March 4, 2005; Cali-Ari-New

Last night I made the decision to leave for Florida, where my brother, Adam will be in the NCAA Division II Finals representing Truman State as a Freshman. Although I was still in the process of interviewing for a Project Manager position, the outlook was unpromising. The only thing I knew for sure was that Adam was swimming and I had not made any of his meets, as I had planned earlier.

San Diego to Orlando is approximately 2,440 miles. I had five days to make it Orlando, so I planned for four and gave myself a swing day to account for rain; a necessity dictated by the bleak forecast.

Here we go- first day. Seven blocks from the Pacific, the skies were clear, but over the mountains I hit wind and cold rain for an hour or so. It was the kind of weather that made me want to swear up and down. So I fired off some choice words in a futile attempt to get even at the mountains. Although my current situation was frustrating, it could have been much worse, as I was soon to find out.

Just across the Arizona border, the interstate came to a stop. I was still in the California lane-splitting state of mind, so I rambled along the yellow dotted line and picked up a tail in the process. The cause of the stand still was an accident. I stopped a couple cars behind the paramedic crew, and the biker that was following me introduced himself. He was in a group heading to Daytona Bike Week. It was his buddy that had crashed and was being put in the back of an ambulance just ahead. Neither the rider nor bystanders near the wreck knew exactly what happened, but the rumors were that the biker had hit the right rail, then the left; an eighteen-wheeler was involved somehow. From the sorted details of the story, one could only assume that the accident had been fatal.

The jam slowly cleared, a few somber well wishes were exchanged, and I left without knowing who the person was on the bike or what exactly had happened. I told myself that the people involved had enough to deal with as it was, and didn't need another prying set of eyes around. I was lying to myself. I didn't stick around because I didn't want to get attached to the people or the details. I knew the inherent dangers of motorcycling, and I just wanted to leave. It was a selfish and cold state of mind, especially considering where I had come from.

I continued on through what remained of the accident scene; a scuffed up Harley and a semi with a crumpled trailer. The episode was unfortunate and sobering to say the absolute least, but it served as a grim reminder of how quickly everything can change. Half an hour down the road, I ran across another member of the same group. The rider in the accident had been wearing a helmet. After a tussle with two guardrails and a truck on the interstate, the rider miraculously had only a couple of broken bones and was in stable condition.

California has a mandatory helmet law. Arizona does not. If the group had stopped for gas after the Arizona border, chances are that they would have taken off their helmets and the outcome of the accident would have been very different.

The day ended back at the Yarber's, just across the Arizona/Texas border, after 741 miles.