“This marks one of the worst tragedies in motorcycle history. The purpose of this memorial is to never forget those of us who have fallen, and to remind us how precious life is and how quickly it can be taken away. Live to ride, ride to live, God speed and please be careful.”
I first read that plaque on an unseasonably cool Monday in early August,
2009. High sky, no clouds, 77° at noon. Perfect riding weather on
NorCal’s west Sierra slope, and the road we’d been following after
bailing from US 50 near Pollock Pines was nearly devoid of traffic. A
few weeks earlier, I’d jacked-up my rotator cuff falling down a mountain
near that same road, trying to save my Nikon after tripping over some
rusty barbed wire. That day, my brother and I continued on to Virginia
City, where we ate fish tacos, visited the dead in a dusty 19th Century
bone yard, and saw a drunk chick ride a little Ninja down Main Street.
On the way back down the hill we spotted a row of five large crosses
sheltered by pines on a roadside embankment. We were racing the sun with
no time to stop; I had witnessed the effects of deer on the
motorcyclists who’ve smacked into ‘em, and I had no intention of letting
one claim me. Just as well, as I was also feeling the need for
something stronger than Motrin for that damned shoulder after riding
several hundred miles using my other arm to lift my hand to the
throttle. We sped past the site and made plans to follow up on it
sometime later.
Later wound up taking a few months to materialize. Having failed to win
the lottery, I was forced to allow work to interfere with other, more
important pursuits. On August 3rd we returned. I wasn't prepared for the
intensity of my response.
I am a lifelong, tortured agnostic. I don’t believe in any god, but I
don’t actively disbelieve either. There’s a switch in my mind,
painstakingly installed and subsequently maintained by the usual
combination of genetics and environment, which redirects questions about
the alleged persistence of non-corporeal consciousness to an
out-of-the-way mental crawlspace. Sure, I think about such things, but
when the intractability of the problem wears me down, I just stuff it in
that fortified thought locker so I can continue to function in a
semi-normal manner.
I had some trouble flipping that switch at the memorial. Memories of
riding dirt bikes with my dad when I was a kid, thoughts of my own wife
and sons and how my death-by-fiery crash would affect them, the history
and physical qualities of the site—all of this contributed to a state
that felt like the presence of something bigger. I can do a reasonable
job of explaining this with my limited knowledge of neurology, but in
this case I'll allow the undefined to remain undefined—to a greater
degree than it needs to be—because I like it that way. As long as I make
that distinction consciously, it’s cool.
Five stout wooden crosses stand as sentinels for this place that
memorializes the lives of five motorcyclists who died on Labor Day
weekend in 1989. These crosses line the ridge of a ten foot red dirt
embankment along the south side of a sparsely traveled road that gains
4,000 feet in elevation over a distance of about 30 miles as you ride
east.
To reach the memorial beyond the crosses, you either scale the
embankment or walk along a dirt path threading through the trees from a
turn-out half a football field west. Either way, when you get there, be
prepared for conflicting emotions. This is a peaceful place, and even
the occasional passage of vehicles on the roadway below won’t distract
you from contemplating the duality of that peace and the violent
collision and fire that claimed five lives.
The riders were part of a larger group, maybe 30 or 40 bikes strong, en
route to Hope Valley on a bright September morning. The young,
inexperienced driver of a west-bound truck hauling wood lost control on
the downgrade, and when it was done, James Carter, Jeff Pearl, Jeffrey
and Debbie Sund, and Doug Wall were all dead.
Echoes of terror are there if you want them. What would you feel,
watching a one-ton flatbed coming at you sideways with just enough time
to know your fate but not evade it? Which is worse, blunt force trauma
or immolation? Would your thoughts—in that brief interval between threat
recognition and fate realization—have any coherence, or would all your
energy be spent trying to react? You can ponder those questions when you
visit this place, but you’ll also notice how calm and removed it seems,
despite the proximity of the road below. You can hear ravens and
Steller’s jays. Beds of pine needles, sun-dappled shade, a tree with a
trunk and dead limb that forms a big dollar sign 50 feet up. In the
summer there are plenty of grasshoppers just outside the perimeter of
the little clearing, and western fence lizards skitter around on fallen
branches. Life amid the remembrance of loss, the juxtaposition more
profound and elemental than what you’ll find at a cemetery. Evidence
that not only is Zen something you bring with you and discover more
readily when distractions are minimized, but also that a ten foot dirt
bank is more than enough mountain to scale in search of it.
In a clearing under the pine canopy there is a simple concrete base
supporting a pewter plaque that tells the story. Also mounted on this
low pedestal is the engine of one of the bikes, and damage from the
extreme heat of the fire can be seen in the parts that melted. Touch it.
That V-twin power plant once moved a rider through space and time and
spiritual awareness just as your bike moves you now. Examine the bits
and pieces of tribute left by other riders. An American flag patch. A
laminated card of an artist's depiction of Jesus. Cards bearing the
logos of several MC’s and riding clubs. A half-smoked cigar and a
sticker with the grinning skull logo of Ironworkers Local 118. Some
coins. An old digital watch, cracked and burned and stopped forever.
Some .38 Special and .45 long Colt brass. A small brown and white teddy
bear. A tiny, bent redwood seedling, nurtured by an elderly couple with a
can of water, survivor of winter snows and inadvertently placed boot
soles. The old collar and tags of a long-dead, beloved dog.
Leave your own tribute, but respect the tone and nature of the spot and
the memory of those whom it honors. Let yourself absorb the detail and
the generality, the physical objects, their natural surroundings, and
the atmosphere they produce. Don't force it, just let it. If there’s
enough of whatever it is to register in the undefined zones of my agnostic mind, it will definitely affect you.
I obtained some of the information about the crash from the plaque at the site; the rest of the background information about the incident is from an interesting article by RJ “Cowboy” Carter of the BoozeFighters MC.
Note: In the realm of motorcycle riding, there exist distinctions among the various classifications given to and used by the operators of the machines. It is beyond the scope of this article to examine the differences between those who truly are “bikers”and those who are not (not to mention trying to dispel whatever misconceptions some readers may have concerning various stereotypes). For that reason, I have chosen to refer to the people who died in this crash by the more general term “rider,” no offense intended to anyone at all.
