I Can Fly

As I approached the tight right-hand bend doing around 60 kph, I had no idea what awaited me around that next turn. Sixty clicks wasn't fast for my Ducati Super Sport 1000cc road bike, but I was on top of a mountain, with hairpin turns and not a lot of room for error.

I was in the lead, followed by my weekend warrior partner, Wayne, and as I picked my line and dropped into the turn, the front of a large 4WD coming the other way was directly in my path. Everything slows and becomes surreal when things like that happen; no thoughts go through the mind. You just do what you have to do to avoid the collision.

On my right was a towering cliff face of impenetrable rock...and of course, about a tonne of steel coming my way fast. With barely enough room for two vehicles to pass each other on this section of road, my only option was to stand the bike up, adjust my line and try to pull the bike down again once the 4WD had passed.

My 'plan' would have worked well if I had more road to work with, but as the guard rail on my left loomed into inevitability, I hit my rear brake as hard as I could in the hope of sliding it around to improve the angle of escape. The rear locked up and gripped the road with me still leaning over to my right. It was then that my beautiful red Ducati high-sided, flung me over the guard rail and into the abyss.

*******

Earlier that day, at around 7.00 am, I arrived at Wayne's place. The throaty rumble of my V-Twin, at that time on a Sunday morning, wouldn't have impressed his neighbours, and as his automatic gates opened, I spotted Wayne's bike down the end of his long driveway. The fumes from his four-into-one exhaust told me he was ready to roll.

He rode a monster of a bike, the same 1000cc capacity as my Duke, but close to double the horsepower. The in-line four-cylinder motor quietly rumbled, hiding the true extent of the power it had. His Suzuki GSX-R was spotless and nearly as clean as my bike. I spotted Wayne as he made his way down the back stairs of his two-story home, helmet on with the visor up. He smiled at me and put on his gloves. We then rode onto the highway heading south towards O'Reilly's, via Canungra, on the Gold Coast Hinterland.

O'Reilly's is a tourist spot at the end of that particular road. There is only one way in and one way out. It took us approximately forty minutes to get to the coffee shop at Canungra, where we fuelled up and grabbed a cappuccino and a bite to eat before heading up the hill. There are around twenty kilometres of winding pristine roads, ideally suited to the soft compound tyres we had on our bikes. It's only once you reach the summit that the roads become much thinner and more dangerous for motorcycles.

Once the caffeine began kicking in, we got down to the serious business of riding hard. I have always preferred going uphill rather than coming back down. Left-handers more than right. So, it made sense that the worst accident I was ever going to be involved in on a bike, would be heading downhill and on a right-hand bend.

*******

I do not recommend flying without wings or at least having an aeroplane around you, but there wasn't much choice for me at that moment. I touched down for the first time on terra firma and tumble rolled, then flew some more before rolling again. I must have instinctively kept my head tucked into my body when something solid hit my shoulder. This slowed my downward motion. My guess was a large bush rock, which littered the hillside.

I continued my fall from grace, tumbling end over end, with no thoughts except for a vague, "This is no fun at all."

Surprisingly, dying never entered into my consciousness. It was like being on a ride at the fair, and I was simply waiting/praying for it to end.

Then, just as my mind began to wander, my boot hit something hard...and that one hurt, bringing me back to some form of reality. Even though I was wearing motorcycle boots, there is only so much protection they offer. The pain was God reminding me that I was still alive. I was slowing down by this time, and after a few more forward rolls, I came to a stop...facedown, with the visor of my helmet broken off on one side and dirt and dust I had dislodged along the way settling around me.

I couldn't breathe because the wind had been knocked out of me. And once I finally took that first breath, dust filled my lungs. I had come to rest at the base of two rocks. They were all I could see as I gathered myself and realised I was still alive.

Dust and dirt were in my mouth and eyes, but once I got my breathing back to normal, the pain began. I could feel my broken collarbone trying to push its way through my skin. Luckily, it wasn't a compound fracture.

Still prone, I raised my head and looked up the hill from where I had come. I was on a 45-degree slope about seventy metres from the road above. I was surrounded by large gum trees and bush rocks.

Wayne suddenly appeared out of nowhere, breathing heavily from his effort to get down to me.

"Are you Ok?" (I've toned down the language in the following sentences)

"I think so. My collarbone is broken, but I think I can walk out."

Wayne helped me to my feet, but one step on my right foot and I abandoned the plan. He checked his phone and he had service. He then called the ambulance. With his help, I hobbled over and laid on the flattest rock we could see and waited for the ambulance to arrive.

After a short period, we heard the sirens approaching. The fire brigade was also dispatched, and as they clambered down to my position, they were amazed to find me relatively unscathed (I think we all were).

One of them looked up towards the guardrail I had sailed over and said, "You are one lucky boy."

And then, the hard work began. There was no way back the way I had come. I was given a green stick for the pain that was getting worse by the minute, as they planned how to extract me from the mountainside. Too many trees for a helicopter to winch me out, so a heavy rope line, set out perpendicular and in an upward direction, was the only way to extract me from the hillside.

A rigid plastic gurney was brought down to my position and I was loaded onto it and strapped down. The rope was tied to the front of the gurney. Several fire brigade officers manned the rope from above, while six men were assigned to the sled. They then began the long and arduous journey to the road above.

It was the height of summer, and sweat poured from their faces and arms. But, there was no other way. The commitment they showed; the sheer determination to get me out no matter what it took, I was humbled. I know they were 'just doing their job', but when you have just been thrown off a mountainside and lived, only to be a thorn in these men's side, they were heroes to me that day.


I don't know how long it took to get me out, as the painkilling stick had taken full effect by that stage. We emerged a hundred metres away from where I had gone over the railing. I saw my bike resting against the guard rail, which appeared to be in perfect condition. Of course, I was looking at the untouched right side of my beautiful Ducati; the left side was a write-off.

*******

The ambulance arrived at the Gold Coast Hospital where a junior doctor checked me over, and a neck brace was applied. This was when I suffered my first-ever panic attack. I wanted it off, but he insisted, saying he had seen people die from slight neck movements after an accident.

I was having none of it, and as soon as he left, off it came. Then, when he returned, back on it went. My heart raced and I couldn't breathe properly. I felt like I wanted to run away from all of this. He realised I wasn't handling what had happened and gave me Valium, which helped settle the panic attack.

It took ages for the triage doctor to see me. Another accident had happened at almost the exact same moment as my own, on the other side of the hill. A young guy had come off his bike and was in a bad way. As I waited to see the doctor, a man came over, placed his hand on me and told me I was going to be alright. He was the father of that other rider, and later that night, I found out that his son had succumbed to his injuries.

I had my bike repaired, but never rode it like I used to. I was always thinking the car at the intersection was going to pull out on me. I had 'the fear'. My twin daughters meant more to me than putting my life at risk every time I climbed on board that bike, so it just sat in my garage gathering dust. I would take it for short journeys or ride it to work now and again, but that was it.

Eventually, after my divorce, I sold my beloved Ducati and haven't ridden a motorcycle since.