THOMAS ANDERSON
It was my last day on the rifle range. Actually, it was the last range I would fire on in my Marine Corps career. After earning another “expert” badge, I left with a feeling of accomplishment. I could now put a 16th award bar on my rifle badge, as every trip to the range had resulted in expert qualification.
It was about 3 p.m. on a chilly but sunny Friday afternoon when I arrived home and passed on the good news to my family. A quick check with my wife confirmed dinner was still about an hour and a half away. A knowing smile crossed my face as I realized I had time for a nice ride over some winding country roads in the area.
Several factors during range week had kept me from riding my motorcycle as much as I’d liked, so I was eager to take it out. I mentally ran through the sitrep (sunny but a bit chilly, total of 90 minutes available) and headed to the garage to warm up the scoot. I donned my leather jacket and noticed the reflective vest was still attached. I considered removing it, but, hey, it’s a black and silver vest, so it doesn’t cost me too many cool points. Once my bike was warm, I put on my Department of Transportation-approved helmet and full-length gauntlet leather gloves. Remembering the chill, as well as the fact that I might be returning at twilight, I also put on my chaps to cut the wind. That’s when I noticed my feet.
I was wearing a nice pair of hiking boots. The boots were not my first choice for riding gear, but they seemed sturdy enough. I briefly considered going back inside to change into my riding boots, but by that point I’d already lost at least 10 minutes of precious riding time. Surely these boots would be fine for a short ride near home. (I bet you’re seeing the writing on the wall, aren’t you?)
Once in the wind, my worries began shedding off me like leaves falling from trees. As I rolled through the curves, I was reminded why I ride. A quick glance at the trip meter snapped me back to reality, though. I was about 12 miles from having to go to my reserve tank. “No problem,” I thought, “Just a short detour to the edge of town for some gas and I’ll be back on the road.”
About five minutes later, I pulled into the gas station. Of course, every pump was occupied. I didn’t want this little pit stop to eat up any more of my time than necessary, so I decided to find another station rather than wait in line. As I approached the exit, I saw a car waiting to turn left. I put on my turn signal and pulled up next to the car to prepare to turn right. However, when I attempted to put my foot down so I could stop and check traffic, it wouldn’t move.
Confused, I tried to free my foot as I began to fall to the left. As my shoulder hit the passenger door of the car next to me, the bike fell onto my left leg. Luckily, the driver heard me hit the car and stopped. After I killed the engine, a man who was at the gas station helped me lift up the bike — my foot still stuck in its trap.
All appeared fine with both vehicles and I seemed unhurt except for a strange feeling in my left glove. When I took it off to check, blood poured out of the glove and onto the ground. My fingertip was dangling enough to let me know a trip to the hospital was in my future. I put on my glove to hold everything in place and then rode home so my wife could drive me to the naval hospital.
So how did this accident even happen? Unfortunately, my impatience was to blame — namely my unwillingness to give up five minutes of cruising time to put on riding boots. You see, the tread pattern on my hiking boots fit perfectly around my bike’s peg, which is spring loaded to prevent dragging. The spring allowed the peg to lift far enough that my foot caught between the peg and shift lever. This prevented me from putting my foot down to keep the bike from falling. I’d failed to adhere to a very basic rule of motorcycling — ATGATT (all the gear, all the time).
After being told I’d probably lose my fingertip — or at least never have a fingernail again — I am happy to report the tip and nail are still in place. (Thank you, Naval Hospital Camp Lejeune!) You can bet that I’ll never take my bike out again without first putting on all of my personal protective equipment. I can tell you from firsthand experience that wearing proper PPE from head to ankle is not quite enough to avoid becoming a member of Rolling Blunder motorcycle club.