This essay contains a graphic account of a serious motorcycle crash, emergency medical response and rider fatality.

What are the odds?! That was my first thought as I rounded the corner to find a motorcycle and its rider lying in the middle of the road and a group of concerned and horrified people spilling out of several stopped vehicles. My thought didn’t reflect disbelief about the crash. Sadly, these happen all too regularly on the scenic twisties in the mountains near my home, although I’ve never run up on one like this. Usually, I see a busted-up bike propped against a tree and a few riders waving traffic by as the forlorn crasher sits in the grass, head in hands. Or I come upon an ambulance and law enforcement busily working the scene. Instead, my thought about the odds was prompted by the fact I had just recently completed an online course on Accident Scene Management (ASM) specifically for motorcycle wrecks offered by Road Guardians (read my review elsewhere and listen to my podcast interview with its founder, Vicki Sanfelipo, RN). In one of the testimonials for that program, someone had arrived at an accident scene on their way home from taking the in-person version and was fortuitously well-oriented about what to do. Now, for the first time in 53 years as a motorcyclist, I was in much the same situation. Uncanny.

I knew to pull off well beyond the victim to give EMS plenty of room to park and do their thing. As I trotted over, pulling off my helmet and jacket, I could hear someone on speakerphone with 911; EMS was being dispatched, so that all-important piece was done. I was shocked they had cell service in this remote location but was greatly relieved they did. (Later in the call, they lost the connection. Always give 911 your number first so they can call back from their end—if you have to call them again, chances are you’ll be starting over with another operator, losing precious time.)

Once I could see the wreck more clearly, I immediately recognized the bike and rider. I had just moved over and waved him and his buddy by when they’d rushed up behind me about two minutes earlier. The downed rider, on a well-preserved early ‘80s Honda CB1100F superbike, had been following a tricked-out, late-model KTM 1290 Super Duke R. Both had out-of-state tags. While they were definitely riding at a faster clip than I was in the mood for, I’ve seen many riders go much more quickly on the backroads around here, doubling or even tripling the low posted limits (25-45mph). Often these are out-of-towners visiting East Tennessee and Western North Carolina specifically to ride these curves. Locals, who’ve ridden here for many years and still haven’t memorized all the corners, may often exercise more caution than these reckless (but not wreck-less) newcomers who dive into the unknown without apparent concern. Hence the frequency of crashes.

I also immediately recognized the likely crash scenario. Those who’d witnessed it at close range described the rider losing control and flying up in the air, only to strike the ground head first like a missile. There was a long black streak on the pavement approaching the centerline. At its end was a gap, followed by white scratches and streaks of paint spanning the remaining 50 feet to where the bike had come to rest in the oncoming lane. It looked like a high-side, likely caused when the rider—on a bike without ABS—stomped the rear brake in a panic, initiated a skid, and then reflexively released the brake when the skid spooked him. The suddenly regained traction would have instantaneously and violently levered the bike upright and over to the outside, catapulting the rider skyward. He’d entered the corner too hot and was in danger of arcing into the path of an oncoming vehicle, the one carrying the witnesses. They’d swerved off the road to give him more room, but his collision ended up being with the road itself.

I can easily imagine him being sucked into the corner by his buddy on a vastly more capable machine, and with perhaps much stronger skills. I’ve certainly been in that position before, trying to keep up on a challenging road and getting in over my head. Age and maturation have changed my stance on such situations and I now obey the wise adage to ride my own ride without feeling compelled to match others’ speeds. But I know how tempting it can be to follow the leader, hoping to replicate what they just clearly demonstrated is possible—albeit perhaps with a superior skill set, better hardware or more familiarity with the route.

Something else that seemed to defy the odds: one among the small number of bystanders was an EMT. He was starting to assess the unconscious victim’s condition in coordination with the 911 operator’s instructions. I redirected my attention away from the victim for a moment toward the initial priorities I’d learned in the ASM course, the first order of business being to prevent further injury. This included stationing people well down the road in both directions to deal with approaching traffic and getting the stopped vehicles relocated to allow EMS plenty of access and room to park. I also checked the downed bike for leaking fuel. Indeed, a puddle of gas was collecting underneath, so I coordinated efforts to hoist it onto its wheels and roll it off the road. Ideally, I’d have asked someone to quickly take a photo of everything before disturbing it so investigators would have that data for later analysis (potentially crucial for legal or insurance claim proceedings), but that task slipped my mind. I’d have grabbed my first aid kit, but it proved unnecessary.

Several minutes later, after four of us had begun taking turns doing chest compressions under the EMT’s supervision—the victim had no pulse—the KTM rider returned after noticing his buddy’s absence. As anyone would expect, he was instantly in extreme distress as the gravity of the situation sunk in. Another aspect of ASM is dealing with the psychological trauma suffered by both victims and witnesses. Rider One naturally wanted to touch and call out to Rider Two on the ground, though there was nothing he could actually contribute to rescue efforts in his agitated state. Firmly and gently, I escorted him out of the way of those working on the body and refocused him on the concrete physical project of helping me clear space for EMS. I also explained to him that, even when someone is apparently unconscious, they might still be able to hear the alarm of those nearby, which could make the experience even worse for them. I told him to start calling people connected to the victim (and himself) to tell them what had happened and start figuring out what they could do in response. Though sobbing, he was able to begin this process at a distance from his friend.

It was abundantly clear the downed rider was in terrible shape. While there was no obvious evidence of external or internal bleeding and his limbs all seemed intact, he had not been breathing since the outset; his eyes were half-open, but his pupils were unresponsive. In the AMS course, the sequential priorities for trauma care—based on the temporal lethality of failures of different bodily functions—began with the need to arrest catastrophic bleeding, if present. As I took inventory between my turns at chest compression (a much more tiring activity than expected), no such bleeding was visible. The EMT would have already checked this. The next priority was supposed to be ensuring the victim has an unobstructed airway. However, he was wearing a full-face helmet and both 911 and the EMT insisted it not be removed. According to the course—and you don’t need much medical expertise to appreciate the logic of this—helmet removal risks exacerbating damage to the cervical spinal cord, and should not be done unless absolutely necessary. However, such a move may be essential to access a victim’s airway, and life-giving oxygen can take precedence over neck-related concerns as an undisturbed spinal cord is of no use to someone who has died from hypoxia. The course teaches a two-person method of helmet removal that minimizes the risks involved and I was ready to assist with it, but I wasn’t going to defy the instructions of both the EMT and 911. When I voiced my concern about this, the EMT explained residual oxygen content in the blood can provide a buffer while circulation is sustained via chest compressions. I understood this but also recognized we were in the middle of nowhere and help was a long way away; that buffer seemed unlikely to last as long as it would take rescuers to reach us. Of all the upsetting elements involved, this disturbed me most, though I had little hope for the prospects of any such heroics. We continued as directed.

About 30 minutes after the crash—sooner than I’d have guessed possible, but still a loooong time to wait in an emergency—the ambulance arrived with an escort of motorcycle-mounted sherifs, a fire department SUV and a Park Ranger (this locale fell under the latter’s jurisdiction). As far as I could tell, the ambulance crew was unable to evoke any response from the victim, despite removing his helmet, attaching an automated chest compression machine and using an AED device. As the EMT who’d been there the whole time and I conferred once the ambulance had sped away and others were dispersing, it seemed most likely the victim had died instantly upon spearing into the pavement head-first, probably breaking his neck or damaging his brainstem on impact. While he’d been wearing a cheap helmet, flimsy jacket, cargo pants (thoroughly shredded by his body’s short slide) and neither boots nor gloves, better gear probably wouldn’t have made any difference in this case—unless he’d been wearing an airbag vest, which could have braced his head and neck in a way that might have altered the outcome tremendously.

Several years ago, MOA Ambassador and former President Reece Mullins recounted his experience of sustaining relatively minimal injuries after a deer strike on his R 1250 RT, crediting his Helite airbag vest for this almost unimaginably good fortune. Deer collisions on motorcycles are typically fatal, or nearly so; even safety guru Larry Grodsky met his untimely demise this way. Ever since Reece’s emphatic personal endorsement, I’ve worn my Helite Turtle 2 on every single ride; I now feel naked without it. More options keep arriving on the market, but at the time of my purchase I chose what appeared to provide the most cervical spine protection. I’m not trying to pitch my brand of choice, but I definitely am urging the inclusion of such gear in what we ATGATT riders consider de rigueur.

I’d have predicted my two-hour ride home might have been plagued with a heightened sense of vulnerability and danger. I’ve been with other riders when they crashed (without serious injury) and accompanied them on their terrified ride home at half the speed limits on the roads we traversed. Though I wasn’t shaken like the crashers, I understood their need to go slow; seeing it happen made my own potential for something similar more vivid. Surprisingly, on this day I detected zero change in my fear level. While I attribute some of this to the comforting presence of my Helite and other premium safety gear, I also knew there were critically important distinctions between the (presumably) fatal crash I’d just left and what I’m apt to encounter. These include the fact my current street bikes are equipped with modern ABS, which might have made all the difference for the guy who crashed. I also ride conservatively on unfamiliar roads, and don’t trust my memory even on those I ride regularly when I can’t see through corners. Plus, as already mentioned, I’ve stopped struggling to keep up with others, even when I see they were able to manage a section more quickly. Instead of feeling more scared about my own safety, what stood out most to me was that the majority (by far!) of other riders I saw were wearing nothing more than T-shirts, shorts or thin pants, and maybe just a “pudding-bowl” helmet. I was scared for them.

I’m not ignoring the very real risks of motorcycling, but it’s important to understand a high percentage of our fatalities involve excessive speed, intoxication, and/or a lack of rider training, motorcycle license or protective gear. These dramatically risk-elevating factors don’t apply to me and they needn’t apply to you. There’s no reason for people standing on the beach to fear a shark attack. Ride sensibly and soberly. Wear good gear. Invest in rider education and regular practice. Seriously consider adding an airbag vest to your routine riding apparel; though pricey, they’re less expensive than an ambulance ride—or a funeral—and you’ll get used to the slight inconvenience. Finally, take an ASM class from roadguardians.org. Better yet, get your riding buddies to take it with you. It could be someone from your group who needs life-sustaining help next.

The Ride Inside with Mark Barnes is brought to you by the MOA Foundation. You can join the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America quickly and easily to better take advantage of the Paul B. Grant and Clark Luster training reimbursement programs offered by the Foundation.