Passion, Experience & Growth

Thank You For Not Bleeding

January 11, 2007

“You can do anything you want to…” — Dreamscape, 009 Sound System

You can learn the hard way or the easy way. Sometimes the hard way is more exciting—but it usually carries a price.

Passion drives us toward, pushing us to chase experiences with fervor and dedication. Yet passion often delivers lessons we’d rather avoid. Nowhere is this duality clearer than in motorcycling, where the thrill of speed and the promise of freedom sit just inches away from death.

Experienced riders often say there are only two kinds of motorcyclists: those who have crashed, and those who will crash. On January 10, 2007, I moved reluctantly from the latter category to the former, reaching that painful milestone just shy of my sixth month on two wheels.

It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon, and the temptation to swap the car for my bike was irresistible. Ignoring my inner voice, I took the chance, even though the afternoon chill hinted at the evening’s cold to come. By sunset, the temperature had dropped sharply—too cold, in retrospect, for safe riding. I should have called Joanne for a ride home.

I’d learned the hard way about cold tires back in November 2001 when I crashed my BMW M3, but fate has a strange way of reinforcing lessons. Turning out of the parking lot, my glove slipped, spinning the throttle too quickly. Before I knew what was happening, I saw pavement spinning beneath me—I was high-sided from a stop and catapulted from the bike. My helmet and right shoulder took the impact.

Dazed, I sat on the curb while a good Samaritan stopped traffic with his SUV. With help, the bike was upright again, but I knew something was wrong. I limped the bike back to the garage at work, returned to my office, and called The-Best-Wife-Ever(tm) for a ride to the ER.

Thankfully, it was a quiet Wednesday evening at the hospital. The triage nurse appreciated Joanne’s audible gasp when my badly bruised, dislocated shoulder was revealed. She confided with a smirk, “I sometimes want to do that, but I’m not supposed to.” Visions of Mel Gibson resetting his dislocated shoulder in Lethal Weapon danced briefly through my mind, but the doctor delivered a different diagnosis: “AC-separation, Grade 3”—three of four ligaments holding my right shoulder stable—completely severed.

I returned to work the next morning, typing awkwardly with both hands—painful, but manageable. The bike’s damage was minor compared to my own. I had learned the hard way.

My new rule of thumb, heartily endorsed by Joanne, became clear: if I need three layers of clothing, it’s too cold to ride. Ever supportive, she summed up her relief in five simple words: “Thank you for not bleeding.”

You can do anything. But everything has its consequences.

Epilogue: Half A Cat (February 5, 2007)

I’d started the year intending to get into shape—careful what you wish for! After surgery and three months of physical therapy, along with sessions at Gold’s Gym through the rest of the year, I would indeed finish 2007 in the best shape of my life.

The shoulder surgery went smoothly, reattaching the severed ligaments—nearly as good as new. When the bandages were removed, the two-inch incision, closed with 20 staples, made me look like something out of Star Trek—a miniature Borg. Thankfully, the staples came out easily once the incision healed.

During my second check-up, the doctor cleared me to lift “half a cat,” or perhaps a whole cat, provided I used both arms. No skiing. No riding.

Initially, therapy focused on range of motion. Soon, I’d graduate to strength training. I was officially on the road to recovery. I was reminded again of the wisdom I’d often repeated: you can learn the hard way or the easy way. Clearly, motorcycling made the former path far more likely.

Epilogue: You Can Do Anything (April 4, 2007)

After eight weeks of physical therapy, I had a follow-up check-up. I was almost fully healed from the shoulder repair.

The doctor’s words were simple but powerful: “You can do anything.” I haven’t put this to the test, but it’s good to know.

Epilogue: Waking Up To Grace (December 22, 2025)

The morning after surgery, I had one of the best mornings of my entire life.

The house was still. Sunlight poured through our bedroom window. Joanne was home. The kids were home. I was home.

The morphine had long since worn off—it had to have—but I felt lit from within. Not in pain. No worries. No regret. Just… radiant. Like my body had been rebuilt, and my soul had decided to stick around for a while longer.

Maybe it was just the lingering fog of anesthesia. Or maybe it was a kind of resurrection—the kind you don’t notice until you open your eyes, breathe in the morning light, and realize…

I didn’t die.

I'm still here.

And it’s beautiful.