End of the road

[VLJ_imp]

If I had two spinal surgeries due to motorcycle crashes, I wouldn't give myself the opportunity for the third. I commend VJL for his commitment to the activity he loves and applaud his commitment to the people he loves.

My thoughts, exactly. The reason I had to stop riding sportbikes, or even sporty standards like my Street Triple, wasn't because I'd grown tired of them, or afraid of them, or anything of the sport. Nope, it was simply a matter of physiology. Following my second neuro-spinal fusion procedure, I was left with C1 and C2 as my only flexible vertebrae above the fixed-solid reconstruction. C3 through C7 are fused together and plated with titanium. They can't move. As a result, I can no longer tilt my head at the angle necessary to ride any bike that enforces even a semi-aggressive forward-lean riding position.

The docs told me that if C1 or C2 blow out, I will be left with no ability to turn my head at all, up or down, left or right...nothing. In order to see anything, I'll have to turn my torso like some robot from a 60's-era Sci-Fi TV show. I'm getting a preview of that reality right now, wearing this cervical collar. It's not good.

And now I've broken C1 and C2. We're hoping they will heal, and no surgery will be required.

I'm cutting it too close.

Quote:I commend VJL for his commitment to the activity he loves and applaud his commitment to the people he loves.
And yet I remain torn, precisely for the reasons stated so eloquently by Stichill and Pdedse, and also by mickey.

I love riding, obviously. I'm not some novice Baby Boomer whose kids are finally out of the house, and wifey has finally given me her reluctant permission, so now I'm free to scratch that motorcycling itch, and I just managed to get into a bad crash within my first year or so of riding.

Not at all. I've been riding for forty years, sometimes at a reasonably high level. In general, I have not been a casual rider. Along with guitar, motorcycling has been my primary hobby for most of my adult life. In fact, when I had Stage IV-A cancer and lost the use of my body for a year, including any dexterous use of my hands, the very first thing I did once a bit of feeling returned to my extremities upon the conclusion of the radiation and chemo treatments was I went right back out and bought another motorcycle, and a new guitar. (Knowing I would be on disability for a long time, with no decent income, I had to sell everything I owned to get through that period.)

I knew I wouldn't really be "me" again, until I was riding again. It was too much a permanent part of who I am.

To a degree, I still feel that way...but not so much now. As mickey and others here have stated, there is a difference between hopping right back on that horse when you're in your twenties or thirties, vs doing so when you're older, and the majority of your best riding years are behind you. Increased real-world responsibilities, physical-condition realities, a diminishing of the need for speed, etc., all cast a different light on the situation.

I was already attempting to morph into that new, more laid-back kind of rider, with the CB1100. As a younger man, a track-day junkie, an idiot who lived for ripping in the coastal canyons and mountain roads, I never would have given something like my CB1100 a second thought, even despite her obvious aesthetic beauty. Now I'm loathe to part with her, even though every common-sense fiber of my being tells me to listen to my loved ones and get off this dangerous merry-go-round.

I had convinced myself that I could go to a slow, relaxing bike and eventually slide into mickey mode, full time, with no regrets. Just take it easy, enjoy the ride, and, above all else, be safe. Take no unnecessary risks. Stop being stupid. Keep those remaining healthy vertebrae secure.

Be an adult.

Yeah, well, great. In all my years of being an idiot, I never got clobbered. None of my previous crashes involved collisions, and none were really all that physically damaging. Even the crashes that caused the need for the neuro-spinal reconstructions didn't result in anything that the docs caught at the time. It wasn't until a decade or so later that MRIs revealed the shattered vertebrae.

Now, this. I was only doing thirty-five mph, in a straight line, on the dullest, quietest country road imaginable. It was literally the safest-seeming stretch of road a motorcyclist could ever hope for. We all know such roads. They're the ones that allow you to sit up and stretch out your tired limbs while taking a mental breather.

A safe zone. Nothing bad can happen here. Bright noon sunshine, clear visibility, smooth asphalt, no blind turns, no stop signs, no cross-traffic, no driveways, nowhere for deer to hide. No worries.

Flash of a red bumper. Crazy pain. Flying through the air, dreading the landing, hoping you don't get run over by oncoming traffic. Crazier pain upon sticking the landing. White-hot pain and even crazier mortification, lying on grainy asphalt in nothing but one sock and your underwear, the paramedics having cut your super-expensive riding suit to shreds in an effort to remove it. Crazier-still mortification, once the hospital stint begins. Constant degradation. First-for-me degradation.

Now, a future of uncertainty.

I don't know how I feel, or even how I should feel. I don't know what to do.