Pinball

Alright so how would someone like me get a name like ‘Pinball’. It goes like this. It was a bright sunny day in the beautiful state of California. I had just dropped the girlfriend off after a weekend camping in the mountains. We had ridden out Thursday night on my bike, a big sport touring Kawasaki designed for chewing up the miles of asphalt.
We packed a weekend’s worth of gear in the luggage saddle bags, and across the back. The camp site was about ten miles up a fire road in the Big Sur area. So on my heavy street bike, at night, with a passenger and all the extra crap I pack I rode up the mountain, sticking to the smoother parts and avoiding gravel. We picked a camp site, and strung a poncho off the side of the bike to the dismounted bags to make a tent. I brewed tea over heat tabs while building the camp fire.
A wonderful evening under a field of stars, all alone until our friends would show up the next day. It has been a glorious weekend, all the more so for reaching a new level of skill in riding on dirt roads. She had to be back at work on Monday, and I had errands to run. I dropped the bags at her place to pick up later. Close to 200 pounds lighter and thinner I was cruising home in Sunday traffic. In California the practice of lane sharing is perfectly legal, as long as it is done in a ‘reasonable and prudent manner’. As traffic slowed to a crawl or stop I would slide into the space between lanes and roll on.
Something I had done thousands of times. I turn on my hazards and my annoyingly bright headlight. It had been a weekend of great fun, great friends and relaxation. By the end of the week I would be on active duty for the spin up to deployment.
WHAM! Out of the corner of my eye comes a flash of red, and the bike is shoved to the left. I slam into an SUV, then bounce right into a mini van, Attempting to correct I loose some bits on the left as I bounce off another car, and back to the right. My foot hits the last car’s bumper, pulling off the rubber strip. My handle bars twist, the controlled breaking I had been doing becomes a jerk and the front breaks lock. The bike, and I hit the pavement.
My first ‘stack’ or crash. The first time I laid the bike down in around 60 thousand miles. Because an idiot from Arizona thought he would scare me. My foot is all streaks of pain and my shoulder doesn’t want to move like I tell it to. Thus the reason the idiot walked away, oh, he also never got closer to me than lunging range.
Bike totaled, foot thrashed, and there went my active duty tour for predeployment, and the schools that would go with it.
Later, much later, after the CHP had arrived, and the firemen. I had to call someone to get the bike. When in doubt call your mom. Well that is if your mom is as cool as my mom. But I couldn’t find my phone. I convince the cop to call my mom so she can call the cousin with the truck and trailer. The officer makes the call. Rather than handing me the phone, when he dials, he waits for an answer then says, “Mrs Newport this is officer so-and-so with the California Highway patrol.” I freak out.
The protocol for calling home after an incident requiring medical attention is well established. No matter what the hour it is the same.
“Hi mom, I’m OK. I’m at Dominican ER getting some stitches and they will give me a 25% discount if I give them a credit card number right now.”
“Hi Mom, I’m OK. My friend needs to use my car to drive someone home from the hospital mind if I crash on your couch?”
“Hi Dad, tell mom I am OK. The wheel came off the car on 17 and the tow company is on the way, can I use your AAA card to get it towed to the house?”
“Hi Mom, sorry to bother you at work, I’m OK. I seem to have run into the sink in the garage, and the frig. Everything is unplugged and disconnected.”
On the back of my helmet, is a sticker, it reads in indelible ink, “IF FOUND WITHOUT RIDER PLEASE CALL (MY CELL PHONE NUMBER) IF FOUND ON RIDER PLEASE CALL (MY PARENTS NUMBER)”
If the CHP were to find me in a ditch, or smeared down the road, the number he was calling is the number they would find.
So standing on the side of the Freeway I begin to yell at the phone,” MOM I AM OK!, JUST FINE.” The officer gives me a dirty look, then goes on to explain to her that I need to talk to her.
Taking the phone I return the dirty look, looking at the gold band on his finger I say, “How would you like your wife to get a call like that.” He appears mollified.
I end up waiting two hours for the trailer (Most insurance companies won’t tow bikes. Then go to the ER. It’s a motorcycle thing.

Rule number one in any motorcycle crash is that if it hit the ground, replace it. USAA is a marvelous company. In ten days I had the check to replace my helmet, gloves and jacket. The new jacket is a FirstGear Kilimanjaro. If the army listened to motorcycle companies all soldiers would be safer and warmer. The liner is fleece, and has a wind barrier in the sleeves. The fleece and my summer gloves are the only real civilian gear I brought with me.
There are a couple of lessons to be learned from this. Shit comes at you out of the blue, weather you are riding home, or doing yet another trip from one base to another. If you stay all wound up it only means you are tired when it happens. The second is that a little bit of high speed snivel gear is always useful. Last but most important, is that if you bounce off a car just once, people will call you Pinball.
And now there is one less mystery in the world.