Unlike the rest of you misguided people, I had my motorcycle accident while running along at 50mph on a country rode in South Carolina. I had taken my bike on a thousand mile trip and was struggling to get home.
I stopped for breakfast in a South Carolina dinner, it was 1969 and I was just 2 years back from my Asian vacation. This overweight SC sheriff came in and asked whose motorsykle (rhymes with pickle) that was in the parking lot. I was sitting at the counter with my arm resting on the full face bell helmet. I knew I was going to have a hard time denying it.
"It's mine," I said. I tossed some money on the counter and he followed me outside. He explained that most of the drugs in SC came through Atlanta ga where I had come from. (He asked where I had been and I told him). He must have thought he had Peter Fonda cause he had me unroll my sleeping bag and empty my water bottle ect.
When he didn't find anything, he suggested I get the **** out of SC. I had no problem agreeing. I was on that country rode stroking for home when I looked back to be sure I was alone. that one second with my eyes off the road was all it took. I found myself on the shoulder in a split second.
At that time in SC they plowed the shoulders into furrows. At fifty miles an hour on a hastily packed, out of balance bike, the furrows just tossed me and the bike around for a couple of seconds, then it separated me from the bike. Unfortunately I went forward and the damn bike (I always knew it hated me) ran over me. That wasn't enough for the spiteful bastard it fell on me as well.
Thank God the hot muffler was on the other side. I managed to get out from under it with only a lot of bruises and a twisted knee and ankle. By your standards guys it wasn't much of an accident, I didn't get to the emergency room, but I did get to know first hand what my doctor meant, when he said, "Ride that thing long enough and it will kill you."