A fresh blanket of snow had fallen just before dawn, that early morning of March 20, 2018. Two inches of the moisture-laden, white crystals covered the empty industrial lot, next to the gated and monitored storage facility, off of Princess Avenue. This singular fact, you will come to learn, is central to this story and its eventual consequences, as applied to my current activities.
At the time, I didn’t know it had snowed in Ontario that day, and quite frankly, I really didn’t care. After all, I was in Panama City Beach, Florida, far from the Great White North, and enjoying my first-ever extended get-away to the southern climes.
I got the phone call just after breakfast that same morning. I was informed that my—what I considered secure—storage unit had been broken into, and much of my personal belongings were either strewn about that neighbouring lot or missing altogether. Well shit, that sucks.
The brazen thieves had cut a sizeable chunk out of the chain link fencing that surrounded the facility, and, unfortunately for me, they chose to do that almost directly across from my unit. Their method of entry through the fence, and subsequently to each of the half dozen units they hit, was by application of a simple pair of bolt cutters—the kind you can purchase at any hardware store, around the world.
I would come to learn that my unit and most of its contents were tossed about in a hurried manner and, as the robbers removed the items that were of obvious value, they also carried many of the boxes back through the opening in the fence. Once they were in the field—away from prying security cameras, they went through each of the boxes they had pilfered—took what they wanted—and threw the rest of the contents about, in a wide arc, throughout the field.
The big ticket items; my prize guitar, my golf clubs, several hand tools, and my 12 gauge shotgun were nowhere to be found. They would eventually make the thieves a good buck on the black market.
The rest of my personal belongings; my plaques and framed awards, (seen above, rescued from the scene) my boxes of keepsakes, many of my old photographs, and anything else they could carry—none of which were of value for resale—were for the most part, buried under that early morning snow. Thanks to my son’s help, it would take a few days to recover anything that was visible, and the rest of the items would have to wait until the snow melted.
I did eventually make my way back north to Kingston, and to my now, half-empty storage unit. I conducted from memory, as thorough an inventory of my belongings as possible, considering I hadn’t listed every item prior to packing each of the boxes. Insurance claims were made and settled, and life went on.
Looking back on that unfortunate episode, I didn't realize the items I would miss.
The story above does not appear in my forthcoming book, Perpetual Motion. It does, however, add relevant context to why I write this week’s blog post.
These next selected paragraphs do appear in my book. They are drawn from Chapter 18: Badass Biker—or Crash Test Dummy? You’ll see in the end, why both narratives, many years removed, are forever connected.
To set the stage: Thom Kingston, a colleague from work, and I, are on a grand adventure across the USA on our motorcycles. It is June of 1978. We pick up the story from Yellowstone National Park. . . .
The next big adventure was very unexpected. After missing a couple of turns, we rode into Yellowstone National Park and by the grace of God got a cabin directly across from Old Faithful. What an incredible sight, to witness the geyser shooting skyward. I had studied this phenomenon in school but never thought I would see it in person.
The next day was perfect for our planned itinerary. Our intentions were to ride the perimeter of the park from right to left—and be back in time for supper. Off we went. My first encounter with a moose in the wild happened about a half hour into the drive. The majestic bull was standing in a field about 150 yards away—just like the postcard images for sale back at the cabin office. We stopped by the edge of the road, tried to snap some photos with limited luck, and then continued on. Halfway around the park circuit, on the north tip of the trail, we stopped for lunch at Mammoth Springs for burgers and a beer. After food and fuel, we headed back to the cabin. So far, it had been a fine day.
We had done about three quarters of the ring loop when it happened. Thom was out in front—about a hundred yards or so. We were rounding a bend when I noticed his bike start to hop. It all happened so fast I really didn’t have time to process the scene playing out ahead. Thom, being quite adept at motocross riding, realized right away what was happening and took charge of his machine. With precision skill, he navigated through the late June frost-heaves that had damaged the road.
Unfortunately, all of this sudden movement, and witnessing Thom’s bike somewhat out of control, startled me. Before I could defensively react, I hit the broken pavement also. Fortunately for me, I don’t recall the next many seconds of my life—that’s a good thing. There was a very steep embankment to my left and a very steep vertical rise to my right. If I had been tossed left, I would have tumbled down into the ravine and would not have survived. As it was, my motorcycle bounced through the damaged pavement, and as I lost control, I found myself on the dirt shoulder, aimed directly at a stand of pines just beyond the grade of the road. What I believe happened is this: The front end of the bike hit a large granite boulder, which in turn, catapulted me over the handlebars—my head taking a glancing blow off a tree—and I was deposited on the forest floor. Thankfully, I was wearing a helmet. There was bark wedged into the binding around the face piece. By the sheer weighted force of my body’s forward motion, I tore the fairing completely off the bike. The contents within, including my previously damaged camera, were all but destroyed.
Thom, meanwhile, had managed to keep his bike upright. He stole a quick glance back just as he was entering the next bend only to see me smash like a rag doll into the tree line—witnessing with a sinking feeling, all the debris flying around. His first thought was that there was no way I was going to live through that. What he did see, after what must have seemed like an eternity getting his bike turned facing the opposite direction of our previous travel, was me sitting on my helmet just beyond the road’s edge, dazed, and repeating the words “I’m alive! I’m alive!”
I was hurt, but yes, I was alive. I didn’t know the extent of my injuries until much later because of the trauma and shock. The front end of my bike took the brunt of the impact and was severely bent out of shape and alignment. My handlebars were in the shape of an S. My beautiful Windjammer fairing was destroyed—scattered in several pieces across the forest floor, contents and all. Weirdly enough, the cap over my timing solenoid was blown apart, but my bike still ran.
Traffic had begun to back up, and a white Toyota Land Cruiser was the first on scene. They had witnessed the crash and wanted to check on my well-being. I have no idea why we did what we did next. It was probably because of the shock. Thom and I discussed whether I was capable of riding the bike the last ten miles to the cabin. Of course, the adrenaline was pumping through me, and I said I was quite capable. Before we could discuss it any further, we threw the debris, chunks of fairing and all, into the back of the Land Cruiser, and proceeded to slowly make our way back to our rental. I was actually riding my damaged bike. It must have looked very unusual to anyone who witnessed that sight. The right handlebar and throttle mechanism were sticking straight up at a ninety-degree angle to their original position. I do recall, during those last ten miles, laughing along with Thom as to the absurdity of it all. We had done a quick medical assessment of my physical condition at the scene. The only visible injury was a cut under my chin. I thought I had escaped major damage. I was so wrong.
Back at the cabin, once the bikes were secure, I started to shake. I knew I had to lie down because I was beginning to feel pain. The adrenaline was definitely wearing off. Thom knew I needed medical attention and so, after assuring him I was okay, he went to a nearby clinic in search of a doctor. I believe I fell asleep while he was gone. Next, as if in a dream, I heard him trying to wake me. After coming to, I tried to sit up but couldn’t move—as if frozen to the bed. That scared the shit out of me. I was paralyzed from the neck down. Of this I was certain. When my head, still in the helmet, hit the tree, I had jammed my spine and my neck muscles rather severely. I just knew I was in deep trouble. Fortunately, standing beside Thom was a very tall man in cowboy boots and hat, hovering over me. Thom had found a doctor. After a quick assessment, the diagnosis was not as bad as it could’ve been. Yes, my muscles were all seized up. I was going to hurt for days, but he couldn’t find anything broken, so he prescribed muscle relaxants and painkillers. I was in rough shape, but my bike fared much worse.
The next twenty-four hours were a blur. I drifted in and out of consciousness, awake just enough to attempt to eat, take more drugs, and pass out. I’m sure Thom and I talked about his next moves, but during that time of recovery, he was busy figuring out the logistics of what to do with me, my motorcycle, and most importantly, how I was going to get home.
These previous passages are but a fleeting moment . . . from a single day in my life; how can they possibly have anything to do with my opening tale?
Fast forward to this past month. I have been gathering as much photographic evidence of the events in my life as I can, and, knowing that Thom and I had taken many shots of our time away that fateful June, I decided to contact him to see if he still had the pictures of our trip. I definitely wanted to have Chapter 18 well represented in my image gallery on my website. I was in for a shock. Thom informed me by text that he had given me all of the pictures that were in his possession, several years ago! Well, damn . . . really?
I was initially baffled as to where these photographs could possibly be. After all, I still have bins of my old pictures, hundreds of visuals of the events of my life, still in my possession. I pondered this dilemma for over a week. Then it dawned on me . . . the damn break-in at the storage unit in Kingston! These photos must have been in the “never did find them” category of items that were thrown about after the robbery. In the aftermath of this intrusion, they quite easily could have been overlooked or simply blown away by the winter winds.
I think back now and then, to that time and place. I remember being pissed that I had been violated, such as it was. Knowing now that I made no account of these photographs, I wonder if there are other items that I’ve missed and still haven’t come to the realization that they are gone.
I’ll probably never know. Alas, you get no visual confirmation of my trip to the west with Thom. Again, damn . . .
I'll end with this. No matter how many words it takes to pen a biography, there are always stories that get left behind in the editors waste basket . . . that is if they are even written at all. My "break-in" story was not necessary to the original manuscript, but absolutely needed to be included today, if not for anything else, then to provide credence to the lack of accompanying images for Chapter 18.
I hope you enjoyed this first sneak preview of my soon-to-be published works. Stay tuned for more!
Dana