The first, and hopefully the last, City Cycle Crash Test Program was officially inaugurated by Lee Parks while competing in a Supermoto race held at LaGrange Motorsports Park in Victorville California. Lee, a former championship roadracer and incredibly competitive person, was determined to grab a podium finish on his first time out. Hell, he had to; the track is practically in his backyard.
On the last lap after the last turn, in full tuck, doggedly battling for the third place spot, Lee rocketed down the home stretch past the checkered flag only to be surprised by the three bikes in front of him slowing to a crawl. It seems that in his enthusiastic effort for a podium spot Lee forgot that there was no cool-down lap.
Avoiding a four bike pile-up by grabbing too much brake, Lee performed an unintentional yet monumental high-side with a flawlessly executed mid-air flip (witnesses estimated it at over 25 feet) eventually landing flat on his back in the desert sand (and missing a hay bale by inches).
Mr. Parks in one of those rare moments when he isn't promoting.
That little gymnastic session earned him some time in never-never land followed by a two-hour ambulance ride to the Loma Linda Trauma Center. While the ER medics diagnosed Lee's mild concussion from an MRI, Lee confirmed it by regurgitating everything he'd eaten that day: a colorful mix of chilidogs with mustard, relish and jalapeño peppers from the Meaner Weiner girls, followed by a few cans of Red Bull. (Not that the contents of my stomach was much different.)
I know this because I was waiting when they rolled Lee in from x-ray sporting a plastic tray on his lap containing said concoction. Dare I say that it was the perfect illustration of losing one's lunch only to have it returned? (Insert groans.)
Fortunately for us Lee is back to his old self, riding, racing and throwing his two cents of advice around (really, every month we send him a check for $0.02). He can't remember his Olympic grade ten-point high-side although he does remember that there is no cool-down lap in Supermoto at LaGrange.
I returned to our New York office from that particular trip to receive dark news of Arthur Coldwells, publisher of the new Robb Report's MotorCycling rag. Arthur was at speed and carving a classic California canyon curve when he collided with a propane truck making an illegal u-turn.
After hearing about the extent of his injuries I was both surprised and relieved to see him at Laguna. He was wearing a big smile despite being scarred, stiff, and limping, proof that his chronic charismatic demeanor had survived both the crash and recovery. Then again, Arthur was enjoying handicapped access privileges-tooling about the venue on a pit bike, courtesy of Honda, which at Laguna is enough to keep a smile on your face and generate envy among the other bipeds.
It was at the track we learned that Mel Moore, our media man at Kawasaki, had crashed on the ride north. Mel was airlifted to the hospital having suffered multiple fractured vertebrae. Kawasaki issued a press release saying that he's alert and resting comfortably. (As we go to press Mel is back home.)
That Saturday night, courtesy of the Motorcycle Industry Council, I was a dinner guest at the Sardine Factory, an upscale restaurant on Cannery Row where I found myself sitting next to Merv (yeah, just "Merv"), Art Director and motorcycle maven at Stuff magazine. A few months back Merv had broken his wrist riding the V-Strom 1000 at a Suzuki media event. I'm happy to report that Merv is just as much fun at dinner as ever and enjoying his newly discovered talent for setting off metal detectors. Still, I had to shelve my compassion because his Frankensteinesque scar is the perfect fashion accessory to generate sympathy from those luscious Stuff models, and Merv is single, young enough to enjoy it, and smart enough to work it.
Closer to home, two friends from the Ramapo Motorcycle Club, Vince and Janice Blehl, were riding on Route 106 in Bear Mountain and lost traction when their rear tire hit a patch of sand. While Vince escaped with a few broken ribs, Janice has a leg up with multiple fractures to the tibia and fibula. Both are recovering at home and planning their next ride.
And finally there's the shiny new Harley-Davidson Electra Glide Ultra, reviewed by Lee Parks in this edition, which I personally wadded up in Big Sur.
I was riding solo on the first leg homeward enjoying BMW's newest 1200cc adventure machine until we made a rest stop in at the Big Sur Village. After draining kidneys and kicking tires with some fellow two-wheeled travelers Lee tapped me on the shoulder and said, "You take the Harley."
Suited and saddled it took a bit of effort to lift the bike off the sidestand so I rolled to a level surface for Kit to climb aboard. Leaving the parking lot the bike felt like it bottomed out but since it was so gentle I wasn't sure, nor did I realize that although Jennifer (Lee's passenger) was petite, Kit was hardly in the anorexic class.
I was happy to leave before the rest of the group because I'd planned on being that much slower. It was one of those glorious riding days; cool, dry weather, unlimited visibility and light traffic. Kit and I got into the rhythm of the turns and the Harley was performing perfectly.
[OK Mom, this is where you can go get another glass of wine, maybe wash down a Valium or two with it...]
We entered a series of esses and as the turns started getting tighter I slowed to a speed far below the digits posted on the yellow signs. Had I been on a sportbike or any of the other rides we had in the stable I could have easily negotiated those turns at close to triple the speed we were at.
I scraped a floorboard, not uncommon in a cruiser, suddenly there was another scrape and I was thrown onto the road. I landed on my right shoulder and slid then rolled across the double yellow and the northbound lane. I saw assorted streaks of black (Kit's BMW denims), yellow (as in double-yellow line) and silver and red (the bike) go past my helmet. At some point the bike flipped over because there were scratches on the top case.
At the scene a Monterrey Sheriff's Deputy said that we "were lucky" that we had our gear on. I found it necessary to explain to him that we ALWAYS wore our gear. "It's not like we flipped a coin and said, "Hey it heads, we wear helmets today." I told him.
While Lady Luck had nothing to do with wearing our safety gear, she must have been around since we didn't meet up with a northbound truck as we slid across the road.
Speaking of helmets, not a scratch on either of ours, and Kit was wearing a BMW Denim riding suit, which took a couple of scuffs without tearing a seam. All she suffered was a poke in the stomach from landing on the handlebar when we went down.
I was wearing a Roadcrafter suit which has since been retired by Aerostich because repairing the crash damage would cost more that half the price of the suit. Bottom line is that our gear worked when we needed it.
After hearing of our get-off, Andy Goldfine the Sales Manager at Aerostich called to see how I was doing. Pleasantries and details exchanged he said, "That while we appreciate the information gathered by these impromptu crash tests we'd prefer that our customers not indulge in them."
With my better-than 20/20 hindsight I remember that the bike seemed 'off' when we first got on it. Unknown to me, the top case had been packed far beyond the recommended twenty-five pound limit and with both of us on board the bike must have been far outside the weight/balance envelope.
There's a deafening quiet to that nanosecond between not enough gravity and too much, and as anyone whose experienced it will tell you; it is not a pleasant moment. The next time I hear that little voice in my helmet that makes me double and triple check things, I'll listen.
To paraphrase an ancient aviation adage; "Motorcycling, while not inherently dangerous, will to greater effect than the sea, take advantage of any incapacity, carelessness, or neglect."
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