I had to write a personal experience paper for English due tomorrow and I thought, what better thing to write about than my recent motorcycle accident? I know it's not setup well yet, but I put it in MLA style for the draft. What do you guys think? Opinions welcome. BTW, my professor LOVES imagery. lol
Here we go...
Sunday Morning Tragedy
The clouds stood still against the azure morning sky. Motionless as a painted canvas
through the tinted visor covering the oblong portal. The silence was tranquilizing. A brief moment
of serenity preceded trepidation as blood began to trickle down the plastic shield in front of my
eyes. The evanescent silence became deafening. The once cerulean sky was washed with
crimson and an ominous chill ran through my limp body. "There's no pain," I thought as I lay,
confused, in the soft grass. This fettle was short-lived.
As I walked out to my beautiful, jet-black, 2006 Yamaha R1 that cool Sunday morning, my
attention was trained only on the beautiful weather. A pleasant change from the rain and cold that
had been plaguing riders for the past two weeks. "Finally," I uttered quietly in delight. I clad
myself in helmet, gloves, and leather riding jacket and headed to our typical rendezvous. I was
second to last to show and the others were anxious to leave. They had been waiting for some time so I
chose not to ungear. My wait was brief and we set out with only a direction decided upon. North.
Minutes turned to hours as we rode, seemingly aimless, through curves and sunshine.
The troubles of the previous day a distant memory. The span of your attention given wholly to the
bike in front of you and the ground beneath you. The hum of the powerful engine a consolatory
companion. So easy to get lost in daydreams and forget yourself despite the magnitude of power
and speed you're so unmindfully wielding. What could transcend this moment?
The roads began to grow more serpentine. What was once smooth like a frozen lake, became
rough and perilous. Potholes and patches littered the lanes as if the trails had gone unkempt for
ages. My former enthusiasm for the ride turned to apprehension as it seemed each bend held greater
liability. Never had I wished myself more wide of the mark. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat
as we approached a left sweeper. Upon exit the butterflies subsided only to return tenfold in view
of a hard right ahead in the distance. I slowly untwisted the throttle that had been of little concern to
me earlier that morning. All but one of the other bikes passed me up as if not troubled in the slightest
by the obstacle ahead. Was my tremulousness unfounded? Had I miscalculated the forthcoming risk?
As I leaned in and lowered my torso, it happened.
It seemed as though every aspect of control I believed I had was stripped from my hands in an
instant as my front tire plunged deep into a crater in the pavement. The bike bucked like an unbroken
horse and sent me barreling toward the ditch. My mind raced. How to react? There was nothing I could do.
As I left the roadway, I followed my instincts and let my body go limp. As I passed through the ditch my
bike left me and I seemed to float peacefully for a moment, only to be rudely greeted by a seemingly unmovable
object. The telephone pole stood alone in every direction for what seemed like a mile. How misfortunate I
had been to lose it at that particular spot. The wooden goliath won the battle and I could only be told
what happened upon impact.
And so I awoke to the frozen sky, still in shock and unsure of what just took place. I was still
attempting to regain my bearings as the blood began to run down my helmet visor. In my altered state of
consciousness, a brief confusion preceeded and abrupt panic. Where was this blood coming from?! It took
but a moment to realize that the stream of red was running down the outside. I dragged myself to a seated
position as my heart began to pound ferociously. My veins now flowed pure adrenaline. I began to remove my
lid as Eric, the lone rider that had remained behind me, said in a fluster, "Don't take off your helmet! You're
bleeding from the head!" "No I'm not. It's coming from my hand," I reassured him after I pulled it off and looking
down noticed my torn open glove.
Inside the aperture, suffused with blood, muscle and sinew was combined with dirt and grass. Just
seeing it made it start to throb with hurt. I pulled the glove off and for the first time felt the cool
morning breeze rush into the wound and the pain soared to new levels. As my hand gushed, I began to grow cold.
The chill that had come and gone had now become a permanent resident. As I sat with Eric, weak, on the side of
the road, fatigue clutched me like a giant's hand. I wanted to shut my eyes and rest. I relaxed my muscles to
lay down when the other riders arrived at my side. As I continued to recline I was halted by a hand on my back.
My friend Justin held me up as another rider held his own removed shirt tightly atop my lacerated hand. By this
point I had lost such a substantial ammount of blood, I found it extremely difficult to maintain consciousness as
the once colorful scenery began to fade to a pale silverish-white.
The sirens in the distance were welcome sounds as I shivered on the shoulder. I was ready to lay down.
I felt like I had been awake for a year. I needed to close my eyes. The paramedics strapped me tightly to the
stretcher, and I was once again gazing at the sky. Though it had lost all its color, it seemed to have remained
unchanged. The seemingly picturesque clouds were replaced by a low ceiling with a small round light in the center.
The inside of the ambulance smelled familiar. I had been here before. The trip to the hospital, though only nine
miles, seemed to take an eternity. My condition greatly improved from fluids in route, I began cracking jokes
with the emergency room nurses and finally my friends were allowed to come in and see me. My hand was, for the
most part, repaired and I was ready to leave. The doctors had done their part. Now it was my turn.
As I exited the hospital I saw a truck in the parking lot with my mangled motorcycle in the bed. It was
a sobering realization more melancholic than anything I had ever seen. As I sat in the car on the return home,
all I could do was picture my beautiful bike turned scrapmetal. What was once a marvel of mechanical design, was
now nothing more than a heap of plastic and aluminum. I had a difficult time falling asleep that night. It was as
if something was left undone or unsaid. I lay for hours, still. What could I have done differently? I played the
"what if" game with myself for a while then decided it was a waste of time. I couldn't change what had already
occurred and thinking about it wasn't alleviating the pain.
Finally, after hours of pondering, I figured out what was keeping me awake. As soon as I said it, I drifted
off into a much needed slumber. "I will ride again."
Here we go...
Sunday Morning Tragedy
The clouds stood still against the azure morning sky. Motionless as a painted canvas
through the tinted visor covering the oblong portal. The silence was tranquilizing. A brief moment
of serenity preceded trepidation as blood began to trickle down the plastic shield in front of my
eyes. The evanescent silence became deafening. The once cerulean sky was washed with
crimson and an ominous chill ran through my limp body. "There's no pain," I thought as I lay,
confused, in the soft grass. This fettle was short-lived.
As I walked out to my beautiful, jet-black, 2006 Yamaha R1 that cool Sunday morning, my
attention was trained only on the beautiful weather. A pleasant change from the rain and cold that
had been plaguing riders for the past two weeks. "Finally," I uttered quietly in delight. I clad
myself in helmet, gloves, and leather riding jacket and headed to our typical rendezvous. I was
second to last to show and the others were anxious to leave. They had been waiting for some time so I
chose not to ungear. My wait was brief and we set out with only a direction decided upon. North.
Minutes turned to hours as we rode, seemingly aimless, through curves and sunshine.
The troubles of the previous day a distant memory. The span of your attention given wholly to the
bike in front of you and the ground beneath you. The hum of the powerful engine a consolatory
companion. So easy to get lost in daydreams and forget yourself despite the magnitude of power
and speed you're so unmindfully wielding. What could transcend this moment?
The roads began to grow more serpentine. What was once smooth like a frozen lake, became
rough and perilous. Potholes and patches littered the lanes as if the trails had gone unkempt for
ages. My former enthusiasm for the ride turned to apprehension as it seemed each bend held greater
liability. Never had I wished myself more wide of the mark. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat
as we approached a left sweeper. Upon exit the butterflies subsided only to return tenfold in view
of a hard right ahead in the distance. I slowly untwisted the throttle that had been of little concern to
me earlier that morning. All but one of the other bikes passed me up as if not troubled in the slightest
by the obstacle ahead. Was my tremulousness unfounded? Had I miscalculated the forthcoming risk?
As I leaned in and lowered my torso, it happened.
It seemed as though every aspect of control I believed I had was stripped from my hands in an
instant as my front tire plunged deep into a crater in the pavement. The bike bucked like an unbroken
horse and sent me barreling toward the ditch. My mind raced. How to react? There was nothing I could do.
As I left the roadway, I followed my instincts and let my body go limp. As I passed through the ditch my
bike left me and I seemed to float peacefully for a moment, only to be rudely greeted by a seemingly unmovable
object. The telephone pole stood alone in every direction for what seemed like a mile. How misfortunate I
had been to lose it at that particular spot. The wooden goliath won the battle and I could only be told
what happened upon impact.
And so I awoke to the frozen sky, still in shock and unsure of what just took place. I was still
attempting to regain my bearings as the blood began to run down my helmet visor. In my altered state of
consciousness, a brief confusion preceeded and abrupt panic. Where was this blood coming from?! It took
but a moment to realize that the stream of red was running down the outside. I dragged myself to a seated
position as my heart began to pound ferociously. My veins now flowed pure adrenaline. I began to remove my
lid as Eric, the lone rider that had remained behind me, said in a fluster, "Don't take off your helmet! You're
bleeding from the head!" "No I'm not. It's coming from my hand," I reassured him after I pulled it off and looking
down noticed my torn open glove.
Inside the aperture, suffused with blood, muscle and sinew was combined with dirt and grass. Just
seeing it made it start to throb with hurt. I pulled the glove off and for the first time felt the cool
morning breeze rush into the wound and the pain soared to new levels. As my hand gushed, I began to grow cold.
The chill that had come and gone had now become a permanent resident. As I sat with Eric, weak, on the side of
the road, fatigue clutched me like a giant's hand. I wanted to shut my eyes and rest. I relaxed my muscles to
lay down when the other riders arrived at my side. As I continued to recline I was halted by a hand on my back.
My friend Justin held me up as another rider held his own removed shirt tightly atop my lacerated hand. By this
point I had lost such a substantial ammount of blood, I found it extremely difficult to maintain consciousness as
the once colorful scenery began to fade to a pale silverish-white.
The sirens in the distance were welcome sounds as I shivered on the shoulder. I was ready to lay down.
I felt like I had been awake for a year. I needed to close my eyes. The paramedics strapped me tightly to the
stretcher, and I was once again gazing at the sky. Though it had lost all its color, it seemed to have remained
unchanged. The seemingly picturesque clouds were replaced by a low ceiling with a small round light in the center.
The inside of the ambulance smelled familiar. I had been here before. The trip to the hospital, though only nine
miles, seemed to take an eternity. My condition greatly improved from fluids in route, I began cracking jokes
with the emergency room nurses and finally my friends were allowed to come in and see me. My hand was, for the
most part, repaired and I was ready to leave. The doctors had done their part. Now it was my turn.
As I exited the hospital I saw a truck in the parking lot with my mangled motorcycle in the bed. It was
a sobering realization more melancholic than anything I had ever seen. As I sat in the car on the return home,
all I could do was picture my beautiful bike turned scrapmetal. What was once a marvel of mechanical design, was
now nothing more than a heap of plastic and aluminum. I had a difficult time falling asleep that night. It was as
if something was left undone or unsaid. I lay for hours, still. What could I have done differently? I played the
"what if" game with myself for a while then decided it was a waste of time. I couldn't change what had already
occurred and thinking about it wasn't alleviating the pain.
Finally, after hours of pondering, I figured out what was keeping me awake. As soon as I said it, I drifted
off into a much needed slumber. "I will ride again."
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