It was Sunday evening and I was returning to my Army barracks just north of Boston from my girlfriend’s apartment in Pittsfield, Mass. I was on my motorcycle, a Honda 750, heading from Stockbridge to Boston, a stretch of road made famous by the singer songwriter James Taylor .
The sun was setting and it began to rain. I was warmly dressed but my fatigues and boots didn’t protect me very well from the light but persistent rainfall. The rain was soaking into my field jacket and penetrating my boots, puddling in the heels. It was a miserable start to the trip. I should have listened to Naomi and waited to leave early the next morning when the sky was expected to be cloudless.
The traffic on the Massachusetts Turnpike wasn’t heavy, but an occasionally passing eighteen-wheeler created a windshear that slightly destabilized the bike on the rain slick road. About thirty miles into the trip, I decided to pull off the Turnpike for a while. I figured that I’d rest and hope for a break in the rain. I found a diner and parked the bike, entered, slipped into a booth, and ordered a coffee.
Back in the saddle twenty minutes later, I was relieved to see that the rain had stopped. The road was still wet but the break in the weather improved my visibility as well as my sense of control. I cruised the next fifty miles in relative comfort. Finally, signs for Route 128, the last leg of the trip to my destination just outside Salem.
The cloverleaf leading to 128 was elevated. As I navigated it, I remembered that there was a metal expansion joint about five feet long on the curve. Reducing speed, I tried not to lean too hard into the turn. Approaching the expansion joint, I could see that the metal was still wet from the earlier rainfall. Crossing it, the tires lost purchase with the metal surface. Suddenly, the bike flipped out, and I found myself momentarily parallel to the ground.
I landed on my side with one leg pinned underneath the bike as momentum slowly dragged man and machine. When I looked down, I could see gasoline leaking from the gas tank onto my lap, a situation made more frightening by the sparks being thrown off by the bike’s metal foot brake scraping along the road. As I slid, I heard a bellowing sound from behind and turned to see one of those eighteen wheelers coming through the curve and bearing down on me while the driver tried desperately to apply the air brakes.
Should have listened to Naomi.