It wasn’t until I got hit by a truck on my motorcycle I considered buying a holiday trailer.  (The trailer is another story – stay tuned).  It was the day following the accident I decided.  

Oh, I wasn’t hurt.  I could have been killed, probably should have been.  

But wasn’t.  

It happened fast, I suppose, like most accidents.  The light turned yellow as I approached the intersection, and thought “brake hard, don’t risk blowing through a red light.”  

It was raining.  

The split second I rolled to a stop I looked in my rear view mirror.  I saw the grill of a gold GMC three-quarter ton truck slide up the back of me and punch into the motor cycle.  The tires didn’t squeal because the road was freshly wet.  The grill warped in the mirror as the skidding truck rotated counterclockwise on its centre axis, rubber struggled to grip cold wet asphalt.







It sounded like “CHUNK” when the truck plowed into me.  


Nothing like two wheels for fun or risk.

Nothing like two wheels for fun or risk.







The half-second or so drew out in my mind like a kid pulling a wad of bubble gum through deciduous teeth.  Good thing it didn’t snap.  I hung on to the motorcycle handgrips in that stretched second or so of time.  I stayed on.  The cross traffic cleared just at that moment hanging in time, like a bit of text suspended in the middle of a white page, dash marks on either side of it.  Just enough for me to slip through.  Traffic fore: traffic aft.  Me clear through the middle.

–Miraculous– the text in my head said.

It was like riding the wild love child of a bucking bronco bred with a racehorse–bareback; a rippling muscled beast clapped sharply on the right firm flank before launching its rider out of the stall.  Except I wasn’t anticipating the starting gun. And I had no bronco-rope to hang onto.

The motorcycle fully exited the intersection six lanes deep before I got it under control, slowed, stopped, and leaned it lopsided on the side stand.  It took a few deep breaths to gain my composure and recognize I was still on the Motorcycle, and I suffered no direct impact.  

The gold GMC pulled gently in behind me, tight to the lopsided motorcycle, on the other side on the intersection.  The passenger in the truck was hysterical – crying, and then sobbing.  I had to take my gauntlets and helmet off, walk back, stick my head in the driver’s window, and say:  

“Ma’am, Ma’am, I am ok.  See?”  

She continued to bawl like a calf missing its mother.  We exchanged insurance and registration information, and I accepted a profuse apology from the inattentive driver of the truck.  We finished up the paperwork before those jerky inhalations that kids with skinned knees continue after they stop the initial crying.  She needed some time to settle, but eventually, she did.  

We shook hands.  They drove off.  It was after starting the motorcycle and letting it idle, me in the saddle, straddling the beast, planning my revised route back to the dealer, I heard a small inaudible voice say:  

“Timotheus, listen to my whisper, don’t make me raise my voice.”  

It was then the tears came.  And heaving.  

I listened, and decided.

Just whisper, I am listening…


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