Too Close to Midnight

© Uriah Welcome

"You're going to get yourself killed." That's a phrase I've heard ever since I hopped on my first motorcycle. But the roar of the engine as I revved it higher muffled any advice given to me on that matter. Or, I just simply ignored it.

Because I've been riding ever since I learned how to drive, I've had my share of wrecks. The first two took place on a 125cc Mosquito scooter when I was attempting to pop a wheelie and the scooter threw me off after I had gone too close to midnight. I was flung broadside into a metal post and the scooter landed beside me without a scratch. I got up, and tried to shake off the pain, but it didn't go away. 12 hours I was in the hospital with a lacerated liver and in critical condition. I spent three days in the ICU, seven days in the trauma center, and 600 ml of morphine later, I was released to recover in my parent's house.

You think I would have learned my lesson early on. Not a chance. A year later I was on the same scooter, running errands around Orlando. I had just grabbed lunch at a local sub shop and was headed to work when - a flash of blue, the back of a brunette's head, then, nothing.

I woke up in the hospital with a terrible headache, shoe's missing, and my girlfriend waiting by my side. A police officer came in and described what had happened, which was helpful since I couldn't remember anything but the blue car and the brunette, who, it turned out, had made a u-turn without looking, causing me to careen into her. I wasn't wearing a helmet (moral of the story goes here) and as a result had a fractured skull, sprained wrist, and of course, a totaled scooter. My head injury resulted in the loss of my sense of smell, which Google tells me is called anosmia.

Scooter totaled, I bought a Ninja 250 (this time with a helmet). I never had any wrecks on the Ninja. I lived blissfully wreck free. But the Ninja was apparently due for a wreck. I sold it to a friend, who crashed it two days later.

Selling the Ninja allowed me to buy my dream bike. A 600cc superbike I named Casandra. With Casandra I could, and did, ride faster than ever. (If you lived in South Florida, anytime in the past two years, chances are I've flown by you in a screaming blur of blue and white. You probably cursed me out and thought I was an asshole. Well, you were right.)

I learned my lesson on a clear Tuesday morning on my way to work. I was speeding along a winding road and cut someone off getting ready to lean into a turn. Little did I know, there was a patch of sandy rubble at the apex of the curve. My rear tire slipped out and ripped the rest of the bike from my corporal clutches. As I bounced and rolled on the ground for a few dozen yards, the only thing I could think about was my bike. It slid into a curb and came to a sudden halt. I stood up and assessed the damage for a second when, suddenly, the guy I had cut off moments earlier politely pulled over and let me know what a huge idiot I was. I managed to pick the 400+ pound bike up off the ground, dust it off, and ride into work. My arm was road rashed and bleeding but my ego was hurting more than anything else. For days I couldn't stop blaming myself for ruining the pristine paint job of my dream bike. She's scarred now, scrapped up from the road, just like me.

There's a lesson here, I'm sure that there is, but I'm not sure that I've learned it yet. Though I do wear a helmet now, I continue to speed. (And when I say speed, I'm talking 125 mph down I-95, not the casual 80 mph of your average badboy commuter.) I continue to attempt tricks to entertain my friends. I continue to ride recklessly in the rain. But I do it with the knowledge that, if I die, I will have died doing something that gave me a thrill. Or, it sounds cheesy but I'll say it anyway, made my life worth living.