The diminutive Latino man was held to the backboard with five pair of heavy duty nylon straps. His arms were secured under the straps. His neck was immobilized with a neck collar, his head encased by two big foam rubber head blocks and his forehead and chin taped to the backboard with lengths of two inch wide tape. This whole package was secured to the cot in the back of the ambulance by three pair of seat belts.
And yet, with all that, the paramedic and I were still losing the fist fight with this Hispanic Houdini.
Here's how it went down.
Around 12:30 in the morning or so we get a call for a two vehicle accident. We zoom out to the scene and arrive to quite a sight. The full sized pick up truck had rammed full speed into the back of the small empty car parked on the shoulder of the road. The back of the car was so crushed that it now looked like an oddly deformed motorcycle. The pick up truck crashed to a stop in the median strip, landing on its roof. The fire engine had beaten us to the scene (rats) and a firefighter/EMT (a good guy) was already in the upside down cab with the lone occupant, a Latino man. The patient did NOT want to come out of the truck and continued to profess, in Spanish, that he was fine and we could all just go away now. Our Captain, of proud Cuban decent, helped the patient to understand in his native tongue that he really needed to come out and join the rest of us, which he reluctantly does.
Once removed from the cab of the truck the patient now denies ever having been in the truck in the first place, but you can't fool us. We know he was in there. Alcohol is now suspected (him, not us). The patient is given the choice of going to the hospital with either the police or us. After some debate he picks door number two and we load him up in the ambulance, packaged as described earlier.
In the back of the bus is the paramedic and myself, along with our patient. The driver starts heading towards the hospital.
It's all good. I start the trauma assessment, head to foot.
I don't get past the head.
For some reason the chemistry between the paramedic and the patient goes south. He suddenly remembers some English and begins to accuse the paramedic of having a romantic involvement with his own mother. The patient becomes combative and wrenches his hands free. The paramedic tries to reason with the patient, decibel levels increase and all of a sudden the patient is auditioning for Smack Down.
The paramedic grabs one arm and I grab the other. At this time it becomes evident that the patient works with this hands, and arms, and upper torso. I, on the other hand, am the proverbial chubby computer dweeb. The medic is not so chubby, but he too is a computer dweeb. I'm gamely hanging onto the one arm like a bull terrier while depending upon the paramedic to take care of the other arm all the while hoping that the five pair of nylon straps and the three pair of seat belts continue to hold.
The driver notices the Smack Down audition taking place three feet behind him and steps on the gas, bless his heart. The medic picks up the radio and tells the hospital we have a combative patient and to have security meet us at the door. The radio message was pretty dramatic as it was made as the medic was wrestling with the patient and I'm sure all that came across the broadcast. The hospital puts out the word "Code Strong at the ER!!", as we come rolling up to the door. The driver jumps out of the cab and into the back of the ambulance. As I and the medic hold the patient's arms down the driver re-secures a seat belt a little higher and a little more secure over the arms. NOW the patient is secure and not a threat to us. And it only took three big guys to do it. Hear us roar!
It must have been a slow night at the hospital because there were about a dozen people to greet us as we finally swing the ambulance doors open. The first person we see is the kindly, gray haired pediatrician. I don't think he was part of the security team. The audience of twelve takes one look at the diminutive Latino Mighty Mouse ("HERE I come to ruin your DAAAAY!") and all the straps and seat belts. Twelve pairs of accusatory eyes turn to look at us like we're wimps. We try to defend our manhood by saying that we just finally secured the patient's arms and it was a heck of a fight and you should have been there. We started to sound pitiful so we shut up. A collective look of disappointment is evident with the crowd as they sadly turn away from what could have been an interesting show. I'm pretty certain that the kindly pediatrician called me a pussy, but I was looking away at the time so I can't say for sure it was him.
I recently returned from a trip to the West coast. Good trip, good business calls and a fantastic visit with one of my best friends and his incredibly talented son.
Landed at Dulles late in the evening and caught the people mover to the main terminal.
Now, the airplane was pretty full, so it took awhile to off load. The guy behind me was coming off of a 26 hour trip and was griping a little bit about how long it was taking to off load. He was just quietly venting, no biggie. That's just being human.
The people mover was also crowded, but everyone staked out their space and we just waited to arrive at the main terminal.
Just before we arrived at the main terminal a guy behind me (not the same guy from the airplane) makes a rather odd move. He turns his body perpendicular to mine, with his back to my right shoulder. He then inches forward until his left shoulder is in front of my right shoulder, and then turns a little bit so that now his left shoulder is in FRONT of my right shoulder.
The guy is trying to cut in front of me.
Really?
I don't think so.
Was he trying to catch a connecting flight? We landed 40 minutes EARLY! What does that move buy him? 1/2 second? One whole second?
There are a bunch of people in front of us and they slowly depart the people mover until finally it's time for me and my symbiotic friend to walk off the people mover. I lead with my right foot and shoulder, walking straight ahead and coincidentally put the guy right into a vertical pole. It's just a matter of mass and momentum. We may have had the same momentum at the same time, but I've picked up some mass over the years. Physics rules. He says "Oof!" as he saves a chipped tooth with his hand in front of his face as he does a face plant into the pole. I am not kidding.
I say "Excuse me" because to not say that would be ... impolite.
The guy gets behind me, like he was for most of the short trip to the main terminal and we all politely walk off the people mover. Nothing more is said between the two of us.
ARE people getting more impolite, or are there just more of them?
I don't know.
Here is what I do know: I'm suffering fools less now than I did before, and before, I suffered fools poorly.
It was a typical day for a collection of Wild Hog Wannabes, out riding their motorcycles on a beautiful fall day.
Enjoying the wind, the road, the noise, and the typical shenanigans that a bunch of middle-aged adolescents, with varying degrees of discretionary capital, grown kids and knack for screwing with each other could come up with. After a several hour ride, some good food and a lot of laughs, we all arrived back in town and started to head for our respective garages to put up the bikes until the following weekend, in hopes of doing it all over again.
It was about this time that the plan came to light in the minds of one particular couple… whose names may have been classified to protect their guilty status. They had previously planned to pull a prank on one of their fellow riders, and riding buddy of a few years and several good road trips… including Sturgis 2008. On this particular evening, The “Prankee” decided he needed to run a few errands and peeled off from the group, creating the window of opportunity.
The Dastardly Duo hastily rode home to secure their supplies and then proceeded to the home of their unsuspecting friend. Upon arriving at this home, the duo put the plan in motion. With the assistance of other friends in low places, the Duo had secured a significant amount of Police Crime Scene tape. This was stretched around the front yard of the house and across the front stoop, giving the appearance that something significant happened during the owner’s absence. The duo also sketched some pretty cheesy chalk outlines in the driveway, including one of a midget… you know, a little person! (The Prankee has a thing for little people… you’ll need another story for that, no time here.) Once these were in place, an “Official Notice” was posted asking the home owner to turn himself into the Police… Officer Judy FrontButt of The South Dakota State Police to be exact. Officer FrontButt is somewhat of an icon at the previously mentioned Sturgis event.Like the little people, that too is another story.
The Duo returned home and awaited “The Call”. 7 Pm rolled past, 8, 9, 10, 11…. The call never came. Thinking he may have figured it out, the Duo went off to bed with the idea their plan went awry.
The call came the following morning….
And then the fun began…
It seems the Prankee arriving home about 1 am… and not having his reading glasses… and an obvious guilty conscience… the Prankee panicked and honestly thought he had to go to jail. The Prank worked far better than ever imagined. The Prankee left his house and went back to the home of the friends where he had been playing cards all evening and woke them up to relay his findings. He then had this couple drive him back home, with plans to pick up a couple things and then it would be off to JAIL!
Of course it is now about 2 am, and the phone calls start.
First call… made to ex-wife… to make sure she was in town and could post bail.
Second call… the lawyer… who said she doesn’t handle this type of thing. KaChing!
Third call… second lawyer… who was referred by the first. KaChing!!KaChing!!
Fourth call… the boss… to call in sick for a couple days until he got things worked out.
Fortunately… once they arrived back at the house, with someone who could read, the truth was learned and prank came to full realization. The pictures tell the rest of the story.
One supposes that this prank actually worked out better than expected, though paybacks cab be a little rough.
Jonathan's father, Darrell, supports our intentions and efforts in Iraq (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/mmedia/metro/032105-9s.htm) as do I. However, the human and emotional cost of such intentions is enormous and I feel it is important to be reminded of such inconceivable cost. I therefore decided to participate in the memorial fund raising ride mentioned in the article. The funds raised will be awarded as a scholarship to someone graduating from Jonathan's old high school and planning on a career in law enforcement.
Friday afternoon I departed my home for a six hour ride on my old Goldwing heading on down towards Stuart, VA.
I caught a little rain on the way down.
Now, when I say "a little rain", I want you to think of animals lining up two by two.
Once I hit the hills of southern Virginia the rain came down in buckets. Lightening lit up the sky. Since I was climbing the mountain it seemed that the lightening was a little closer than normal. I just kept telling my self "the tires are rubber, the tires are rubber, the tires are rubber". Seemed to work. I wasn't struck by lightening, contrary to my lovely wife's many admonishments.
The rain was hitting my helmet so hard it sounded like hail. It covered the windscreen of my bike so I couldn't see through it. The windscreen is adjusted so high by the dufus that rides the bike that I couldn't see over it. My face shield fogged up, or so I thought. I tried to wipe the face shield inside and out with my soaked glove but as it turns it wasn't fog, it was the rain beating on my face shield that prevented me from seeing.
All of this taking place at night on a winding road climbing a mountain I affectionately came to call Mount Ararat.
Finally, out of desperation, I lifted my face shield to get it out of the way.
Now THAT was a good idea, wasn't it?
Now the driving rain is hitting my glasses and face full force. I'm under water here. Think "Big Fish, the Sequel". Glub, glub.
There was no way I could see the road other than brief glimpses of the dotted white line on the left and the solid white line on the right. However, this was intermittent and did not allow enough reaction time when the road suddenly, and frequently, darted left and/or right.
The best I could do was to find a slow moving four wheeler being driven by someone even more chicken than myself (which is saying something). I would center myself up between their tail lights and just follow them up and down the mountains. I highly recommend the new Malibu for this practice. Great tail lights for riding in the rain. Followed one guy into this garage. Ha! Ha! Just kidding.
The good news is that I had on full rain gear. The bad news is that the rain gear is old enough to vote and is incontinent. The leaky rain gear makes ME look incontinent, although in this case after scaring my self a few dozen times up in the mountains I may have very well wet myself.
Right about now you are probably saying to your self "Don! What were you thinking of?!!? Why put yourself in such a risky position? Why not just pull over?!?!? What are you, CRAZY?????".
So ... anyway ... I pulled into the hotel parking lot later that night. I walked into the lobby of the hotel looking like a drowned, incontinent rat. The lady behind the counter takes one look at me and says "You weren't out riding your bike in THAT storm, were you?!?!". I almost replied, "Here's your sign", but I have learned to not irritate the person assigning my room at a hotel. I told her that in about a month this will have been a fun ride.
Got a good night's sleep and headed on over to Stuart the next morning.
POP QUIZ!! Do you know who was born in Stuart, VA???
J.E.B. Stuart of Civil War fame!!!
Isn’t that a real forehead slapper? I guess he had to be born somewhere.
As I rolled into Stuart I decided to gas the bike up at the local gas station. They had a nice sign out front saying "Welcome Bike Riders". Nice touch.
The memorial ride was to launch at 9:00 so I arrived at the appropriate high school parking lot at 8:45 ready to register. There were only two bikes there!!! Uh oh. I figured that some riders may have had second thoughts due to last night's drizzle, but come on! Bikers are tougher than that!
Turns out I messed up. When I mentioned the somewhat low turnout (today's understatement) to Miranda, co-organizer of the ride and wonder wife of Vernon, she looked at me and, talking very slowly and using small words for my benefit, told me that registration starts at 9:00, the ride starts at noon. Whew!
Now I have three hours to burn and it was a wonderful three hours. I talked to Vernon for awhile. Turns out he is a veteran volunteer fire fighter with 31 years of service under his belt and some interesting experiences (four airplane crashes, trains running into semis, numerous car wrecks, etc.) Remember the airplane crash that killed two pilots and eight members of the Hendrick family of NASCAR fame? Vernon and his crew were first on the scene. It was his task to confirm the fatalities and count the bodies. Not a pleasant task. Great guy with a wonderful attitude. Threatens to write a book about his experiences. Hope he does. Vernon also started the local chapter of the Red Knights, an organization for firefighters who ride bikes. I met a couple other members of this chapter, William and Jim, strong people all. The Red Knights is a sister organization to the Blue Knights, which is for police officers who ride. I'm thinking about starting a club for older, pudgy riders called the Good Nights. What do you think?
I then met Jonathan's father, Darrell Bowling. Mr. Bowling is a Virginia State Trooper (anyone ever receive one of his autographs?). While reading the article about Jonathan it struck me that Jonathan was a good guy. I can see why. He came from good stock. His father is a solid, lean, articulate gentleman and it was an honor to meet him. Mr. Bowling was to lead the procession riding Jonathan's new Harley that he purchased just before being called up and being deployed to Iraq. Beautiful black Harley.
It was Jonathan's goal to follow in his father's foot steps, becoming a Virginia State Trooper. Jonathan was already an exceptional human being.He wore three uniforms: as a volunteer firefighter, a police officer and a United States Marine. He was very well liked and respected. In a way, Jonathan accomplished his goal. Just before the ride started a proclamation by Governor Warner was read, making Jonathan an honorary Virginia State Trooper. I believe this meant a lot to his Dad.
A total of 288 bikes participated in the ride(!), and a wonderful ride it was.
Snippets of my memory of the memorial ride include:
- The older gentleman at the end of the driveway, holding his cap over his heart, saluting Jonathan as we departed the high school.
- Many, many people standing by the highway waving, smiling, holding flags.
- The two older ladies standing in front of the store. Not smiling, not waving, just standing there holding up their small U.S. flags, saluting Jonathan as we rode by.
- The two fire engines, one on each side of the road, lights flashing. A welcome station of inspiration.
- The local Islamic Center. Whoa! Interesting emotions there. Let logic reign.
- Stopping at Jonathan's grave site. Quiet and serene on a hill by a pond. Almost looked like a family cemetery.
My mind wanders, frustrated with the loss of such a fine young man. Why do we have to DO this?!? Why do we have to have memorial rides for such fine young people with only a past??
Lump in the throat, tear in the eye.
KNOCK IT OFF!!
A group ride with 288 bikes has more elastic energy than a bungee cord. The procession stretches out and then snaps together again when the front of the procession slows down or stops. Participating in such a ride is not an easy thing and if your mind wanders and you miss the bungee snapping together you can easily run into the bike in front of you and from where I come, Pardner, that's considered tacky.
- Kids with flags. Smiling and waving. Nice. Reassuring. Good timing. I feel better and the answers to the questions, so very complex, are beyond my ability to solve from my armchair.
- The volunteer fire station with the banner reading "Welcome Home Matt. Our Hero". Welcome home Matt, whoever you are. You are my hero.
- So many small towns. So many volunteers with ambulances and fire engines and so many good people saluting Jonathan as we ride by.
- Mr. Bowling looks good on Jonathan's bike. Not as good as Jonathan would, but good never-the-less.
- I love small town America.
The ride ended at, guess what, a volunteer fire station! For five bucks we received a very filling meal and camaraderie. A 50/50 raffle was held. The winner would get half and the other half goes into the scholarship fund. The young man who won immediately flipped his winnings back into the scholarship fund. Class act.
This was a very meaningful experience. I cannot say I was happy to do it. I would have preferred to have not met these wonderful people. But I did and I'm glad I went. This is an annual event and I'll be there next time as well.
It was evident to me that Jonathan's family and friends will be forever faithful to his memory.
I have never served my country in the military, and certainly have never been a United States Marine. So, I'm probably breaking some rule here, but to Jonathan I wish to say Semper Fi. I am grateful to you and will be forever faithful to your memory.
After a good meal, wonderful camaraderie and a final word to Jonathan's father I depart for home.
The nice thing about doing something really stupid and living to tell about it is cashing in the bragging rights, once the adrenalin has worn off.
Allow me to brag a little bit...
A friend of mine, Robert, invited me to participate in a couple days of brisk motorcycle riding. Robert, a retired expert class motorcycle racer, rides a Buell. This is a Harley powered sport bike that goes fast both in a straight line as well through the corners. It seems that a Buell rider's group was going to ride, briskly, though the hills of Western Maryland.
Sounds like fun!
Robert invited his cousin, Rick, along as well. Rick rides a spiffy limited edition BMW motorcycle that just loves going around curves really fast. Rick is a recent graduate of the Keith Code racing school in California. This school, as you might expect, teaches you how to safely ride a bike fast through the corners. Rick and his wonderful wife Beth have ridden a bike through Alps, just for fun. Lots of turns there.
Robert and Rick are accomplished riders able to take turns fast.
I, on the other hand, ride a 20 year old Honda Goldwing and I'm not nearly as good as Robert and Rick. If you don't know what a Goldwing is, just think of an aging Winnebago that falls over at stop signs. I have never raced motorcycles, although through the generosity of my youngest son have partaken of three track days at Summit Point race track in West Virginia. A track day basically consists of a bunch of non-racers who want to go fast on a race track, or at least would like to think of themselves as having gone fast.
So, Robert, Rick and I start our ride one beautiful fall morning. Rick is leading and Robert is trailing. I, as the truckers like to say, am in the "rockin' chair", comfortably in the middle. I am very much enjoying my ride. The fall colors are starting to come out, the road is dry and clean and we are just breezing along at about 60 miles per hour.
One of those yellow suggested speed limit signs flashes by, but it doesn't sink into my wandering mind. Why should it? My good friend Rick is in the lead and I'm just following him. Not paying attention too much to the road (duh), and forgetting that my good friend is a graduate of the Keith Code School for Errant Bikers, teaching them to drag a knee around sharp corners.
The next think I know, in the blink of an eye, Rick transitions from my left mirror to my right mirror.
Huh?
It suddenly dawns on my wandering mind that Rick, who apparently was a straight A student at Keith's school, is taking a 30 mph turn at 60 mph.
I'm in trouble.
I suddenly miss I-95. I-95 is the straight, smooth interstate highway that I ride from Virginia to Daytona for Bike Week. Very few surprise turns on old I-95.
In my present situation I suppose I could swing wide, but that would put me into oncoming traffic. I could swing way wide but that would put me into the pristine valley I was, just a lifetime ago, admiring before Rick went left to right over my mirrors.
The only real choice I have is to try to make the turn. On a 20 year old two wheeled Winnebago driven by a less than competent rider with a previously wandering but now sharply focused mind.
So, over I go. The horizon tilts at about a 45 degree angle and the road is zipping by my right knee at 60 mph. To its credit, the bike doesn't wobble and the rear tire doesn't try to pass the front tire. The bike holds the line.
At track day you are taught, through experience, to trust the bike. The bike's abilities WAY out class that of most riders. If you just stay with the bike you will most likely be buying the beer that evening. Trust the bike. Don't hit the brakes and don't chop the throttle because that irritates Newton and some of his mass/momentum/inertia laws. Plus it really upsets the bike's suspension. Trust the bike. Have courage .....
..... have courage...... courage ....
I panic and hit the brakes about 1/2 way through the turn. Newton gets ALL pissy, turns over in his grave, grabs my bike and shakes it. The Honda suspension throws a hissy fit.
The bike starts to wobble in a nasty way. When the bike started to wobble I knew I had blown an already challenging situation, so I let off the brakes.
The bike settles back down and I lean it over even more. Either I make this turn or I go out in style without the brake light showing. The pucker factor is so strong now that if I make it I'm going to make a popping noise when I get off the bike seat.
When Robert, riding behind me, sees my brake light come on he knows I'm in trouble. He slows down, I'm guessing because he didn't want to overshoot me and miss seeing a wreck like this. He watches as I lean the bike WAY over trying to stay shiny side up.
Way over.
I'm approaching the 3/4 mark in the turn, still running way to fast for the bike and the incompetent rider. It may just be my imagination, but it seems like the road turned even sharper to the right. Perhaps the dreaded "decreasing radius" turn. Sure. Why not? Just load it on, Newton.
My bike is leaned over as far as I can take it without dragging metal. The end of the turn is in sight. I'm good to go. I hit the end of the turn and straighten up the bike. Just like that. Piece of cake. I'm the man!! I (almost) meant to do that!!
At the next rest break (whew!!) Robert comes up and says "Did you almost eat it at that turn?".
Maybe I says.
Robert says "Well, you had that bike leaned so far over that I wouldn't have been able to slip a piece of paper between you and the road".
You're telling me? I was THERE!
The next time you see a parked motorcycle, look at the front tire. You will see a wear pattern starting in the middle of the tire and radiating out towards the edges. Between the wear pattern and the edge of the tire will most likely be unused area of the tire. The worn part of the tire versus the unused portion gives you an idea of how far over the bike rider leans the bike in the turns. I.E. how fast he takes the turns. The unused section of tire is called the "chicken strip". The more cautious the rider, the wider the chicken strip. Goldwings normally have really big chicken strips. We Goldwing riders like to think of that strip as the sanity check, but whatever.
My Goldwing doesn't have a chicken strip on the right side of the front tire anymore.
A bunch of guys at the fire station ride fast bikes. There are two things these bikers can measure off to the fraction of an inch with a sideways glance. The other one is the size of the chicken strip on another guy's bike. I'm looking forward to riding the bike to the fire station and casually letting the guys check it out. Notice the front tire, boys (try to just look at the right side, son).
I'm hoping that Robert invites me to another Buell ride. It is always such a pleasure to hook up with him and Rick.
I'm REALLY looking forward to riding to Bike Week in March, following that long super slab I-95 to Daytona.
