22 March 2005

Badasses and Candyasses

I've known some pretty tough cats in my life. Grizzled farmers and sun-baked laborers. Mentally indestructible men of God and determined thinkers who just know what they want. Physical specimens who've never touched a weight machine with vise-grip hands at the end of barbed-wire arms.

I was fourteen when I watched my old man chainsaw his left hand, drop the saw, turn to me and simply say, "Can you drive to the emergency room?" I thought that was physically tough. Then I watched him bury his favorite son - and I knew that was one tough motherfucker.

I know guys who've lost finger, hands, legs, and feet to maladies running the gamut from PTO shafts to foreign combatants. I've even severed a couple of my own short digits, and luckily saved the stubby appendages.

So I thought I'd seen tough.

Then my friend Brice hit a truck. At 65 mph. With his face. Aboard his motorsickle. And rolled the truck. And lived.

Yeah, you read that right. Our quiet and relatively calm friend Brice, who just happens to be married to the world champion ‘Cutest Wife Ever,' was blazing into work at 0530 on 3 March. As in ‘Oh my God it's early.' .

In a low spot on the highway east of Enid, OK Brice crested a rise, started into the low, hit dense fog, and smashed the driver side door of a truck driven by the only cat on the road more surprised than Brice. Neither of them ever saw each other. Both, incredibly, lived. The truck pilot with a broken pelvis and some internal injuries. Brice with two broken arms, broken collar bones, broken ribs, broken back, and every bone in his face: broke. Every freaking bone on his face. That's a lot of smashing. That's a lot of blood. That's a lot of shit that should kill you.

First report I heard; "He broke both his arms," and all I could think of was, "Man, you can't even wipe your own ass with two broken arms ..." Well, turns out the snapped limbs were the least of the poor guy's worries. And shitter sanitation took a backseat to use of lower extremities.

Now he's hanging out in an hospital room, off the ventilator, breathing of his own accord, moving his legs, bitching about having to be in the hospital, and cracking jokes. Two rods in his back. Multiple broken bones. Something like ten plates in his face. More screws than a spring break beach. And alive. Wanting to go home. Sitting up and talking.

How cool is that?

How tough is that?

It should have killed him. Thrice. At least.

The impact with the truck should have killed him immediately. But it didn't.

Laying in the road with your face smashed should kill you. But it didn't.

Laying in the road choking on your own blood and waiting for a car to run over you in the fog should kill you. But it didn't.

Extensive surgery, a trip to the ER, and messing with your innards can easily kill you. But it didn't kill Brice.

I bitch about hangovers and my sore back. I'll bet Brice would kill for something so minor. Excedrin and stretching is a far cry from the extensive surgeries and future physical therapy Brice is currently staring down. But I'll bet money he does it. And does it well. Hell, if you can flip a truck with your face I think you can whip whatever the sawbones throws your way.

So his friends are on the right track staging a benefit poker run. Not a wake. Not a memorial service. A benefit. To show support and throw some cash in a pile for the economic uncertainties extensive medical attention and lost wages bring about. Two kids, an adorable wife, and a house payment are the only reasons most of us work at all. Insurance only covers so much. So shit like this is the reason we have friends.

Adversity reveals the true nature of men. All things become relative and the minor discomforts of every work day pale in comparison to the major inconvenience of having your body pretzled by impact and repaired by skilled hands.

So when people tell me, "A run this Saturday? It's supposed to be 55 degrees with a chance of rain," I think I'm justified in telling them, "Then just stay home, you spineless piece of shit! Sit on your fat worthless ass and dial up some pay per view! Fire up that laptop and post on a message board about what a true biker you are! Order up some more badass chopper gear and plan some rides your wife won't let you take! But by all means shut the fuck up and abandon this attempt to justify your cowardice!"

Granted, it's not the friendliest or most compassionate thing to say. But I absolutely can not stomach the weak-willed nattering nabobs of negativity and their nasal excuses for non-participation. Weakness and cowardice are just two items in the pandoric box plaguing this nation. We're a nation of remote control pussies, and we'll eventually pay dearly for it.

And then I stop to think about it. If it rains fire and brimstone this Saturday as the earth opens up to swallow us all I'm still going to try and help raise a little cash for Brice. Because that's what you do. And I won't be alone. If there is a sheet of ice on the road and crazed aboriginal snipers in Mad Max Paraphernalia roaming the highways aboard chop-topped mack trucks sporting mounted machine guns you couldn't stop people from participating in this event. Not people who don't suck, anyway. The rest; we don't need them.

Who are these invertebrate poser bitches afraid to ride if their chrome will get spotted-up or the wind may whip them around a little? They're human debris. And rides are better off without them. They're the annoying shitstains prancing around every HOG event and big city bike night so proud of the labels on their clothes they fail to notice their balls nestled safely in the wife's purse. Junk. The flotsam and jetsam of motorcycling's ever-growing stream.

So piss on ‘em. They'll never have bragging rights or true character. And they know they're not welcome at the tables where actual hoodlums drink. Motorsickle caste systems develop based more on the rider's behavior than on his socioeconomic status. Those who will not ride to help a friend are our untouchables. And despite Ghandi's protestations, Harijans of the motorsickle set can scavenge the corn from my shit.

Wanna come along? Wanna save your mortal soul? Click here for information:


Wanna bitch about my unfair characterization of your unfounded fears? Suck it. No one cares. Least of all me. Get your own blog, pussy.


Blogger Doug K. said...

Another home run!

8:33 PM  

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