"The Day of the Fallen"
                       Written by Author X 
           Original composition date:  February 1996
      Recopied/revised composition date: November 10, 1996
    From the 8005 days that I have been alive on this earth, there is one
that is unique and I will never forget it.  That day occurred about one
year and three weeks ago, but I'm sure that ten years and three months
from now the events that took place on that day will be as clear in my
mind as the day that they happened.  The date holds so much mental
trauma that it is as recognized to me now as a national holiday. 
October 18, 1995, a day that will live in infamy for as long as I live:
the day that I wrecked (and totaled) my motorcycle.  I had purchased
the bike a mere ten days earlier, which makes the bittersweet memories
even harder to tolerate recalling.  But I still like to tell the story, in
hopes that reliving the situation will help me get over the pain.  Now,
I'll admit that I'm exaggerating the rehab a bit; however, the reality of
possibly losing my life over a fight with the pavement comes back to
me every once in a while, and I realize again how lucky or blessed I
am.  
    I had been riding my motorcycle to school at Parkland College every
day that third week in October.  I had been doing so because of the fair
autumn weather and for fuel economy, but mostly because I had just
bought the bike the week before and enjoyed it immensely.  I took the
same route to Parkland every day and always crossed the same bumpy
railroad tracks at a little past the halfway point between my house in
Mahomet and the college in Champaign.  On October 17, 1995, the
day before the accident, I zipped over the tracks at a little quicker pace
than usual, about 70 mph.  Don't gasp in disbelief; it's not like you've
never gone that fast on an empty rural highway before!  Anyway, after
I had passed the crossing, my front wheel and handlebars jiggled just
slightly for about a second.
    "That probably wasn't such a great thing to do," I thought to myself. 
"No big deal, nothing really happened anyway."
    I would live to regret passing off that warning as "no big deal" for
a long, long time.  Moreover, nothing else unusual happened with the
motorcycle in the next eighteen hours that made me think twice about
the tiny incident earlier that morning.  The weather the following day
on the 18th was just as beautiful as the days before, and the decision to
drive my car or ride my bike was another one that didn't require a
second glance.  I was on my crotch-rocket whizzing out of Mahomet
within a matter of minutes.  I traveled the usual way, Route 150 east
to Staley Road, a path which I would not follow for at least another
month after that day.  
    It was only another mile or so after the turn, and it happened.  Being
in such a sprightly mood, I  was going a little more quickly than usual,
say 80 mph.  The same old railroad tracks zipped under the front wheel
of my bike.  All of a sudden I had the worst feeling that I have ever
felt, when the front wheel and handlebars of my motorcycle began to
bang back and forth spasmodically, causing me to physically lose
control at 80 miles per hour.  I cannot explain the flood of thoughts
that sped through my mind in the few brief seconds before my machine
went down to join the paved road, taking me with it.
    "I can't believe this is happening!!"  I screamed silently.
    I looked at the road as I rapidly came down towards it.  When I hit
bottom, my face, protected by the face shield on my helmet, hit first. 
I came down on my right side and slid in a somewhat stationary
position along the cement with my motorcycle skidding about five feet
in front of me.  I could see the bike on its side, and it was shooting
sparks in my face as the fairing on the bike burned along the road.  I
was thinking,
    "How come my face isn't getting burned with all of these sparks?!?"
    The reason was because of the face shield, but I had forgotten that
I had it on.  Although I knew what was happening, I did not
consciously understand it.  This was really proved in what happened
next.  I knew I was sliding along the road, but nonetheless I tried to
stand up by putting one foot down on the road from its position up in
the air where it had been.  My foot bounced violently off the surface
of the road, and the irrational action caused my body to come out of a
flat slide and start rolling and flipping.  The rest of my journey is a
blur; I just squinted my eyes and waited to stop moving.
    I opened my eyes and looked in complete silence.  I picked out a
noise; it was the engine on my motorcycle, still running.  The whole
incident came back to me in a rush, and I slowly stood up, beyond
belief that I was able to do so.  The intense pain from the entire right
side of my body began to arise, and I became very frightened when I
saw that my right palm was covered in blood and missing almost all of
its original skin.  The leg of my jean shorts was totally shredded, and
from a deep gouge in my right ankle to my hip there was more road
rash up and down my leg.  I could see a van coming in the opposite
lane of the highway, and I staggered off to that side, somehow
believing that the driver would not see me unless I was over there.  I
made a weak attempt to wave my arms and flag down the vehicle as it
was already stopping on the road's narrow shoulder.  The driver, a
woman just on her way to lunch in Mahomet from Champaign, had me
lie down.  Everything that happened from that point on I can relate just
from listening to the action around me, and I wasn't too intent on doing
that.  From the shouting of all the burns to the creeping numbness in
my fingers and toes, I noticed as more people stopped at the scene. 
Another woman called 911 from her cellular phone.  I croaked out my
father's office phone number, and someone else called my parents. 
The ambulance arrived after an eternity and transported me to the
Emergency Room Trauma Center at Covenant Hospital.  And the rest
is history....
    I found out later that the loss of control when I crossed the railroad
tracks probably happened because the front shocks on the motorcycle
wheel were low on hydraulic oil.  Without proper shock absorption,
the severe impact of the bump caused the front wheel to compensate
by turning, and that's all it took.  The total distance from the railroad
tracks to the point at which I came to a rest measured 280 feet, in
perspective, nearly the length of a football field.  I also later learned
that I began to go into shock after the accident, symptoms being the
numbness in my fingers and toes.  Although the aftermath of the
incident was  not life-threatening, further complications were
prevented by the quick response of the passing motorists that stopped. 
The days involving the real pain were yet to come with the burn
treatments and physical therapy, but at the time, I could think of
nothing but the unraveling circumstances.  I'll also always be grateful
to all the attendants in the emergency room that helped and the hospital
and clinic staff that would aid my healing in the following weeks.  And
although my parents were only doing what they felt they had to, I thank
them for playing taxi while I was disabled.  A separate thanks goes out
to one special EMT that was almost off-duty on the 18th  at the
hospital, but stayed after I had been rolled in.  Vern was the man that
really made it clear to me how fortunate I had been and what could
have happened.  And more than anything, I'll always be grateful to 
God, or the angel, or whatever it was with me from heaven and kept 
me from ending my own life on earth that sunny afternoon.  Thanks. 



This document is copyrighted 1996, 1997.  All rights and ownership 
belong to the author.  Permission must be granted for any use, other 
than reading, of this document.