That doesn’t help. Or it’s too late for it to help. It’s about to end badly either way.
Something scurries across the road—a possum or a raccoon or a skunk, I suppose—and any other time I might have slowed the bike and swerved smoothly and suffered nothing but the subtle shift of adrenaline that would’ve left me shaking. Tonight, though. Tonight, I’ve been anywhere but here, and it costs me because I don’t want to hurt anything else. I swerve too hard and overcorrect from there, leaning right before I jerk to the left.
I feel none of the impact when I skid out of control and crash into the dirt embankment just off the highway. I hear nothing either, but I taste blood and can’t decide how I feel about that being the only thing my brain cares to register. My motorcycle is on top of me and my awkward landing has me taking inventory of everything now, but I can breathe and clench my fist and scrape the heel of my boot against the ground, so if I’m dying, I’m not there yet.
A car drives by, or maybe a few of them do, but depending on how far away I landed, I don’t think I’m all that visible to anyone looking straight ahead. Shouting for help doesn’t occur to me—hell, finding my phone and literally calling for help never crosses my mind—and I lie there long enough to start shivering, the moon close to questioning my sanity.
When I’m frustrated enough to fight my bike, I scoot out from under it and get unbearably loud and angry when I feel part of it tear against my thigh. Something is wet there—I don’t think I could’ve known that until now, or maybe it’s only just happened—and I have to ignore it if I’m going to make it home tonight. Moving again takes more effort, but however clumsyI am, I get clear of the motorcycle and throw my gloves to the ground.
Another car passes, and I stay low to avoid being found now, my pride unforgiveable, but persistent all the same.
Whatever didn’t hurt before hurts terribly when I fight my way to my feet, but after I’ve removed my helmet, it’s the first good look at my wrecked Harley that comes close to breaking me. My phone is badly cracked and won’t turn on—a predictable consequence I could’ve done without—and that stings, too. I don’t want to be here anymore, but I’m stuck, suddenly sharply aware that I’m too far north to even consider walking home.
What if I turn in the other direction?
Will it do me any good?
What time is it?
Asking questions without answers is a lost cause, and unless I want to make enough of a scene to force a car to stop for an old and bloody biker, I have to take a chance and walk somewhere else. A couple of steps suggest I’ll succeed just long enough, even with a limp I don’t want, so I leave my bike behind and keep going. The sidewalk is right there. Then an intersection I cross with the light. I don’t know how many blocks I have to go—I can’t put that much effort into counting right now—but I don’t slow down when I don’t know whether I ran out of time a while ago.
I want to go home, and I need help to get there.
But what if my help is already gone?