Riding alone

In the summer of 1994, I spent two long days exploring Michigan's network of off-road trails in the lower peninsula. I enjoyed it enough to return in 1995, this time to the upper peninsula. As before, I picked out various trail networks I wanted to visit and ordered maps from the Michigan Department of Natural Resources. The previous year's trip had gone well, other than misjudging how long it would take to complete a 38-mile trail loop, leaving the marked trail, getting lost on country roads and being soaked by a rain storm. Unfazed by this, once again I would go it alone.

I'd gained more experience on my Suzuki RMX250, racing a few hare scrambles in the spring, but I was still mostly oblivious to the risks of dirt biking. Sure, I'd had my share of bumps and bruises, but I always walked (or limped) away from those incidents. To me, riding alone was about as normal as a solo trip to buy groceries. It just required more planning.

I drove into the UP by way of Wisconsin, arriving at my first trail network in time to ride a couple hours in the afternoon. The next morning, July 13th, I awoke to sunshine and warm, humid air. This day would produce record-setting heat across the Midwest, the kind which taxes electrical grids and topples cows as they graze. Midway airport in Chicago recorded a high of 106 degrees and, thanks to humidity, a heat index of 124. Even in the far northern reaches of Michigan, temperatures rose quickly into the upper-80s, warm by UP standards. None of this mattered to me, of course, for I was two days into a weeklong vacation and would ride in any weather.

At the Two Hearted trailhead north of Newberry, I unloaded the bike, threw on my gear and rushed into the glorious singletrack for which Michigan is renowned. The trail was dry and sandy with whoops, much like last year's singletrack in the Atlanta area. I kept the RMX250 mostly in second gear through the tight, twisty woods. Last year's lesson about long loops and fuel capacity had been learned, so I planned to do shorter loops and, most importantly, stay on the marked trail.

That plan went well for 45 minutes. As I passed by undergrowth at the edge of the trail, an unseen object grabbed my left boot and jerked my foot. I'd been dangling my foot below the gearshift lever, leaving it exposed just enough for a hidden tree stump to catch the end of my boot. In an instant, the stump had wrapped my lower boot around the foot peg. The impact was so quick that my forward momentum was uninterrupted and I continued along the trail.

I didn't crash, but the pain was like nothing I'd experienced before. No doubt my foot was broken, so I turned around and began riding back to the truck. One minor problem: The truck was most likely 10 miles from here. Even in first gear, the trail was narrow and rough and unsuitable for a guy who'd just smashed his foot against a stump.
I decided to forget what I'd learned the year before and leave the marked trail. Logging roads crisscrossed the trail often, so I took a chance and turned onto a smooth, flat dirt road. I had no idea where it led but hoped at some point I'd run into a public road.

Sure enough, the logging road crossed a wide, graveled county road. With no warning of the approaching intersection, I blew through it, braked hard in the loose dirt, fell over and stalled the engine.

More pain.

With one good leg to work with, I was able to upright the bike. These were the days when almost all dirt bike engines started up by foot and leg, and thus began the tricky mechanics of making the RMX250 run with half my feet. As luck would have it, I'd injured my left foot. The kick start lever was located on the right side of the motorcycle. Less fortunately, all my weight had to be placed on my left foot in order to operate the kick start lever. With help from several colorful metaphors I was familiar with and a few more I made up on the fly, the engine fired up.

As I approached the intersection once more, a large Dodge pickup truck roared by with an RV in tow and a canoe strapped to the roof. This was a vehicle clearly on its way to recreation, and I was about to modify their plans. I sped up the road, quickly realizing I'd have to shift gears if I ever hoped to catch the driver's attention. But how? My left foot was certainly not up to the task. The only option I could think of was to imitate a proper 1800s lady on horseback: I side-saddled. Swinging my right leg over to the left side of the bike, I upshifted to 4th gear and approached the truck from behind, frantically waving with my clutch hand.

The driver noticed the odd sight of a side-saddling motorcyclist chasing him down, and brought his outfit to a slow stop. A middle-aged couple stepped out of the truck, halos shining over both heads. They were Lloyd and Delores Fitzpatrick, on their way to a short vacation of camping and canoeing.

I quickly convinced the Fitzpatrick's of two things: I was not completely insane, and my foot was most likely broken. In a ditch beside the road, I stretched my legs and contemplated my swollen foot. The boot had to come off, and soon. I knew I couldn't tolerate the pain of removing it the normal way, so I borrowed Lloyd's pocket knife and sliced into the seams on the back of the boot. The knife was dull and the seams came out slowly. While I worked on the boot, the Fitzpatrick's worked on a plan to get me to the hospital in Newberry, 20 miles south.

In a stroke of good fortune, the Fitzpatrick's lived in Newberry. They knew where the hospital was located and, as would be important later, were friends with people who could assist in what would become a logistical challenge like no other I'd experienced.

Lloyd decided a trip back to Newberry would be easier if the camper was disconnected from the truck. As he backed the trailer into an opening in the woods, another car pulled over to assist. An elderly gentleman offered to help me with the boot. With no warning, he grabbed the bottom with both hands and tugged as if he were delivering a calf. The tugging didn't last any longer than the string of expletives from my mouth. The man redeemed himself by producing a sharper, more robust knife for the boot seams.

With short work on the seams, I pulled apart the leather halves and carefully slid my lower leg out the back of the boot. My foot was instantly relieved of pressure, but the sight of blood on my sock set me into a panic. Mother of Christ, what did I do to myself? The shape of the foot was just not right, especially around the area of the big toe. I didn't want to know what lie beneath the sock, so it stayed on until Newberry.

Delores quickly helped me into the truck while Lloyd and the other gentleman stashed my motorcycle out of sight in the woods. At that point I could not have cared less about the bike or even my pickup truck for that matter. I just wanted the pain, and this entire ordeal, to end.

On the way to Newberry, good fortune came again when I spotted my truck at the Two Hearted trailhead on County Highway 407. I alerted the Fitzpatrick's as we continued our 30-minute drive to the hospital.

At the emergency room entrance, I was wheeled into the hospital like an invalid, embarrassed of the inconvenience I'd caused this nice couple. In that moment, I understood my foolishness. The risks of dirt biking had just become very real. What if I had broken my leg? This was 1995 and I didn't own a cell phone. Would anyone have found me before the wolves?

Inside the nearly-empty ER, I prepared for critical tones of the medical staff when I explained why I was there. I had never forgotten my childhood allergist describing motorcycles as "Suicycles" when he found out I had one. Would the Newberry staff give me the same treatment?

No, actually.

The staff treated me the same as if I'd fallen off a ladder. The X-ray tech thanked me for helping keep the trails clear for her sport, mountain biking. As the only hospital within 50-miles, they had seen their share of off-road injuries.

The X-ray tech walked back to the waiting room and proclaimed "No wonder you're in so much pain!" The X-rays revealed two breaks in the metatarsals and a dislocated big toe, which had popped far enough out of its joint to puncture the skin around it. The injury was beyond the Newberry hospital's ability to repair, so they referred me to a specialist in Sault Ste. Marie, about 60 miles northeast.

Now as the start of my logistical challenges. How would I get to Sault Ste. Marie, then back to Newberry, retrieve my truck, locate my motorcycle and load it with a broken foot?

Answer: Lloyd and Delores Fitzpatrick.

The Fitzpatrick's hatched a well-orchestrated plan to get me to Sault Ste. Marie with my motorcycle and pickup truck, all set up for my long drive to Illinois. With military precision, the plan went like this:

1. Delores retrieved her car at the Fitzpatrick home in Newberry.
2. Lloyd called a friend to assist in locating my truck and motorcycle.
3. Delores shuttled me to the orthopedic specialist at Sault Ste. Marie.
4. Lloyd and his friend loaded my motorcycle into my truck.
5. Delores waited in the orthopedic specialist's office while my injuries were repaired.
6. Lloyd drove my truck to Sault Ste. Marie.
7. Delores helped me settle into a motel for the night.
8. The Fitzpatrick's met at my motel, truck and motorcycle delivered, and drove home to Newberry.

I would like to emphasize a point here, which I hope won't ever be lost upon humankind: No matter what you see in the news or read on social media or hear from your friends, this is how people are. No matter the foolishness which puts you in a predicament, the Fitzpatrick's of the world exist.

But I digress. The Fitzpatrick's plan was flawless, and I soon found myself in the office of a pleasant doctor at Sault Ste. Marie, who inflicted an incredible amount of pain, but did mange to save my riding pants from the cutters. He asked where I was from and what I did for a living and how I came to enjoy dirt biking. He discovered I worked for a bank which loaned money to farmers and mentioned the challenges of the local cherry farmers this year. All the while he worked on my foot, twisting and pushing against broken bones and testing my capacity to keep the screams inside. Finally, after declaring "This is gonna hurt," the doctor reinserted my big toe into its joint, sewed me up and wrapped my lower leg in a cast. He was finished, and so was the worst of the pain.

Delores took me to a Hardees drive-thru and I savored my first meal since breakfast 10 hours earlier. She helped me settle in at the cheapest place in town, the Bambi Motel. Lloyd arrived with my truck, exactly as planned. I wanted to give the Fitzpatrick's something for their trouble, but of course that's not how angels work. "Call your mother," Delores instructed. I asked for their address and Lloyd handed me a business card for -- what else? -- the Good Sam Club.

Charter members, I'm sure.

With that, the Fitzpatrick's left for home. The next day I visited the local police station to file an accident report for my health insurance carrier, then returned a borrowed set of crutches to the orthopedic office. I left Sault Ste. Marie and drove straight to my parent's farm in Illinois. In a life, 8 hours isn't terribly significant, but that time in the truck felt like two lifetimes.

I didn't ever put myself in such a dangerous position again. Over time I made friends with likeminded dirt bikers and took trips to new, faraway places for trail riding. But never alone.