There is nothing in this world quite like the feeling of riding a motorcycle. Unfortunately everything has a price and every once in a while we have to pay up.
While commuting to my bartending gig at Ninja Sushi, going east bound on First Street, on the evening of Friday Jan. 24 about 4:50pm an individual in a white sedan pulled out from the median, with no turn signal on, stopped directly in my path blocking both right lanes. No time to react. Hit the brakes. Do something. I am crashing.
These were the thoughts before physics took over and stopped all momentum of the 637-pound Harley Davidson. She stayed put as I was consequently thrown over the bars, propelled forward, turned upside down over the car and oddly enough I was midair for eternity like some sort of half baked spaceman, calm and ready for my landing.
Reality sunk in about 5 – 10 feet from the accident. I was alive. Immediately I felt rage and hatred especially toward the driver of our wonderful road block. I thought how stupid and what an avoidable waste.
Before any sort of legitimate processing began, the culprit fled the scene into the Gavilan Hills Memorial Park Cemetery. Strange symbolism, all of this happening in front of the memory of our towns most beloved, a surreal experience indeed. Once they disappeared into the cemetery I turned back toward the street, I was greeted with a sight that struck me with a wave of grief like a blade to the heart.
My beautiful rig was dead. Lying broken and mangled.
Thank God for the people involved who witnessed the event and called the police. I only had one thing on my mind. My motorcycle, my therapy and escape from this world is gone and I am left as some cat in the street. Never would I trust something I loved in the hands of strangers.
Tow yards … a graveyard for vehicles and a malevolent drain to any bank account left at the mercy of such a place. I understand how crazy this sounds but I was still breathing and that is the only reason I was allowed to conceive such ideas. I can live with that.
Suddenly I remembered my best, good friend was the owner/operator of Slabsides off Old Gilroy Road. Just like that my first call was made. Police arrive, paramedics, and then as if a first responder himself Tristan Silva with his uncle/lead mechanic Joe Hamilton (son of famous Bay Area chopper builder Leroy Hamilton) both ready for action.
As I was on the gurney being loaded up in the ambulance, I could rest easy knowing my baby was in safe care.
Perspective was beginning to take hold of my thoughts. Later I learned the driver was under the influence of alcohol and was caught by the Gilroy PD still inside the cemetery.
Now it is clear how invisible bikers are on the road and how there is no excuse in our era of Uber to try and pilot a vehicle while your senses are impaired. I understand the importance of medics and police and how a majority of them are amazing, caring individuals. Also how imperative friendship and community is in playing their part in times of dire instance.
A very traumatic situation was flipped into something of gratitude and grace. All said and done have faith, be good and true to yourself, others and most importantly: SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL MOTORCYCLE SHOP.
Ryder Pauley
Gilroy
