Here’s how a dog, gravel, and a cigarette-break lecture put the first small dent in my riding behaviour. This experience didn't have an immediate effect on how I rode, but I did get my first lesson in “getting back up” after a fall.
First up, let's understand the metric by which I registered motorcycle accidents back then - if I didn't spend the night in the hospital, it's technically NOT an accident. This was my first "not an accident but technically an accident" after getting my license. I no longer use this metric; I’ve had my fill of time in the hospital.
I was riding my bike to school, racing a mate, when I hit a dog. I remember the dog doing much the same thing as the dog from my 4500km road trip - it was crossing the road, saw me, ran in its original direction before turning and running back across the road. The sequence in my brain went "oh no, a dog, better slow down" to "it's off the road now, back on the gas" to "ahh fuck" and me colliding with the dog. I didn't make any directional changes, and I only briefly closed the throttle before accelerating again; no brakes were applied. No caution. A simple accident to avoid, really, as I had the skills.
And, man, did I get minced up. I slid down the road, under the bike, for a fair distance. Grinding off layers of skin as I had no protective gear - just shorts, a shirt, sneakers, and a helmet. I even got some burns from the bike's exhaust to top it all off. [Insert lecture about wearing proper gear HERE]
Once I stopped sliding and grinding, I got up to assess how bad the situation was - to take in all the pain, and appreciate just how badly I was bleeding. Fortunately, I crashed outside the homes of some really lovely old ladies. Unfortunately, they all came running out with hydrogen peroxide and all manner of disinfectants, which they quickly doused my wounds with. Pain-o-meter went to 11. But I was pretty grateful for all the care and attention I received at the scene.
Then my Dad turned up. He didn't call an ambulance or bring first aid. He brought with him a long and fiery, curse-word-filled lecture about my terrible riding. I need you to understand that the "lecture" did not stop as he bundled me into his car and took off. To the hospital? To an ambulance? No. To the corner shop, where he purchased a drink, a packet of cigarettes, a newspaper, and something to eat. I'm still bleeding this whole time, and I must have smelled like a freshly sanitized science lab from all the chemicals I had been washed down with. The lecture had not stopped, only brief pauses as he ate and drank, and puffed on a cigarette. No drink for me. Nothing to eat. I didn't smoke then, but if smoking clotted my blood a little, I'd have given it a crack.
Even after his impromptu breakfast, the lecture continued. What was he saying? I don't know, I was bleeding and fixated on where we were going next when we drove off from the corner shop. We owned a small farm at this point in life, and I genuinely thought we were off to do a day's work there despite my wounds.
You're all thinking my Dad was a bit hard on me, but he pulled through eventually and took me to the local ambulance station. The lecture did not stop the entire ride, any more than my bleeding. When we get to the ambulance station, I'm wheeled into a room for a brief respite from the lecture to have my gravel rash cleaned out. Pain-o-meter goes to 15! Maybe they give pain relief nowadays, or maybe my Dad paid extra so they wouldn't, but I do NOT recommend high doses of gravel rash even when you're drunk on hydrogen peroxide and floating down from significant blood loss.
With my wounds freshly brushed and deburred, debrided and bandaged, I was handed back to my Dad. And the lecture continued, with renewed gusto as he had time to catch his breath. Normal parents probably let you have a day or two off school with such extensive injuries, or if you couldn't use your hands because they're both fully bandaged. Not my Dad - he took me straight back to school so I could get some learning in before the day ran out. I think it was because he'd run out of lecture points. Either way, I went to school and walked home that day, bandaged, beaten, and bleeding. The next day, after the bike was beaten back into shape, I rode to school wearing every bit of safety gear I owned. Gravel rash sucks, do not recommend.
And, my Dad isn't the villain here. He just administered a tough lesson, and I appreciate how tough it was to give. Tough love. Accept responsibility for, and the consequences of, your actions. I mean, it didn’t stop me from doing stupid stuff, but I did learn not stay down when I fall, and I learned that regardless of the work required to get back up, I would. And that applies to life off the bike also.
PS - the school put up a fight - I had all my arms back then and they were both fully bandaged, as were my legs. I imagine I may have been still in shock also, and getting my two brain cells to swim in a brain low on blood was a challenge. They asked why I was late. I said, "I was in a bike accident, look at me," and they responded, "We're going to need a note." I had to sign in, but couldn't use a pen (bandaged hands), so I think they told me not to worry about the note.
