I ran into a fellow today in the elevator who I knew by reputation, his arm recently liberated from a sling. He is slightly notorious because of a spectacular get-off he performed when squiddling down a local mountain road that is very popular with sportbikers. His basic error was not riding "his own ride" —he decided rather foolishly to follow the lead of the knucklehead in front of him and cross a double-yellow around a slow-moving truck. I'm not sure what happened after that, but I understand it wasn't pretty.
He and his mount parted company at high velocity in a shower of gravel, sparks and bits of bright plastic—so I hear. I actually wasn't part of the intimate mob of four dozen on this particular little excursion, so I'm relying on a second-hand, rear-view mirror account of the spectacle. He's a little worse for wear, gradually regaining some range of motion in the wounded member.
I guess the bike is still parked somewhere in the hinterlands, awaiting his eventual return with a pickup truck, some strapping lads and some cheap tie-downs.
But as we went our separate ways, him grinning sheepishly like one who knows he's escaped something easily, I couldn't resist firing a cheap shot at his back—
"You know what Hunter said, right?"
'If you ride fast and crash, you are a bad rider. If you go slow and crash, you are a bad rider. And if you are a bad rider, you should not ride motorcycles.'
I'm such a prick.
(Only I wasn't joking.)