A Brand New Harley Doesn't Make You Bullet Proof

It was one of those too-warm days in the South that mean spring is almost over.

I was trapped in an eastbound backup with my chin on the steering wheel. There went my extra time for a sit-down dinner and shower tonite at the truck stop.

Traffic surged and then stopped, over and over. Heavy incoming volume from a get-on ahead seemed the only reason for the back-up.

Indeed, westbound drivers on the CB radio confirmed we'd be rolling soon.

As I approached the merge, I saw two Harley Davidsons gleaming in the afternoon sun.

On the front bike was a young man, he was followed by a chubby young woman on what was obviously a brand new bike.

Fools, thought I derisively, though the riders seemed not to hear, you ride without helmets and leather, believing that the bad-ass Harley mystique protects you.

They ignored my attempt at ESP, and at that instant traffic opened up. Fat girl, obviously a green rider, proudly displayed her newly acquired skills, accelerating onto the interstate maybe 100 yards ahead of me.

I had only made three gears when somebody on the CB shouted "Eastbound, a Harley just crashed in front of you, get th' right lane an you'll squeeze by."

The bike was lying right on the zipper, smack in the middle of the road. It appeared virtually undamaged, like it had been dropped in the driveway.

Fat girl wasn't that lucky. She was face down in the hammer (left) lane. From years of experience I knew that anybody whose neck was bent like that either needed an exorcist or an undertaker.

I looked down, thinking I was sorry for the bad vibes a minute ago, and how a helmet would have saved her, but I was sure she couldn't hear me this time.

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