D-Day The drop heard around Mercer Island
By Kelly Hassman

(Laying it all on the line - or the freeway.)

A week before D-Day, the group I ride with exchanged a mass of emails.  They were mostly silly, recounting details from our recent distance ride, and giving bits of wisdom to the inexperienced rider (me).

Tim actually composed a list of sorts, containing tips about riding in general.  Two of his points were etched on my mind.

  • Your bike will tip over
  • Your helmet will be on top of it when it does

It had been nearly a month since I bought my SV650S.  The fear of ever losing control and seeing the beautiful motorcycle on the ground kept me overly cautious.  I couldnít imagine even a scratch on the shining blue of the immaculate body.  And I vowed that I wouldnít be a statistic; I would not let my bike fall.  Of course my attitude was ridiculed by Geoff, who was armed with his comment: "There are those riders who have laid their bikes down, and those riders that will lay their bikes down."

Not me.

Near the one-month mark, I was getting to understand the feel of the bike, and was comfortable enough riding it that my hands loosed their death grip on the handlebars.  One day after work, I was meant to meet a friend at 5:45 for the Mercer Island run.  I was about 15 minutes away from the Park and Ride rendezvous point, but I left at 5:00 to be sure I had plenty of time.  I zipped past the five oíclock traffic on 405, taking my spot in the coveted HOV lane.  I felt pangs of sympathy for the poor suckers alone in their cars that just had to sit and wait.  I thought to myself that they must all be wishing they had motorcycles too.  I cut through the parking lot of inching traffic to take the Interstate 90 exit toward Seattle.  The sun was shining, the sky was clear, and it was the perfect afternoon for riding.

The carpool lane separated from the main freeway, taking me up around and down again.  I cut the corners like a pro, and squealed to myself, "weee!" as I descended down to rejoin the traffic nightmare on I-90.  Just one mile from my intended exit, all four lanes were jammed to a stop.  I sat patiently in the carpool lane, feathering the clutch as I moved slowly forward.  Ten minutes of squeezing the clutch and the brake made my hands extremely fatigued.  When it looked like I would be stopped for a minute, I shifted into neutral and coasted to a stand, planting both feet on the ground.  I released the clutch to relieve my poor left hand from its strain.  As I stood there, I looked over to my right to take in the view of the water beyond the cars in the three lanes next to me. 

Underneath me, the bike shifted its weight.  I donít know if was a gust of wind, the incline I was parked on, or a quick case of motorcycle vertigo, but I started to feel the bike lean to my left.  I grabbed onto the handlebars just as it started to pull further, and heaved to keep the bike upright.  I nearly stopped it, but my arms couldnít support the 350-plus pounds of bike. 

Life suddenly moved in slow motion, and as the left side neared the pavement, I rolled myself between the bike and the freeway before it settled to a stop on its side.  It didnít dawn on me until later that I could have crushed my leg or something attempting to sacrifice myself for the paint job.  With the motor still running, a stream of curse words (some I had never even heard before) came spilling out, and I strained with every ounce of muscle I had, to right the bike again.  A man driving a truck was stopped in the lane next to me, and he hopped out to run over and help.  He made no eye contact with me as he lifted the poor Suzuki up.  When I was able to hold the bike up, without saying a word, the man darted back to his truck and jumped in, slowly moving away with traffic.

I rolled the bike to the shoulder, flipped the kill switch and put the kickstand down.  Examining the damage, I noted that the clutch lever had been bent up and around in a frilly, girly way.  I could still reach it, so it was forgivable.  Looking down the side, I noticed no scratches.  But as my eyes glanced over the gearshift, my heart stopped.  It was gone.  I walked back past cars a bit until I located the missing part lying in the middle of the lane I had been in.  I shook my head as I picked up the small, but extremely significant, piece of black and silver gearshift, and shoved it into my backpack.

I made sure all the witnesses of the event had long since passed before I started up the bike again.  Managing to shift by scraping my foot on the stump of gearshift that remained, I continued on to my Mercer Island run.  After all, you canít pass up a good riding day in Seattle.  When I finally got a hold of Geoff to cry a little and recount the events, he laughed a bit.

He proudly declared, "You have graduated to the next level of riding.  Congratulations."

D-Day.  The Drop, where, for one brief second, you cease to be the cool, sleek, mysterious biker.  Instead you are a fumbling moron, publicly humiliated, straining and scrambling to become an upright citizen (literally) once againÖ all to join the ranks of 99.99% of bikers everywhere.  The camaraderie is moving.

SEPTEMBER