SGT. 1ST CLASS FREDERICK MCMULLEN
U.S. Army Aviation Logistics School
Utility Helicopter Division
Fort Eustis, Virginia
The road flashed by seemingly just inches away from my shoulder as I rounded the sharp corner on my trusty Yamaha YZF-R6. I envisioned the road ahead of me, eager to get on the long, straight stretch and really open up and let the engine sing. I’d been down this road before and knew there wouldn’t be any police. As I exited the corner, I hurriedly worked my way up through the gears. A quick glance at my speedometer showed 130 mph.
I knew there was a slight right-hand bend about three-quarters of the way down the stretch, but I held the throttle all the way open. As I tried to spot the curve ahead, I entered the right-hand bend and felt a strange sensation. I was so focused on the curve that I didn’t realize my bike was telling me my rear tire had lost traction and was sliding to the left.
For the next 20 seconds, my life hung in the balance. My rear tire suddenly regained traction, violently snapping the rear of my motorcycle to its original position and throwing me over the handlebars. I’ve heard people say they saw their life flash before their eyes during a near-death experience, but that’s not what happened to me. I saw the pavement and knew it would chew up my skin like a grinder. I thought, “Is this really happening to me?”
The next few moments were a blur. I seemed to slide forever until I hit the grass beside the road and began tumbling. I heard metal scraping as my bike skidded across the pavement — my handlebars taking the brunt of the damage. My bike then slid onto the grass and started tumbling. I heard the sound of plastic parts being ripped off my motorcycle. It was the sound of my bike dying.
The green grass and blue sky kept changing places as I tumbled. When I stopped, I was on my back, looking at a beautiful sky. Everything was quiet and I was afraid to move. Knowing that adrenaline can sometimes mask injuries, I laid still for a bit, waiting for the pain to start. You don’t just fall off your motorcycle at 130 mph and not get seriously injured, right?
But the pain never came. I slowly raised my head and looked toward my feet. Everything looked intact. I saw something in my peripheral vision — an ambulance headed toward me. The emergency medical technicians arrived and began checking me out. After 15 minutes of “Does this hurt?” and not finding anything, I got up and walked away. That might seem impossible, except for the fact I was attending a rider improvement course at the Virginia International Raceway. If I had to crash at high speed, this was the place to do it.
So how did I end up at the raceway? Seeing the growing number of motorcycle fatalities forced me to rethink not only how I was riding, but where I was riding. Knowing how dangerous public streets can be, I decided to get my bike on a real track. There I could ride as fast as I wanted in relative safety and not have to worry about the police.
I eventually found a company at the raceway that would allow me put my bike on the track. All I had to do was pay to take a rider enhancement course and the track was mine. Initially, I thought of this as an opportunity to showcase my “incredible” motorcycle-riding skills. Little did I know that the professionals teaching this course would train me to ride in ways I could only dream of — and do it in a safe, controlled environment.
I spent the day between classroom time and track practice. On the track, there was an instructor for every four riders. Instead of trying to see how fast I could go, my instructor’s goal was to teach me how to safely get the most out of my bike.
After returning home, I began using the skills I learned from the course on the street. I quit riding aggressively, treating every corner as a challenge and every straightaway as a drag strip. Once you’ve ridden on the track, you understand the dangers of public streets. On the track, I knew what was around the next corner. I knew I didn’t have to worry about debris, cars, animals, people backing out of their driveways and other dangerous unknowns. On the street, you’re rolling the dice every time you zip through a blind corner.
It was then that it hit me how overrating my skills could’ve set me up for an accident. I’d blown off motorcycle safety briefings because I thought I was a good rider. My attitude was, “This brief isn’t for me. It’s for those guys and gals who can’t ride.” Little did I realize those briefings were directed at my high-risk riding style. Riding with a professional instructor showed me the difference between the skills I thought I had and the ones I needed to avoid becoming a fatality statistic. That got through to me.
I did become a statistic, but not as a fatality. Although I wrecked my motorcycle at 130 mph, I got up and walked away from my crash. My personal protective equipment shows the battle scars, but my body doesn’t. My bike was a total loss, but I wasn’t.
Was it luck? I think not! I’m an example of how wearing the correct PPE and not racing on public streets can keep you out of the fatality statistics. For guys who want to go fast, I have a simple message — take it off the street and put it on the track!
Helping New Riders
SGT. 1ST CLASS FREDERICK MCMULLEN
U.S. Army Aviation Logistics School
Utility Helicopter Division
Fort Eustis, Va.
Since my training, I have a new challenge when riding. I have a group I regularly ride with and we try to grab new riders before they fall in with the wrong crowd. We teach them that when it comes to riding, it’s about leaving your ego at the house and turning the testosterone level down. We point out that the streets are not our personal playground for going out and pushing the limits.
I show Army riders it’s not enough to wear the correct personal protective equipment, attend safety briefs, sign counseling statements promising to ride safely and get their bikes inspected by their leaders. I tell them they must make a personal commitment to not become a statistic.
We share our experience with new riders to help them ride safer. We pick out a route for a ride that will not overwhelm or scare them. Before we begin, we perform a brief much like a military convoy brief. This is an important step — especially for new riders because they must know we’re there to help.
We brief them on the route and the hand signals we’ll use. We also brief them on emergency procedures should there be an accident or a rider gets lost. We put new riders toward the back of the group and pair them with a strong rider who can evaluate their strengths and weaknesses. We plan rest stops to discuss any issues that need to be addressed. These stops are very important because they allow the strong rider to evaluate each of us, providing an honest critique. No one is exempt from constructive criticism.
Sometimes you can overwhelm a new rider with too much information, so only one or two new techniques are suggested for them to try. After the ride, we get together to talk about how things went, mimicking an after-action review and reinforcing lessons learned.
Our main goal is to keep these new riders riding with us. If that seems over the top, remember we are trying to keep them from finding a thrill-seeking group. These groups don’t care about the safety of new riders; all they want to do is show these newbies how to “really” ride. They don’t care who is weak and might need some help; they just want to get an adrenaline rush. When new riders find themselves in such groups, peer pressure and lack of experience can lead to horrific endings.