Crash Test Dummy
My first tumble was a teachable moment.
The 22-year-old driver of the Honda Pilot from San Francisco was simply trying to find the trailhead for Saratoga Gap on Skyline Boulevard, and I was merely trying to find bliss on my Suzuki DR-Z400 supermoto on a sunny and warm Sunday afternoon.
State Route 9 from Saratoga to Skyline Boulevard/35 is a motorcyclist’s dream road: smooth asphalt with the right amount of cambered curves in the correct pitch interspersed with short slightly-bent straightaways. Quick shifts and smooth throttle control mixed with a sway of the hips — elbows akimbo — while the road twists and turns seven miles up to 2,600 feet of elevation overlooking Silicon Valley to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west.
I climbed highway 9 with minimal traffic ahead, a Sunday rarity. Jean and Henri were working at Red Rock Coffee, where I planned to visit after my short jaunt across Skyline to SR 84 and back down the mountain to Mountain View through the posh communities of Woodside, Portola Valley and Los Altos.
Sweeping right off SR 9 onto Skyline, it was clear sailing as I shifted into fifth to pick up the speed needed to enjoy the open road. The DZ-Z400SM isn’t meant for blitzing speed, just canyon-carving fun. My idea of a perfect NorCal bike is a lightweight ripper with adequate but not overwhelming horsepower, long travel suspension and 17-inch wheels. My bulbous Belgian cheeks were pushing against the inside of my helmet as I grinned like the Grinch with glee.
Moments later the sight of a Honda Pilot sitting perpendicular across both lanes after I crested a drop-down curve was surreal. I had a split second to decide: read the driver’s mind and go in front of or behind the vehicle, which was a few feet in front of a sandy and rocky turn-out. I opted for behind, stomping on the gears while grabbing the brakes with all my might, slowing the bike from 50 mph to 10 before the gravel caught my front wheel and pitched me and the bike to the left.
Disaster averted, the adrenaline of a near-fatal accident kicked in. That’s when I met the 22-year-old driver of the Honda Pilot.
Thankfully passing motorcyclists stopped, checked on me and my bike, and waited while I had a few choice words with the young driver, who didn’t quite understand why I was asking her to pull off the road and provide her driver’s license, insurance card and phone number.
“What the hell are you doing?!?” I shouted at her. “Park your car over there so we can talk about this!”
“Why?” she asked. “No one got hurt…”
“Excuse me?” I said with eyes bigger than saucers, my left elbow starting to throb under my leather jacket.
“I don’t see what this has to do with me,” she added. “There isn’t, like, any damage.”
At that point my face most likely displayed the same look my kids have seen when dad was close to going ballistic during their teenage antic years.
“For starters, this stunt you pulled trying to do a Y-turn on a busy country highway is illegal, and the whole concept of exchanging information is if my body or my bike are damaged, your insurance needs to pay for it,” I calmly explained, realizing I was talking to an obviously sheltered and entitled individual who had yet to apologize for ruining my plans up to that point.
“You don’t seem to grasp the situation,” I continued, the adrenaline subsiding as my left elbow and shoulder joined in a unison of throbbing ache. “Are you drunk or high? This is serious business!”
“Of course not,” she replied in slight Valley Girl speak that would’ve made Moon Unit Zappa proud, further solidifying my hunch of her entitled status. “My friend and I were like just trying to find the trail for Saratoga Gap; we’re running late to meet friends and I have a flight this afternoon so I panicked.”
“Well, panicking over something as trivial as meeting friends for a hike obviously clouds your judgement,” I added, wiping the sand and dust away from the left side of my bike as I inspected for damage. Miraculously, the bike was nearly unscathed, as were my leather jacket and pants.
“Also, the trailhead to Saratoga Gap is just north of here, less than a mile up the road,” I said, pointing. “I certainly hope you guys brought water.”
“We did,” she said, finally flashing a smile. “I like your bike; that’s a cool color.”
“Yah, cool color,” her friend chimed in.
“Thanks, it’s my new favorite bike and you can see why I’m upset,” I added. “For the love of God, from this moment forward, don’t try to pull a Y-turn or U-turn anywhere; find a parking lot or driveway to avoid situations like this, okay?”
“Yah,” she sing-songed before heading north on Skyline, hopefully a bit wiser. “I’m like soooo sorry about what happened.”
After straightening the mirrors I fired up the bike and continued on my way, enjoying the steady hum of the engine and tires as I rolled along the spine of the Santa Cruz mountains, where my RSD SHNC hat loosened itself from my belt loop, final resting place unknown.
Tell me about your first crash.
Nothing exciting. I remember checking my mirrors and seeing the traffic behind was quite far behind. It was a routine ride to work on my Suzuki GN125, a small bike for a rookie rider. Entered a traffic circle, gently touched the brakes to get round it OK, and suddenly the back wheel went and I was on my knees in the road, hoping my bike was OK. Dusted myself down and rode off to work, the handlebars wonky as fuck. It wasn't until I got there that the shock hit me. 20 years later and I still don't really know why the back wheel went.
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