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Boxer Shorts June, 2004 - 4 of 4

The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration reported an 11 percent increase in motorcycle deaths last year for a total of 3,592.

Last September 13 was a perfect riding day in Vermont for YBers Bruce Ferguson and Bob Pipes. Until they came across something they would never forget and a lesson that can't be taught or repeated enough times.

Thoughts on Passing a Fellow Rider

by Bruce C. Ferguson

R iding back to the campground was a good opportunity to reflect on the day's defining event. My friend Bob Pipes and I had just finished coffee and apple cider donuts at The Cold Hollow Cider Mill on Route 100 in Waterbury, VT. This stop had been planned as part of our day's outing. First we would ride Vermont Route 17 over the Appalachian Gap and down past the Mad River Glen ski area. We would stop for coffee before riding up to Essex Junction to Frank's BMW where we would kick some tires and sniff some tail pipes. The ride back to camp Silver Tower would be relaxed, unhurried, and by whatever roads seemed appropriate. The only deadline was to be back on time for the customary turkey dinner with all the fixin's which has been a hallmark of the annual Green Mountain Rally hosted in September by the BMW Motorcycle Owners of Vermont.

It was in fact a beautiful fall day, perfect for riding endlessly with friends through the wonderful twisty roads of Vermont. This summer had offered more than a fair share of rainy weather. Most of the rain fell during organized club events. It didn't seem to matter which club was hosting, or where. But Vermont was beautiful that day. Sunny and bright. Cool enough to make the wearing of appropriate riding gear comfortable - but with no need for electric's and such. It was indeed a good day for just about anything you were going to do.

Bob was riding his black 1992 R100 Roadster and I was following, as usual, on my red 1995 K75. Bob is an expert mechanic. He has worked on that roadster extensively, keeping it shiny and tuned and lightening it wherever possible to make it all the more flick-able in the twisties. He's a consummate rider, as you would expect of an MOA Ambassador. I enjoy riding with him because I can improve my own riding skill by following his lead. But I don't hesitate to let him leave me behind if I think he's riding over my head. Many times we have set out together and returned separately and that's OK with both of us.

Although I've been riding for over 35 years, I didn't get serious about it until about 9 years ago. Accordingly, I tend to be somewhat tentative in my approach, some would even describe my style as overcautious. In fact, most of the coaching I receive has been about how to go faster. But what the heck, I'm riding my own ride. I keep remembering the little ditty "There are old riders, and there are bold riders. But, there are no old bold riders." Whether that's true or not doesn't really matter. It works for me.

My bike seems to have some little handling quirks, too, which adds to my sense of a need to ride conservatively. Set up for your corners by slowing, looking and turning, rolling on the throttle as you pass the apex. Just like the MSF course teaches. A late apex at that, the better to know what's coming around the bend at you, whether it's on wheels or part of the landscape. I actually think about all this while I'm riding. It's a wonder I enjoy riding as much as I do, constantly concentrating on keeping the shiny side up.

Anyway, Bob and I set out from the campground and rode to the top of the Appalachian Gap. We stopped at the rest area to enjoy the view. There is a sharp drop off to the west, with a beautiful tranquil pond below. There were also three young women assaulting the hill on pedal bikes, climbing ever so slowly in their wall crawler combinations. The leader was actually waiting for us at the top. We helped her watch her two friends as they silently spun their way up. It was very impressive, inspirational actually, to see them climb what we found challenging to ride. Witnessing their feat added to the beauty of the day.

Once we had commended the ladies on their triumphant climb to the top of the gap, Bob and I continued on our ride east. Coming around the first bend in the road we spied a dismounted rider on the far side of the road. Bob pulled up to him and exchanged a few words. Whatever was being said, I would know soon enough. Bob pulled ahead and then stopped and dismounted on the outside of the next curve, parking his bike on the shoulder. I followed suit and soon saw what was happening.

A shiny red Honda VFR was on its side jammed under the guard rail, handle bars uphill, wheels pointing towards the road. The top of the tank, which was poking out the backside of the guardrail, was creased across the middle, bent athwart ship. About 30 feet further down the mountain the rider was laying on his back on the road. I learned that his name was John Betzold and he was 56 years old. He and his friends had been at a VFR rally in Maine and had taken advantage of the beautiful day to tour around Vermont.

John was wearing all the appropriate riding gear: full helmet, boots, ballistic nylon jacket and pants. I think I recall seeing gloves lying near him on the road. He was in fact dressed to ride. His helmet had been removed and was beside him on the road. It had a crease from ear to ear, matching the crease in the tank. His jacket was open and his shirt pulled aside. His complexion was ashen, but his eyes were open and he was breathing. There wasn't a mark on him, testimony to the effectiveness of his riding gear.

A friend of John's whom we later learned was an emergency room doctor, was holding John's head, immobilizing it until the emergency crews could get there with a back board and such. He was talking to John in a comforting manner, offering him words of encouragement, and pointing out that all of his friends were with him. John should hang in there - help was on the way.

Indeed help arrived fairly quickly. A privately owned full sized four wheel drive pickup truck, dark blue metallic, with emergency lights flashing from an enormous light bar on the cab roof, raced up the mountain, driving around the accident scene and stopping in a way to block the down hill side of the road, effectively providing a secure site for John and his helpers. The driver appeared to be a tradesman of some kind, lean and tanned, his carpenter's tool belt tossed with abandon into the pick up bed. He ran back down and talked to the first responder, getting briefed on the situation.

An emergency support vehicle with two EMT/paramedics arrived almost immediately after the pick up truck. One medic, a young woman, went to be briefed. John was by now presenting some difficulty breathing. The young woman ran back to her vehicle and produced an oxygen bottle and mask. In the meantime, the other paramedic and the pickup driver were unloading a backboard, neck brace, and other essential equipment. The pickup driver skillfully sent the backboard skittering down the road where it ended up right next to where John was lying.

One of John's friends went over to his fallen bike, and kicked it a few times, crying "I told him to slow down. He was riding too fast." Another one of John's friends tried to comfort this man and they found a seat on a rock slightly off the road.

Somewhere in all this, Bob learned from John's friends that they, too, had stopped at the top of the Gap. They had suggested to John that he was riding over his head and should slow down. He just set off by himself heading down the mountain.

Heading out of the rest area at the top, the road goes over a slight rise, then curves down hill gently to the right. There is a short straight piece, followed by a much sharper curve to the left. The road drops steeply downhill going around this left curve, straightens briefly and then turns even more sharply to the right, continuing even more steeply downward. It is hard riding, even for experienced riders. It's part of the challenge that makes riding the App Gap so much fun.

Just after the apex of that first sharp left, where the road begins to straighten, there was a single fresh skid mark that started inches from the center line, and went straight to the imagined impact point where the bike first made contact with the rail. It appeared as though the impact stuffed the bike's front end under the rail, then whipped it around so that it was pointing back up hill, seat and fenders under the rail. This violent swing apparently catapulted the rider down hill sliding until his head caught a stanchion under the guardrail and brought him to an abrupt stop.

At this point, John seemed to take a turn for the worse. He was coughing up dark fluid and having trouble breathing. One of the medics brought a suction devise that looked exactly like a turkey baster. The medics used this to clear his airway, alternating between suctioning fluids and administering oxygen. Then John appeared to heave a couple of times, as though trying to clear his lungs with good heavy cough. The medics began administering chest compressions. I have been trained on CPR but I never imagined the real thing to be so dramatic.

A Vermont state trooper arrived and began to interview John's friends. They were not able to offer an explanation of what happened, because John had set off down the mountain by himself. At this point Bob and I decided that we were just adding to the confusion and started to leave. However, the ambulance was finally making its approach up the mountain, and one of the medics asked us if we would walk up hill a piece and hold any additional traffic until after they got John into the ambulance. We did that immediately, glad to finally have something useful to contribute.

Once the ambulance arrived, the emergency crew quickly got him aboard and they raced off towards the valley medical center. The blue pickup truck and the emergency equipment truck packed up and headed down the mountain, leaving the state police, and John's friends to look after his bike. Bob and I checked in with the trooper and left to continue our ride

We got as far as our planned coffee stop and found that once we had settled down we no longer had the desire to head to Northern Vermont for the day. We picked an alternative route back to our campground that brought us by the fire station just as the ambulance was being backed into its stall. We circled back and checked in with the driver. No he told us, John didn't make it.

As we headed south I couldn't help but think: Here was a guy doing what he loved on a beautiful Saturday morning, riding a very capable piece of machinery over the top of a majestic mountain in the company with his friends. Maybe that isn't such a bad way to go. Certainly better than lingering with one of the horrible ailments that slowly kill so many of us as we get older. But he was only 56, and Sunday promised to be good riding, too.

\Post Script/

Newspapers reported that John Wistar Betzold, Jr., 56, of Cape Elizabeth, ME died in a motorcycle accident in Vermont Sept. 13, 2003. According to the papers, his friends supposedly told police that they were about to take photos of Betzold as he rounded a curve when the crash happened. His foot peg hit the road and he lost control and crashed into a guardrail. Police said he was traveling too fast for the curve. The son of an army chaplain, he himself was a veteran of the U.S. Army and served in Vietnam. He left a wife and two children.

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