I Should Have Died Last Year

How Crashing A Motorcycle Changed My Life 

It was a crisp fall day back in September of 2015. My wife's uncle had asked me to help sell a motorcycle that had been taking up room in his garage. Only problem was, it did not run. So, being the mechanic in the family, I got to work.

The bike, a 1983 Kawasaki KZ550, was in decent shape. A few scruffs here and there, some oil leaks, but a solid unit. It had been sitting for several years and had been drained of oil due to the ever increasing size oil spot underneath it.

A battery, fresh oil and a fair amount of carburetor cleaner later, and the 553cc engine sprung back to life with a giant puff of smoke. It was running although not very well. You would be a little grouchy too after hibernating for 5 plus years.

Once it warmed up a bit, the engine smoothed out. I put on my gear and got ready to take it for a quick test run up and down the block. But before leaving, my youngest boy comes to me and says something that I can only laugh about now. He blurts out, "Don't die, Daddy!" I promised him I would be fine.

Off we went, man and machine, up and down the street. It felt good to be back on a motorcycle. It had been almost 20 years since the last time. After a few runs, cockiness crept up. Speed was increasing with every pass until the rear tire met a small patch of sand around a slight bend in the road.

The only thing I recall from the accident, before coming to in the middle of the street, on my back, is my face getting closer and closer the pavement. There were flashes of pain and the sensation of flesh scraping across asphalt, but for the most part it was all a blur.

After a few weeks of healing, one witness told me what had happened once the bike went down. According to them, my head hit the ground first, which propelled me into a full blown cartwheel. Then I flew approximately 50 feet in the air before landing hard, sliding and rolling to a stop. Ouch!

My wife's aunt was already calling 911 when I sat up after laying in pain for several moments. I had just wrecked a perfectly good motorcycle in front of the family. I could tell there were some broken ribs and a great deal of bloody road rash, but I knew I wasn't dying. A neighbor and the uncle helped pick me and the bike up. I shouted across the street, "Hang up the phone!", since a large medical bill was the last thing I needed although I am sure she was concerned.

Good thing I was overly cautious for such a short drive. If I hadn't been wearing a helmet, I would not be here. Death would have snatched me the moment of impact. But that along with my jacket, gloves, boots and jeans saved me from any permenent damage. But I sure did hurt afterwards.

Once I was able to move around freely, all of my free time was devoted to transforming the KZ from a boring commuter into a one of a kind cafe racer. It took the whole winter and spring to rebuild what i had destroyed, but what emerged was a stunning little racer that is a blast to ride.

I wanted to complete the bike myself. During the build, my welding skills improved dramatically. I learned how to lay fiberglass and make molds. I also started my own parts, since kz550 parts are somewhat limited. But the most important aspect this event, besides appreciating life, was I now had put together all of my skills that before werejust a hodgepodge. I am using my past experience from drafting/engineering classes from high school, visual design from college and mechanical know how from technical school.

I still haven't seen a doctor about the crash. My ribs don't hurt when I breath anymore. And all that is left of the scrapes are scars. The Kawasaki is now in the best shape of its life, now that I rediscovered my passion for the death machines. Everything is now coming together. I feel like for once in my life, I know what I want to do for a living. And all it took was a brush with death!