A Great Ride to the Sturgis Rally, a Plane, Snow, and a Lot of Fog
My Dream Ride
I try to open my eyes. My eyelids felt so heavy—was I drugged? I could sense light...and voices! Jim! Could they see my eyes twitching? Yes. Jim! I heard my name. It felt so hard to move. The dead weight. I’m starting to feel things. Sheets. My head is on a pillow. I’m propped up. Something in my throat. Air is pushing—pulsing, I think. I try to swallow, but it hurts…something in my throat. I relax, drifting back into the foggy haze…
After a stopover at Blake’s in Park City, UT I’m finally here, in Sturgis. It was a nice four-day motorcycle ride and camping along the way. There had been a growing number of motorcycles joining me on the way. My H-D Heritage Softail Classic, The nice saddle and back rest were good investments for this trip on my H-D Heritage Softail Classic.
I rode down Main Street on dry land with the sea of motorcycles stacked double-deep on either side. I waded into the crowd at Sturgis Coffee Company and with a good cup of medium brew found an empty chair. I’m waiting for Blake’s friend to arrive. There’s herds of denim and leather, and the slow drone of cruisers over on Main Street. I was lucky to get here before it got crazy. Blake’s friend is up here and that’s where I'm bunking tonight.
It’s still a bit foggy out, but we’re riding to Billings today. What’s this guy’s name…I can’t remember. It’s like I’m reliving this and only remember certain things; my mind is somewhere in a cloud. With some regret on my part we left Sturgis early, but for an introvert, I have to admit the crowds and noisy exhausts cruising back and forth over on Main Street got to be bit much for me. Why are we headed to Billings again? Something about flying in a friend’s plane—just mention flying small aircraft and I’m all in. Afterwards I can ride over to visit longtime friends in Idaho before heading south to home in La Quinta, CA.
The half-day ride to Billings was nice and the weather made it comfortable. Stayed overnight at the friend’s place and then headed over to the airport. After helping with the pre-flight of the Cessna Skyhawk 172, the three of us climbed in with me in the back seat. Over the engine noise I made out something about Bozeman and Missoula; with only two headsets I turned off my hearing aids to deaden the engine noise. Soon we were over the mountains and I was taking pictures of the terrain below.
We started to get buffeted by updrafts from the rising mountains so I tightened my harness. More gusts. The plane felt heaver than it should be with just three people. I caught a slight hesitation in the drone of engine…did they feel it? I tapped the guy in the right seat and pointed at my ears. When he took off the headset I yelled something about the engine. He shook his head and put the headset back on. But I heard a few more…did they? The pilot must have felt it and I saw him adjust the mixture. But it keep missing a beat. Now it was real noticeable! He reached up and switched tanks and checked the magnetos and it worsened. I hit his shoulder, when he glanced back I made an exaggerated pointing down—he had to get this plane on the ground, fast! Silence.
All we could hear now is the wind. As they say, what makes a pilot sweat—when the fan quits. They started to get frantic up front…maybe searching for maps. Why wasn’t he radioing in a May Day? My mind started grabbing memories of the possible glideslope of the 172. We were at the mercy of the wind and our weight now. Without that big fan pulling us, the gusts felt worse. I questioned why I didn’t find out more about the pilot and this airplane. I remember some things about Cessna Skyhawks because I took flight lessons in one—40 years ago! We were descending faster than we should be; I'm trying to recall the glideslope. Flaps! Get the flaps down! They should be going through the engine out check list! They’re just frantically yelling at each other in their headsets with hands jerking here and there. Hopeless.
That’s how I felt in the back seat—I’m no help back here. Did he try restarting? Had he found an alternate landing site? Come on! You’re going to kill us. Did I text a picture of the plane to Leslie? Was the tail number in the picture? My mind was racing and raging at what seemed to be a bumbling pilot getting us killed. Mountains! We’re in the mountains! I started to pray…seriously!
I don’t remember the crash, but my shoulders and hips hurt from the harness pulling me back. Cough! Ugh, what was that smell…smoke? Get out of here Jim! I note the plane landed on the right side which made the pilot nearly in the right seat but where was the other guy…why can’t remember names? I was able to push the back of the seat forward and…Ugh! I hurt all over! I'm somehow standing outside of the plane looking around. Snow? No, it’s summer, or is it? My head is so foggy I can’t remember. It’s powder!
White powder! All over everything now. Brushing it off my clothes, looking up I see the rear baggage door open…Oh, (well whatever I said, it must’ve been bad). Plastic-wrapped bricks of powder had fallen out on impact, broken, and coated everything—and me! It’s in the air! My phone. Call someone. Holding it up in the air, trying to what? Laughing at myself for doing that—or was it the powder making me laugh. I hope not. The last thing I need is to get delirious. Water!
I hear water. Scout training came rushing back. When lost, find water…a stream and follow it down to people. Walking, a bit stiff, toward the sound of a stream. I’ll wash my face off and gargle before I drink. Good, I had a jacket on. Flying at elevation can be cold. Taking it off and brushing it off, trying to get rid of that white powder. Especially before someone sees it and a staggering, disheveled man—putting two and two together. Wait! They’ll think I was part of it! No. Maybe. Well, that’s not my first problem. I need to find people and get help. Keep walking, Jim. It’s going to get cold tonight. I kept myself moving along this stream hoping to find life. Sitting down to rest only stiffened my already stiff legs…and my back! I typed what information I could recall into my phone. Plane, tail number, departure and destination—well I really didn’t know if that was where we were heading, for real. Smoke!
Smelling smoke meant people! Hoping to reach wherever it is, as it was nearing twilight. Around the bend of the stream, a cabin! HELP! HELP ME! As I fell to my knees. A fog took me into darkness. I felt my self being moved. Voices. Warmth. A fire. Someone asking my name. Jim, I said. It’s on my phone. Information. Call for help. The FAA, or, or, Police! A plane crash! White powder! As I drifted back into a fog. Deep into fog.
I feel a hand. Someone holding my hand. My eyelids are heavy, but I will them to open. My brain is still foggy. I can feel more. A bed. I’m propped up. My eyelids finally open. I see a nurse looking at me. Saying something I can’t hear. No hearing aids. I look over and see my wife, Leslie. She flew up to see me! I look at the Nurse and say, I wah, I wah. Why can’t I talk? I try again. I wah! I wah! I hear Leslie says, he's trying to talk—he wants something!. The nurse leaves and comes back. She puts something on my throat. Leans in towards me and says in a loud voice, Can you say, Hello? I say, Hello! She says, Tell your wife that you love her. I look over at Leslie and say I love you! Turning back to the Nurse I say, I want a Coke! Laughter. My throat feels parched and sore. A Coke would feel good. Although I still don’t know why I said a Coke.
The rest is a rush. I quickly ask Leslie if they got through to the FAA to report the plane crash or the DEA and if they found it. I didn’t know they were making a drug shipment! My wife looks at me funny and told me I collapsed at home. I’ve been in the hospital, sedated, on a ventilator for 10 weeks! What? No! After riding my motorcycle to Sturgis I went with these guys and was flying in his plane….crash…powder. For days I kept asking about my note to contact the FAA and DEA about the crash. It was making my brain foggy.
As the sedation slowly rinsed out of my brain, I came to realize that my trip to Sturgis, stopping at Blake’s, coffee, motorcycle, plane, crash, powder…it all was this vivid dream, that two years later is still there for me to write this, but slowing getting foggy. My wife was sitting by my bed nearly every day for 10 weeks. Three weeks! I struggled at life in Desert Regional Trauma Center, having to be sedated on a ventilator. Multiple battles with pneumonia, heart issues. Our four adult children traveling to see their dad, maybe for the last time. Being ferried over to Ontario to Kindred Hospital for another 7 weeks, then lots of Physical Therapy.
Besides, Leslie hasn’t allowed me to ride a motorcycle unless I had $1 million in life insurance and full disability coverage…which I haven’t been able to get in 47 years. She didn’t want to have to nurse me – a near vegetable – back to health for years. Wait a minute! That’s exactly what she just did for 10 weeks and half as long in Physical Therapy. And it wasn’t even a motorcycle or a plane wreck! And the only drugs involved were keeping me sedated. Every place I dreamed about were places we had been before—except Blake’s in Park City.
But it’s great to be alive and we give many, many thanks for all those who prayed during the long road in the hospital and back to health. Thank you, Lord! (It was a cool motorcycle dream trip, though.)