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My name is Sandy Get-Off


doc47

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Suddenly, the motorcycle's front wheel dips left, catches, and I'm thrown violently forward and to the right, briefly airborne.

 

Too late for an attitude adjustment. It is axiomatic not to ride when upset, preoccupied, addlepated, drunk, stoned, bereaved, furious, vegetatively depressed, bemused, manic, or any of a dozen other potentially disastrous mental sets. (Paranoid might actually be an advantage.)

I had been up this road shortly beforehand, in process of trying to figure out just where the hell Nfelleh Madina Village was. The sign Top Sergeant Badjie said was at the turn-off had been turned off some time previously and was no longer there. I'd overshot the turn-off all the way to Kiti Village, had to back-track all the way to Brikama, had asked directions three times, called Top Sergeant Badjie three times and finally gotten on the right road.

Finding things in West Africa is not easy. Roads are rarely named and, if so, lack signage. There is no house numbering. Directions are most frequently a vague point (not always in the correct direction) accompanied by the words, “Over there”. Top Sergeant Badjie, being a Top Sergeant, is more skillful, but he still didn't realize the sign he was referring to was nonexistent. His instructions were more on the order of, “Go out of Brikama toward Gunjur and when you find where the trucks are loading sand turn right. There will be a sign that says Kasa Kunda Lower Basic School. After you go through Kasa Kunda, our village is the next one.”

The phone connection wasn't the greatest and I couldn't tell the difference between “S-es” and “Tees”. Getting him to repeat names didn't help.

 

I am flying upside-down and land very hard on my right shoulder. My whole body accordions to the right and my right ribs feel like a Slinky being run over by a 4X4. Old Bill Cosby line: The pain was tree-MEN-dous! After a short interval the motorcycle lands on my right leg.

 

So, I finally get on the right road...again...and it's fair going. Bumpy, hard laterite. Wide. Nothing but bush to either side – mangoes, oil palms, the occasional cashew tree – and I'm jogging along at pretty good clip when suddenly it's soft sand. Deep stuff. I have two choices: slow down and bog through it or keep my speed and try to stay on top of it. But I'm pissed off at having to fiddle-fart around trying to find the place, and probably I'm a bit dehydrated by now, which makes me even stupider. I make the split-second wrong decision to keep up my speed. Wrong, wrong. Wrongity-wrong-wrong!

 

I yell, “Aaaaaaaaagh!” several times and am at the same time ashamed of myself for being such a baby. The right side of my rib cage feels stove in and I'm wondering if I'm going to have a sharp piece of rib puncturing a lung. (These are the sorts of things doctors think about when they crash their motorbikes.) “Aaaaaaaah sh__!” Two words, both ending in “R” follow. There's sand in my mouth and my nose and my ears. The pain in my side distracts me from the pain in my right knee and ankle. I've broken that ankle once previously, 40-some years ago when a Norton came out from under me on an oil slick. I wonder if it is broken again. I can't move it or the knee. It's securely pinned under the left pannier. The right pannier has been sheared off and sits upright in the sand in the road. “I hope to hell I don't end up in hospital today,” I tell myself.

 

It is the additive effect of impatience, fatigue, mild dehydration, frustration and annoyance that led to the bad decision. But what has led to my decision that, at the age of 70-plus I am still riding motorcycles? More and more I wonder about me.

 

The sun is hot. There's nobody around but I'm pretty sure someone will be along before too long. The pain has eased a bit. I can't budge the motorcycle. It's too heavy. I can't get my body into a position with any leverage and my right shoulder and ribs disapprove of me getting at all ambitious. I've discovered I can take deep breaths. That's a good sign. I can wiggle my right ankle and toes. That's good, too. The entire front line of Manchester United has stopped trying to kick my ribs in.

My neck feels intact. I take my helmet and goggles off and manage to fish my cell phone out of its case on my belt. I call Top Sergeant Badjie.

“Top,” I say, “I've had an accident. I'm hurt.” I tell him where.

“OK. Keep coming along that road,” he says. He's obviously missed some piece of information.

“No, Top!” I tell him. “I can't. I'm hurt and pinned down.”

“I'll be right there,” he says.

I lie in the hot sand in the hot sun and wait for someone to show up. My mouth is dry and it's hard to spit the sand out. My nose is packed with sand and I mine it with a finger so I can breathe through it.

It's hot and quiet and the pain is easing. There's nothing to do but wait for help, so I do what any 21st-Century person would do: I get out my phone and take a picture.

 

Maybe it's twenty minutes later; a solidly-built village woman and her young daughter appear, walking slowly down the track. She treads a measured pace that doesn't change as she approaches. I'm sure she's seen me. Why isn't she reacting? Quickening her pace to come to my aid? It's odd but when she gets within ten meters of me she suddenly startles and hurries over. As though she hadn't noticed a toubab and large motorcycle lying in the middle of the road directly ahead of her. She gives the little girl some instructions in a local language and comes over to help, but she is unable to lift the bike off my leg.

Soon, I hear a motor-sound from behind me but I can't twist my body or head around to see what's there. Two men appear. The bike is lifted. Bending my knee is agony. My side is worse. They help me up and into the shade at the roadside. An angelically beautiful, cafe-au-lait-colored woman holds a plastic bottle with a little water to my lips. “Drink”, she says. I do.

The two men are gentle and solicitous. They start the bike and ride it out of the road. Badjie shows up on his “moto”, an old police 250. He is head man in the president's escort and rides a big R1200RT at work. Up through January he was protecting Jammeh, the dictator. Now he is outrider for Barrow, the new president.

He asks if I can follow him on the bike. I need a few minutes to gather myself together. My hands are shaking a bit less but I'm still doing a damage assessment. Eventually, I stand with help. The bike doesn't appear damaged other than having shaken loose the pannier.

Top takes the pannier with him on his bike. I fire up Timpa Marong. Moving hurts but I can manage and I follow him along the edge of the track avoiding the soft parts. It's hairy because I know I'm not capable of doing anything energetic if need arises. But everything goes OK and ten minutes later we are at his village and a few minutes after that at his compound. We park the machines in the shade.

I am alive, shaken, bruised, but not badly hurt. I thank the god who protects stupid old men – up to a point.

A small girl brings me a metal mug of cold water.

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Wow doc, what a story. I am so glad to read that you are not seriously hurt. I am blaming your skill as a writer that I actually laughed a couple of times reading this. I was laughing with you...really. I hope the ride home was less eventful.

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roadscholar
Suddenly, the motorcycle's front wheel dips left, catches, and I'm thrown violently forward and to the right, briefly airborne.

 

Too late for an attitude adjustment. It is axiomatic not to ride when upset, preoccupied, addlepated, drunk, stoned, bereaved, furious, vegetatively depressed, bemused, manic, or any of a dozen other potentially disastrous mental sets. (Paranoid might actually be an advantage.)

 

Friends don't let friends ride "vegetatively depressed" : )

 

Doc you need a publisher, 'Illuminating stories from the Dark Continent' ?

 

It's not the rider it's the bike. F650's suck in sand, I used to ride them in Ocala Nat. Forest which has at least as much sand as West Africa and have been pitched 10 yards out into the palmettos a few times. Nice on road but any of the Japanese 650's are more capable, lighter the better.

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Bill, so, it isn't me????

I've never had the opportunity to ride another machine in the sand, so I've got nothing to compare it to. Have you read my essay on "Riding in Sand"? My friend, David Beardsley, ex-British Army racer, who is featured in that article, tootles around in the sand on his Honda 650 like he's riding on pavement.

My knee and ankle are almost back to normal. Right shoulder still giving me some pain, but it's bearable and improving.

Thanks for all the good wishes, guys!

Edited by doc47
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roadscholar
Bill, so, it isn't me????

 

Well it could be a little : ) but bike choice plays a big part. Of all the Japanese 650's the XR works best in sand partly because it's lighter than the others and probably because of it's racing development (I think it's won Baja at least ten times, the R version). I've had both and it's night and day over the BMW.

 

I did read the essay, been awhile tho. As far as technique for deep rutted sand there are a few important things to work on/remember.

 

Stand on the pegs (a slight crouch, the attack position), and mentally get into an attack mindset because that's what your doing to it. Can't be timid approaching sand, it will defeat you every time.

 

Until your more comfortable with it slow down on approach, get in 2nd gear and stay at steady throttle. If/when it gets really squirrely give it a squirt and it'll straighten up.

 

Don't look down in front, keep the eyes up and try to look 10-15 yards out, more when you go faster. This is the hardest one for me, have to remind myself but I know it works.

 

Practice, it's like any other riding discipline, the more you do it the more comfortable it will become.

 

 

Glad you're on the mend Doc, when you get a little time write a book will ya..

 

 

 

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Great Stuff! I rode a Triumph Bonneville in sand, but it was outfitted with a knobby tire out back. I was told to sit way up forward, on the tank, and keep up momentum. It seemed to work. I've had unplanned get-offs, too, where I wasn't seriously injured, but did break three ribs, cracked a scapula, and hurt all over, not so long ago, either. Why am I still riding at my age? Because I love it! I used to own sailboats, and the mantra was "You gotta love it!" because of all the work that was involved.

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szurszewski

Saw this post a couple of days ago but haven't had time to read it until now - glad you got out from under that bike!

 

...of course, since you mentioned there is a picture, we kind of need to see it now - if it's easier to email it to me, do so and I'll post it for you!

 

 

Bill - do you think that sand advice will work as well on our rig? We're currently just 200 miles north of Florida and heading south - you never know when we might run into some sand.... ;)

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Great Stuff! I rode a Triumph Bonneville in sand, but it was outfitted with a knobby tire out back. I was told to sit way up forward, on the tank, and keep up momentum.

 

"Way up front" works well on dirt but I question it on sand. Seems the trick is to keep the front wheel on top of the sand, like skiing in powder snow. To do that you have to sit back and keep the front wheel light so it planes.

 

I certainly see the parallel with sailing. Ya gotta love it or it'll drive you crazy. (And put you in the poor-house!) Spent three years blue-water sailing and finally swallowed the anchor.

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roadscholar

Bill - do you think that sand advice will work as well on our rig? We're currently just 200 miles north of Florida and heading south - you never know when we might run into some sand.... ;)

 

The good thing is it won't tip over Josh. 1000 lbs. and 5 wheels..only advice I can think of is 'momentum', and lots of it : )

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doc47

"Way up front" on the saddle and tank lightens the rear and allows the rear tire to slip and slide sideways and spin some, too, while the bike is still moving forward.

Poor-house! Ha-ha! I've owned several sailboats, and like bikes, you start small and get bigger. I went from an 8' dink to a 40' Beneteau over the course of 35 yrs. If I had back all I spent on just on the annual nut, I could retire tomorrow! But the memories... those are irreplaceable.

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Whoa Doc! I was afraid where this was going. I've been to Ghana a couple of times on 3 week stretches. When friends from Ghana visit here, the ease of travel via paved roads always leaves an impression.

 

Out your way, the pavement is nothing to write home about and but once it ends, things can get treacherous in a blink of an eye. I've been lost many times out in the bush, with the simple kind of directions you mention - directions that make total sense to locals. That double back thing (again and again) - frustration building each time, not to mention the heat(!) - tough not to be a little agitated under those circumstances. With all you experienced leading up to the Sand Box, of course you were going to power through!!

 

Grateful for your health and that you had cell service and a working phone. I'm impressed with your resiliency - which would be impressive for a man half your age!

 

You, Sir, are a brave soul to be riding in unknown areas. So glad you're on the mend and had help nearby.

 

Thanks too, for all you're doing. :thumbsup:

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  • 1 month later...

Wow, doc, I just saw your post. Reading your adventure made me feel all that pain of yours. Having had a very bad tumble off my horse resulting in a broken clavicle and other various and assorted ailments, I feel for you and hope that you have nothing broken! Take care of yourself, would ya?!?

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Joe Frickin' Friday
There's nothing to do but wait for help, so I do what any 21st-Century person would do: I get out my phone and take a picture.

 

Dare I say it: pics or it didn't happen. :grin:

 

 

She gives the little girl some instructions in a local language...

 

"Go put a six-pack of brewskis in the fridge, this guy's gonna need it!"

 

:grin:

 

Doc, sorry you got hurt...glad you didn't get HURT. ride safe.

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