Blood Sugar Magic

I created this blog for a relatively straight-forward and simple purpose: to post links to stories I find humorous or important, and perhaps (okay, mostly) add my own color commentary. I have rather studiously avoided posting my own stories and experiences unless they were relevant to the article or link in question.

Today, that's changed... at least for this single post. As some anonymous worthy once observed, "you just can't make this stuff up."

I left the house this morning, bound for work, at my normal and slightly latish time of 7:30 am. As it was promising to be a clear, if rather warm and sunny day, I decided to ride the motorcycle and save myself a few coins in gasoline. Any motorcyclists out there will be familiar with the lament, "I shouldn't have taken the bike today." Unfortunately, my experience was destined to become rather a bit more involved than an encounter with the stray rainstorm or oblivious automobile driver.

At approximately 7:50 am, I was only five minutes from the office when I accelerated briskly away from the lead position at a stoplight, as I am wont to do when in such an advantageous position in traffic. There was, of course, another stoplight less than 300 yards away, but that's no hinderance to someone who both likes the exhiliration of acceleration and enjoys escaping, however temporarily, from the close confines of city traffic. The bike leaped away quickly and comfortably, giving no indications of trouble.

A bare fifteen seconds later, as the next light inevitably changed to red, I decelerated and stretched my feet out to come to a stop--at which point my heels hit the ground quite firmly, nearly bouncing my knees into my elbows. I knew immediately what had happened: flat rear tire. If you've never ridden a motorcycle, it probably wouldn't occur to you exactly what shivers of anxiety this occurance sends through the body and mind of a motorcyclist, though it will become obvious after a mere moment of contemplation: you're stranded. There is no spare. Of more immediate importance, you're minus one functional wheel, and you only had two when you started. Manueuvering a motorcycle on a rim-flat tire is probably one of the more challening tasks any rider can ever face--and I was about to attempt it in rush hour traffic. My nice, warm, comfortable bed was looking really good at about this point.

Being that I was in the passing lane on a seven lane highway, I immediately turned on my right signal and began attempting to pick my way through the densely packed traffic towards the relative safety of the shoulder. The middle lane was no problem; some nice lady recognized my problem and promptly stopped to let me merge over to the right. I wasn't so lucky in the far lane.

The first vehicle I encountered in the far right lane saw me, but was too close and--rightly--accelerated past. I foolishly assumed the following car would yield to what I thought my quite obvious plight. I was, however, very wrong. The vehicle in question--a large GMC pick-up, as I recall--accelerated quickly to cut me off, and nearly took my right handlebar, along with my hand, in company with his driver's side mirror. Without being too dramatic, I estimate the miss distance from my throttle hand at something less than a fraction of a nanometer. The hair on the back of my hand stood up from the passing vortex; the hair on the back of my neck was raised for an entirely different reason. However, heart a-palpatating, I made it safely to the bicycle lane on the side of the road, which I will forever forward think of as the "Thank God I'm Not Dead Lane." I quickly pulled into a shale parking lot in front of a trucking company at the nearby stoplight, and heaved a sigh of relief as I stepped off my wounded steed, while simultaneously reaching for my cellular phone.

Things become a bit complicated at this point. You see, motorcycle shops and dealerships aren't open on Mondays. Saturday being one of their most profitable marketing days, they invariably take their "weekends" on Sunday and Monday. As I dialed the phone for the nearest dealer--less than two miles away--I was only too aware of this fact. Naturally, I was received by an answering machine. Not good.

But wait!

I suddenly remembered a business card for a motorcycle rescue and transport service, one which I had picked up from the counter of the local bike shop the last time I had the bike in for service. Digging with nervous enthusiasm thorugh my wallet's embarrassingly over-stuffed card slot, (I really must remember to clean out my wallet occasionally), I found the one I was searching for--and thought myself terribly clever for having the foresight to pick it up at the time.

If only I had known the devious twists the universe had in store for me, I would have pushed the bike two miles through morning traffic. Hindsight, however, is nothing more substantial than regret in fancy clothing.

I contacted the transport owner--in the interest of protecting the innocent, we'll call him John--and informed him of my plight. He assured me he would arrive within the half-hour. Thus satisfied, I settled back to consider my plight. Near the top of my list of considerations was the distinct possibility of selling the motorcycle on consignment as soon as the receiving dealership had repaired it, as this was no less than the third flat tire in as many years. Great gas mileage or not, I thought, this was becoming considerably more of a pain in the posterior than circumstances warranted.

As I was considering my options, John pulled up in his quite impressive rescue vehicle. And it was impressive. The Dodge equivalent of an F-800 service van, it was equipped with all the winches, ramps, bells and whistles one could possible hope for under the circumstances. John quickly hooked my wayward mount up to a winch and proceeded to load it aboard our savior--at which point he stopped and said he needed a breather. Since the winch was carrying about 99.9% of the workload, I was somewhat bemused by the situation.

Woe unto me.

Once again referring to hindsight, this moment should have clued me in. Unfortunately, I tend to be rather oblivious about such things. "Such things" meaning human frailties. Chalk it up to too many years as an infantryman; "such things" just don't cross the minds of Marines--or even former (and aging) Marines.

In any event, after a mild struggle, the bike was successfully loaded, and John began to secure it to the tie-down points in the bed of the van. Once again, however, he stopped and begged temporary respite. At this point, John informs me that he is a diabetic... who hasn't had his breakfast.

Point #3 for Clueless Jar(egg)head, here.

After we engage in a bit of small chat as he recovers (apparently), the bike is fully secured and ready for transport to its rendevous with the expensive mechanic's shop. I climb in the passenger's seat of the van, and notice an absolutely adorable miniature Pincher puppy in a milk crate between the seats. The "guard dog," as it turns out. As I'm acquainting myself with "Chance," (as John informs me while climbing into the driver's seat), John once again begs fatigue and asks to rest a bit before we set off. He quickly cranks the air conditioner to maxiumum. I, continuing my oblivious course, agree to a brief break before setting off.

Thirty seconds later, John is in diabetic shock, convulsing, and heading quickly south towards full seizures. I am ashamed to admit that the first thought to fly across my mind was "Why Me?"

Fast forward another thirty seconds, and you see me trying to hold John's head up to keep his air passage open (and to prevent his head banging convulsively against the back wall of the cab) while I attempt to dial 911 with my cell phone in my free hand. By the time I explain to the 911 center operator what, precisely, is the problem, John's condition has deteriorated alarmingly. As the operator connects me to a doctor, I am simultaneously trying to hit the brake with my left hand (since John's foot has just convulsively planted itself on the accelerator of the unfortunately gear-engaged van) while trying to explain to the doctor "what, precisely, the problem might be." (His words, actually). I should also mention that Chance is in full-bore freak-out mode, trying to bite my armpit off while I'm attempting to prevent our imminent and certain death.

After stopping the van, before John and I were both annihilated against the looming brick wall, and subsequently placing the van in park, the doctor "helpfully" explains to me that I should remain calm and not try to give any food or drink to John until the paramedics arrive. He further explains, in what I can only describe as a condescending tone, that diabetics weren't prone to seizures under normal circumstances.

I'm still not entirely sure that the doctor in question understands the meaning of the word "convulsions."

As I (thankfully) hung up the phone, John's seizure became even more intense. In order to keep him from harming himself, (as well as myself and the very small dog who was, at this point, on the very brink of berserk hysteria), I decided that my best course of action was to simply immobilize John in a bear hug--while still in the driver's seat--until the medics arrived.

At this time, I would like to point out that I am not in the habit of embracing sweaty, overweight, 40-something men... even if I did just meet them ten minutes prior. Just wanted to keep that point clear.

About three (looooong) minutes later, the ambulance, with accompanying emergency medical technicians, finally arrives. After some basic background interaction, John is plopped firmly onto a gurney and shuffled off to the back of the emergency vehicle, with me left to cool my heels (and wits) as the younger of the two medics discusses with me the disposition of all the vehicles involved in this non-accident. My understanding is that a policeman will shortly show up to take possession of the van (and my motorcycle, obviously) and whisk them off to bureaucratic limbo. I, however, am really too witless to care at this point; a nice bubblebath will be just fine, thank you.

Well, after several minutes of sitting and waiting, no policeman has arrived. He only arrives after the paramedics release John from the van... and tell him he's okay to drive home. I, as you may imagine, am somewhat less than delighted with this turn of events. In fact, John doesn't appear too happy about the whole affair himself. But it's a dog's day.

Apparently, if the dog hadn't been there, the medics would have whisked John off to the hospital, leaving me (without the van key, I hasten to add), to await the arrival of the erstwhile and rather tardy policeman. As things stood, however, they couldn't leave the dog alone with me.

I weep for our civilization, folks. And yes; I'm dead serious, here. That was their honest reason for staying there, with a man undergoing seizures in the back of their ambulance.

In any event, after all the hoopla, it was decided that I should drive John's van, replete with my motorcycle and John, to his home. After giving myself (John was still somewhat incoherent and nauseous) a three-second driving lesson in an F-800, we proceeded somewhat haltingly back to his homestead.

Having arrived safely back at John's house, he proceeds to puke his guts up for about ten minutes, while I'm calling a taxi service to return me to what is left of my previously quite normal suburban existence. Don't get me wrong; John is quite a nice guy, and I do feel for his plight. He even (quite understandably) volunteered to waive my fee and deliver my bike to the shop at his earliest convenience. I'm just... bemused, by this point.

After a forty minute wait, the "taxi" driver shows up at John's door... in a tux. Apparently, I had called the "Katy Limosuine and Taxi Company." In the background, looming behind the penguin suit, my befuddled eyes beheld a Crown Victoria limo.

By this point in time, I was a mental midget. It was time go home. "Lead on," I told Tux Man, waving casually toward the waiting luxury conveyance. Perhaps he took pity on my plight, or perhaps he just liked a good story. In any event, he only charged me $25 for the seven mile ride home. In a limo.

I arrived home--in a limo--at approximately 1:00pm, and I have never been so grateful to see the front of my own house. If all of that's not perverse enough, I actually climbed into my car and went to the office to salvage what was left of my workday. Sometimes I disgust myself.

Now, if those of you actually bored enough to read this exhaustive (and exhausting) diatribe will excuse me, it is nearing one o'clock in the morning. I'm going to polish off my bottle of burgundy wine, give the dog a treat, walk into the bedroom, and become addicted to Advil in a matter of mere minutes before I gratefully throw myself into bed.

And thank God it's Tuesday.