Saturday, August 26, 2017

To the mother whose son I saw die this afternoon.

I am sorry.  I am so so so sorry for your loss.  I am pretty sure I don't know you, or your son but I can tell you this.  Your boy was an adrenaline junky, I just know he lived for the thrill of it, and I hope that thrill lasted until the very last second.  He was wild and reckless and probably believed he was invincible.   Don't they always?  Your son had friends who cared about him, who are hurt beyond words right now, and who, even in the grief and the shock and the horror of the moment took time to make sure the driver of the truck who was in the very wrong place at the very wrong time, was okay, and that I, whose car the bikes flew past, was also okay.  Your son had good friends, friends who I know are reexamining this afternoon over and over in their troubled minds and broken hearts.

This afternoon I steered my car into the breakdown/shoulder to let four crazy motorcyclists pass me.  They had come up behind me REALLY fast, there was oncoming traffic, and I needed to get out of the way.  Ahead, in the driveway of a rural butcher shop was a Vermont State Trooper with lights flashing.  He'd been expecting them.  Riders One and Two blasted past, Three and Four were a second behind.  They saw the lights, and saw an opportunity to get away via a little side road.  Three pulled to the left, directly in front of Four, who hit him, propelling both bikes into the front of a pickup truck.  One bike flew, one bike disintegrated.  Both riders hit the asphalt, one beside, and one under the truck.  The rider beside the truck pulled himself to his feet.  The rider under the truck was dead.  And my car was stopped.  At the side of the road.  20 feet away.

My car was inside the accident scene.  I gave my statement to a trooper, then sat down, in the road, but out of the way while the EMTs and Heavy Rescue and Ambulances and Firefighters redirected traffic and attended to the horror and tried to do their best job at figuring out what happened.  Other bikes arrived, the riders distraught and quiet and obnoxious and deeply in pain.  They ignored orders to stay back, they begged their friend to breathe, to move.  And they consoled each other.  They sought out the driver of the truck and spoke to him.  They respectfully placed the spare helmet that had flown from their friend's bike carefully on top of the wreck.  They walked over to me, sitting in the road, and asked me if *I* was okay!  Me!  Their friend was pinned under a truck, his bike and his body in pieces and they not only wanted to be sure that I was alright, but they felt they had to apologize for being reckless bikers and causing distress and damage to people who were doing nothing but living their lives.

It's been a day.

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