the sidewalk was a major obstacle for me. That’s when I became more concerned about the injuries to my feet. Pumkin was laying uphill and away from me. I had to crawl up over the left side to reach the key switch. My leather coat was sticking out of the left saddlebag that was torn open from the impact. I pulled it out and used it as a pillow.
When I opened my eyes, there was a woman telling me she was calling 911 on her cell phone. I asked her to call work and tell them I wouldn’t make it back. Don’t ask me why I did this. I guess I just wanted someone to know where I was, and get word to my wife. I was pretty sure I was going to live, but all sorts of weird shit went through my mind, so I was covering all the bases. The second thing I remember was a guy telling me “He just kept going, man.” This was my first clue that neither one of these people were the drivers of the green Pontiac, and he had left without so much as a “sorry” or a “kiss my ass”. The man spoke again, “I hear the sirens, hopefully they’ll get here before he gets too far.” Then he said something like “Hey! You got his license!” He started pulling on something out from under my bike. It was a piece of the plastic bumper cover, and the car’s front tag was still attached to it. The impact stripped this from the car. I never did get names of the man and woman, and neither did the cops, because they didn’t see enough of anything to be witnesses. I later put a “thank you” in the paper, hoping they both saw it.
The ambulance crew was all over me, I told them what I remembered. The feedback they were giving to the trauma center over the radio sounded good to me. I was pretty sure I wasn’t about to bite it, but it was kinda nice to hear someone agree with that thought. The only bad part of the ambulance ride, was that damned back board they cinched me to. I found out later my left leg was broke just above the ankle, with five broken bones in my foot as well. I think I did this when I cleaned the shifter off as I left the bike in a hurry. I give my engine guards credit for still having a left leg. It came to rest firmly against the primary and the engine. The horn cover looked like it was molded around the guard. The left footboard was gone, as well as the the foot controls.
The real pain came when they tightened the straps, and all of the weight was resting on my bootheels. (I’m a firm believer in steel toe boots too, I’m still wearing the same pair). Most of the pain didn’t come from the left leg though. It came from my right heel, which I later find out was shattered. The medical term that they used to describe the fracture compared it to dropping a china cup on the floor. Basically, there were no pieces left that were big enough to put back together as far as surgery was concerned. The only thing holding it all together was the skin. I kept beggin’ them in the ambulance to loosen the straps on my legs…..no go. Again, I’m lucky, the accident was only blocks from St. Francis Hospital, which is the largest trauma center in downstate Illinois. At least I could get these straps off as soon as the docs confirmed no spinal injuries. And what a relief it was. Then, after about forty minutes of me beggin’ to “take my boots off….please!”, one dude has this brainstorm that he might wanna take my boots off, on account of the swelling. (Regular Dick-fuckin’ Tracy, wasn’t he?)
I can’t tell you how many times I got asked if I was wearing a helmet, or if I was gonna ride a bike again after that night. It angered me,…. alot. I realize that they see this all too often, and most of the staff are dead set against bikes. But this is like telling the driver of a car that they deserve this for driving a smaller vehicle when a semi plows into him. It doesn’t make it right, and it sure as hell didn’t change anything at that point in time. Besides, helmets don’t fit feet, and my feet were severely damaged.
I was glad to see my wife, Kathy and my son, Casey. I was about to start getting pissy with the people who were eventually going to help me, and my family’s presence calmed me a little. My good friends and neighbors as well as riding partners, Bob and Lisa came too. I remember someone again asking me if would ride again, and I told them “yes”. I then remember Bob responding with “good for you”. I think that it was the last time I heard that question for a while that night. My daughter, Kelsey, stayed home. I later learned of her fears to see me. It seemed she thought I’d be a mangled mess. She came the next morning though with the rest of the family. This was another break . I have a barely noticeable scar on my right shoulder and the rest is hidden under thick, brown hair. Not bad for someone who went down in the street in jeans and a Harley t-shirt. I still have the shirt, not a mark on it.
I got lucky again. Doc Brown came in the room. This Doc Brown is from my home town. I flet better already. It seems he heard from the staff that they had one from “your neck of the woods”, so he stopped by to see. I don’t think he had to do it, but he became my liaison for the rest of his shift. He gave me some damned good advice from that point on. Like, when the hospital found out they weren’t going to do surgery that night, they were ready to release me. Yeah, that’s right….they wanted to send me home. I couldn’t believe it. So Doc told me I should stay, and I agreed. In fact, I told the Doc to tell them to find me a room, “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Before the night was over, I was screamin’ out loud, “The morphine ain’t doin’ jack shit.” I was grabbing nurses, or anyone else who got close, telling them, begging them, to knock me out, and they wanted to send me home. They ended up keeping me for a week, by the way. It was that night that the man who did this to me would have paid dearly, if I could have reached him.
It was late in the night when I got the official word of my injuries. Doc Brown told me it was time to call on an orthopedic surgeon for a consultation. Doc told me the name, and after a few questions on my part, I decide to ask Doc for some other names. I choose the first one he threw at me. I figure if Doc Maxey’s name is the first that comes to Doc Brown’s mind, then he’s the one I want. Doc Maxey was a great choice. By the way, both Doc’s were the only two people who saw me that night that didn’t pass judgment on me for ridin’ a bike. I learned later that evening that Doc decided to wait on surgery until the swelling went down. They would decide on the coming Tuesday for the steel in my left leg. I think it was about the same time I learned there was no surgery scheduled for my right heel. There’s nothing they can do for it except hang it over a pillow and hope for the best.
I don’t remember the name of the guy in the room with me that first night, he was down to one day left from a car accident, then he would go home. I’m pretty sure he didn’t sleep much Saturday night from me yelling. I’d scream out, then apologize to him through the curtain. I’ve never felt pain like that before. I didn’t realize how many nerves were in my feet. It was actually kind of a relief when they died from the swelling pinching them off. I don’t remember what the Doc called it, but it’s the nerve that gives us the feeling in the bottom of our feet and toes. I lost feeling from the front of my right heel to my toes for a few months until it grew back. I didn’t know they grew back either, I just thought they were lost forever. I also didn’t know I’d be screaming out loud when they started growing back. I’ll get into that later. Several times that night and for weeks to follow, I wanted to take a ball bat to the asshole who hit me. I can’t say it was the accident that angered me, but him just leaving me on the street changed all that somehow.
They gave me a shot of something in my IV every two hours. I don’t know what this stuff was, but it gave me about twenty minutes of relief from the pain. The bad news was they could only give it to me every two hours. There was a button on my morphine drip I could hit every ten minutes or so which gave me a little extra dose. I’d get just enough to drift off to sleep, then it would wear off and the pain would wake me up. Then I’d punch this button like it was a video game for a while, drift off for a bit, and the cycle would continue. It was about this time during my first twenty four hours that I told myself out loud, “Fuck it, it isn’t worth this”. I was referring to riding a bike. It’s the only time the thought ever occurred to me, but it did creep into my brain that night. Kathy stayed at my side the entire next day squeezing that damn button every ten minutes, so I could get some sleep.
The pain eventually became tolerable after a few days. The five broken bones in my left foot and ankle were nothing. Those were a cake walk. But I don’t wish a crushed heel on anyone. Doc fixed my ankle fractures up on Tuesday like he had planned. I still have the plate and screws in it today. He said they could be removed after a year if it bothered me, but it hasn’t so far. There was a therapist who wanted me to start sitting up on the edge of the bed soon after, hanging my feet over the side. I did it for about ten minutes. The pain in my heel came back just like the very first night and lasted all night again. She came back the next day with the same request. I think I scared the hell outa her. I not only said no, but hell no, and verbally attacked her for what she’d put me through all over again. We had better days after that, and I’m grateful for all she did for me. Again, I was lucky. I had great nurses my entire stay. All of these people were a credit to their profession.
Friday came, and they’re turned me loose to go home. But first, they had to show me how to give myself shots in the sides twice a day for blood clot prevention. There’s a real confusing signal to the brain. We’re taught not to stick sharp objects into our bodies all through our childhood years. I’d sit there and pinch the fat on my side, and kinda wind up with the syringe in the other hand, like I was getting ready to throw a dart. It quickly became routine for the next two weeks. I arrived home to a hospital bed set up in our downstairs family room. We have a bi-level home, so this became my bedroom for several weeks until I could ditch the wheelchair. Doc told me no pressure on my left leg for six weeks, and none on the right foot for three months.
It got really hot and humid for the next two weeks to follow. This was probably a blessing for me. It was two weeks of those dog days in Illinois where you go outside and immediately begin to soak your t-shirt. At least I didn’t want to be out in it, so being cooped up in the basement didn’t seem so bad. Neighbor Bob had made me a ramp to get in and out of the patio door. I could go out and set on the 10 by 20 slab of concrete once in a while. Bob and my son Casey also assumed the care of my five acres of mowing as well as Bob’s own five. Kathy and the kids waited on me hand and foot, bringing all my meals down, bringing me clean clothes, getting my water ready for my next month’s worth of sponge baths. I still remember the joy of my first actual bath after that, what a treat.
I mentioned the nerves growing back slowly. It seems when they do, they’re hyper active. The signal that they send to the brain gets confusing. This is why I felt everything you can imagin in my foot for two straight weeks. One minute it would feel like there was a cutting torch two inches from my skin. The next minute it would feel like someone sticking a long needle between my toes. There were times I’d actually raise up and look at my toes, I would’ve swore that there really was someone yanking my toenails with pliers. This consumed me for about two weeks. It was at it’s worst when I was trying to sit still to eat, or sleep. Doc gave me some pills to dull the nerve sensation along with therapy, which consisted of rubbing my foot with a silk scarf and then working my way up to one of those kitchen scratch pads to re-educate the nerves. The pills kicked in after about two weeks. It takes this long for the stuff to build up in the body and to actually start to work. I remember the first night I slept for six hours, what a great feeling. At this point and for the first time, I felt like I was rebounding.
The first time I actually felt like getting out I took a short trip into town. The weather had broken, it was mid 80’s and less humid. Kathy took me to the park in Havana along the Illinois river. There’s plenty of sidewalks for walking and rolling. I can’t tell you how many people were there who I knew, all wishing me well. It’s been said that during times like this, you find out who your friends are. I thought I knew who they were all along. I had no idea how many friends I really had until then. As far as friends and family are concerned, I’m truly blessed, from my wife and kids caring for me all summer, to Bob and Lisa….the perfect neighbors, to my mom and dad for coming in and cutting and cleaning up my tree tops after a July storm, my sister for hauling me to the doc’s when Kathy had to work, and the get well cards came for weeks.
Bob hauled my butt to Halls Harley-Davidson in Springfield, to see my bike for the first time. I had been having thoughts of changing and customizing Pumkin. I knew at first glance I didn’t want it back again. There was nothing on her that wasn’t dented, scratched, gouged, or broken. The handlebars were bent around to the front and pointing down to the forks. I didn’t realize I had that much grip. The longer we looked, the more broken shit I saw. I was relieved to find out later that she was totaled. Stan Hall and Steve, the sales manager asked me if I was going to ride again. I told them yes. I asked Steve what my chances were of getting me a Fat Boy. This was the first time that I admitted to myself that I missed my first Softail. He thought he could have me one by spring of the coming year. This didn’t surprise me, I was hoping for the upcoming fall, but I knew that answer was coming. What I didn’t know, was that they would make some calls, and do some trading. I’m not really sure what they did. The only thing for sure was that I went to see them on my crutches months later, and Steve handed me a paper with a serial number. The bike would arrive in December. I had a pretty big lump in my throat at that moment.
I spent the next several months going to the Doc’s office. The first phase was getting a cast for the left foot. I could use it for a pivot foot to get in and out of the wheelchair. My basement was actually cool to move around in. I had my pool table re-clothed while I was laid up. I spent a coupla months bugging my family to play me whenever they got the chance. My next phase was an air cast for each foot and crutches. This came in September. At this office visit, I was informed that the next plan would be to let me walk on my left foot in October. That was three months exactly from the day of the accident. When I went back for my next office visit, Doc asked me if I was ready to try walking on my left foot. I said I was ready. He then asked me if I was ready to try walking on the right foot. I was speechless. He told me it had healed very well, and he didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t walk on it. I left the office on crutches, but without the moonboots on my feet. This rivaled the same feeling that I’d had when I got to stand up and piss for the first time in months…….damn, the little things we take for granted. I was surprised at how little I could get my feet to do for a few days. At first, it was like walking on two stumps, then things came back fairly quickly.
I still spent the fall and winter going to the Doc’s for therapy though, because the next hurdle was the heel spurs I developed when I started walking again. I still have scar tissue built up from this. It feels like my sock has slipped down below my heel and I’m just leaving it there. This feeling increased by the fact that my heel had “popcanned” when it was shattered. When it was compressed on impact, it spread out to the sides and stayed that way. Instead of me having that concave or that dimple that goes in under my ankle socket, mine goes out. My heel is flatter and wider too. I buy shoe insoles, and whittle some of the arch support out of them to compensate for this. I also had to buy all new shoes for the most part, because I had new feet. It was like wearing someone else’s shoes. I took my steel toe Carolina’s to a shop and had new soles and heels put on them, and started breaking them in all over again.
I never did get all the feeling back completely as far as the nerves are concerned. My toes feel like my foot fell asleep, and it’s just waking up. I get that tingly feeling almost all of the time. But it’s just the tips. Everything else came back. I have some major arthritis, and the time I spend on my feet is very limited. It gets frustrating when you’re used to doing what you want. Running is out of the question. I use the wall to get me started walking every morning. Walking barefooted is out of the question most of the time. I can also tell you when the weather’s changing well in advance too. Don’t get me wrong, there isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not thankful for still being around. I’m not bitching, it’s just my story.
I got my new Fat Boy in December, hauled it home, and put on all the heavy duds I could layer on to ride it. I went about 2 miles before I turned around to come home. I was doing okay until the asshole in the Grand Cherokee came up behind me and parked his bumper on my rear fender. I was hoping he’d pass before I had to turn left in a mile. No such luck. When I got to my turn, there was a car getting ready to turn left at the same intersection. You can imagine the flashbacks I was having at that second. The fear I was having ruined what should have been a day I normally would have celebrated. I told Kathy later that night that I wasn’t sure about this anymore. The next day it got up to 42 degrees. I told myself it was time to decide to keep riding or sell the bike. I rode to town. Havana is small enough to have lots of 4-way stop signs. I figured I’d go in and expose myself to some cars turning left. It was about ten minutes before I was heading out on some highways. In about 45 minutes, I was wishing I had some break-in miles on the motor to stretch it out a bit. The second ride was the day of celebration for me. I was gonna be okay riding again. I still seize up a bit when I’m in traffic. I’m now more of a defensive rider, and that ain’t all bad.
The only way the courts could link this clown to hitting me was by his own admission. Nobody saw anything clear enough to tie him to the accident, including myself. It’s good that he didn’t know this. Had he claimed that the car had been stolen while he was sitting in a bar all day, that he’d found the wrecked car sitting on the street sometime later while walking to the police station to report it. Then he’d would have been home free. He never did tell the police he was driving, but he admitted it to his girlfriend’s insurance company and the agent told the police. He then got himself a lawyer who threw him in a de-tox program in a local hospital.
The cops had one witness who said she thought that there were two people in the car at the time of the accident, she just wasn’t sure enough and she wasn’t willing to go to court as a witness. The cops had this theory that because of the street they were turning on, this loser was buying some drugs as he and his dealer were circling the block. Looking back, the theory held water. The parking lot where he ditched the car one block up is a known dealer hangout. I guess I’ll never know for sure.
I’ve learned a lot about dealing with the insurance companies, and all of the crap that goes with it too. So here’s some advice. If you’re gonna get hit by a cage on your bike, you’d better hope it’s some blue haired ol’ lady that has a bushel of CD deposit papers layin’ around. If he’s a piece-of-shit junkie/thief who doesn’t have a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of, you’re subject to the limits of their insurance policy if you seek any pain and suffering. And the insurance company knows, if you’re hit by a piece-of-shit who doesn’t have any money, that there are absolutely no assets there for them to protect. When they know this, they sit back and take a “fuck you” attitude, ’cause they know their money is the only thing you’re gonna get. They also know that if they keep the “fuck you” attitude up long enough, and drag it out for two years maybe, that their money has made them more money. So with this in mind, coupled with the fact that they’ve already got lawyers on retainer to keep the “fuck you” game going in the courts for two years or so, they know that they’re gonna keep at least another 20% of their money either way. This is where my liability limits would have came into play. I learned that if I had higher liability limits on my own coverage, I might have been able to ask my coverage to kick in and help. I’m not sure if I would’ve done this, somehow it just doesn’t seem right to me, but at least I would’ve had this option. If there’s any advice I’d give, it would be to tell anyone to raise their liability and underinsured limits on their policy.
On January 31, 2001, I called the Peoria County States Attorney’s office. The dickhead was scheduled for a court appearance. He plead guilty to the injury hit and run, in exchange for the other charges being dropped. He was sentenced to 60 days of jail time on a work release. He got out every day to go to work, and went back in at night. How brutal. I asked the assistant States Attorney why she would plea something down when he admitted his actions to the insurance people. She told me this was “standard procedure”, and that even with me as a witness, no judge would have given this guy jail time. One thing’s for sure, we’ll never know now. He also got some sorta conditional release. If he screws up in a year, he goes back to jail. That’s what I’m gambling for. I hope he remains a moron for another year. I’m thinking he will.
I decided to not let it go so easy. A friend gave me a website address for the Illinois Dept. of Corrections. Anyone can search a name from this site and see if that person has a history in the states correctional system. It seems my dirtbag has a history of three counts of burglary. Here’s the good part, he was on parole when he hit me. His parole wasn’t up until Oct. of 2000, over a year after he hit me. I called the states attorney’s office back, and asked if they had checked this clowns history before the plea bargain was given. She matter of factly told me “no, it’s not like he killed somebody.” It’s good we weren’t face to face when she told me this, because I lost it. This clowns first encounter with the law started back in 1988. I’m sure he established a pattern of not giving a shit, and I’m starting to see how he can get away with it. I called the Dept. of Corrections and spoke to a victims advocate, telling her my entire story. She said she’d check into it and get back to me. She called two days later and told me that the dickhead was in fact on parole at the time and, had they known about this, they would have most definitely revoked his parole. Because it expired, I got an apology instead. When I finished the conversation I wrote another one to the half-ass assistant DA telling her the 60-day jail time, (where he gets out every fuckin’ day like some school kid to go play could have been hard time). I was sure it won’t faze her, but I was thinking that she’ll get sick to her stomach when she learns he could have went to jail, and it wouldn’t have cost her office more than a simple phone call to the DOC. I think the real reason she pled it down was to save money and clear her desk.
The past few weeks have been almost as bad as the summer for me. I’ve learned a lot about our system of justice. I’ve learned how the father of a raped child could walk into a courthouse, lay a gun to the head of the cocksucker that violated his daughter and waste him. Several times I’ve wished that the matter could have been handed over to me, let me seek my own justice. I’ve spent my time thinking of revenge, finding out where this asshole lived. I’ve driven past his house. I’ve thought of waiting for him to leave his house, to change his life instantly one day, as he did mine. I’ve thought of leaving him lay bleeding on a street, so he’d know what it felts like. I’ve thought it through to the point of thinking that a crossbow would be a great weapon of revenge. No sounds, just a silent arrow burning into his leg. I had brief thoughts of hiring some pain for this dumbfuck, but it wouldn’t be the same. I still wouldn’t be satisified. If I were to do this, he’d have to know it came from me in some subtle way. He’d know in his heart that the blow from the man in the mask was mine, but he wouldn’t have enough evidence to put me there. These thoughts nearly consumed me before I finally chased them from my head. I decided that too much of my life had been used up by this loser, that it was time to let go and move on. Stooping to his level, as good as it would have felt for a short time, would change nothing that had happened. I had to let go of it.
It’s now March 15th, 2000 and the weatherman is calling for 3 to 6 inches of snow for St. Patties Day. It’s been a long winter this year in Illinois, and I just want it to be over. My story is done, and I just want to ride.
Ray McCausland riverbrats@casscomm.com
