On July 2, 2004, I stopped at an accident near where I work to see if I could help. Many people had stopped, but given the extensive injuries of the motorcycle rider, few people could summon the presence of mind to call for an ambulance, much less give him any medical attention. As I was in the American military at the time, I had been well trained in first aid and despite my best efforts, the man whom I came to know as Gary, died a couple of hours later.
I only knew Gary for an hour at most, but when you desperately try to save the life of another, they somehow become connected to you in ways that you never expect or forget … very much like a family member. Gary was 37 years old. I will not go into the details of his injuries, or the accident scene itself.
In the twisted metal that was once his 1993 Harley Davidson Sportster, attached to the frame just behind where the front tire used to be was a little bell. Legend has it that Evil Road Spirits have been latching themselves on to motorcycles for as long as there have been bikes on the road. These Evil Road Spirits are responsible for mechanical problems and bad luck along a journey.
Legend goes on to say … that by attaching a small bell onto your bike, the Evil Road Spirits will become trapped inside the bell where the constant ringing drives them insane, making them lose their grip until they fall to the ground. (Ever wonder where potholes come from?)
Legend also has it that the mystery of the Guardian Ride Bell carries twice as much power when it is purchased by a friend or loved one and given as a gift. Sadly, the bell could not protect Gary from the oncoming driver who thought she had enough time to turn left, or Gary’s decision to speed up to make it through the intersection first.
In his saddle bag, Gary carried a stuffed animal; a frog. A good natured joke between riding buddies? A child’s toy? Who knows what meaning it had for Gary, but like that of the Guardian Ride Bell, it probably held some importance to him. The possibilities still haunt me, I suppose because I made a conscious decision to not go to his funeral. It wasn’t only that I was devastated by his passing (I cried for days), but also because I didn’t think I could face his family. I had failed to save him. Worse, I simply did not know what I could, or would, say to his family about my brief and yet strong connection to him.
It is only now, as I write this almost three years later, that I recognize I should have been there for them despite how hard it would have been for me to recount the events of that day. No matter how much pain or embarrassment that I felt, it surely could not ever compare to the pain I’m sure they feel with his loss. And yet, the fear of not knowing what I could possibly say or how to say it was so strong, I simply could not bring myself to do it at the time. I wish I’d had something to help me like A Eulogy To Remember back then. It might have helped me communicate what I felt with Gary’s passing, choosing the right things to share, or hold back, and help ease the burden his family bore in the days and years since.
I drive through the intersection where Gary was hit almost every day. His family put up a cross there and I notice whenever they change the flowers. They still miss him. And so do I.
Lee Reedy
Scrapbook-Quotes.com
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