Mack Harrell Bites (The Dust)

Saturday, April 18th

Having had the presence of mind to split my arthritis medication and to take half of it before I went to bed, mobility did not taunt me at dawn Saturday, April 18th. I was walking around like something out of the grave, but I was still able to tie my own boots, which was not always the case the day after a ride last year. My house guest for the weekend, Mike Cantwell, was also up and moving around. I found him trying to work the rather exotic coffee-maker, his face was masked by boyish frustration.

“I realize these things that look like 12 gauge shotgun shells are probably the coffee,” said Cantwell, “but I can’t tell is this thing is a semi-automatic or a pump. Then again, this is the first coffee-maker I ever saw that has a clutch on it too.” Mike is from the Adirondacks, where coffee is ground by beating it with a hammer, and strained by running it through yesterday’s undershirt.

We peeled out of the driveway and headed over to the Exton Diner, the rally point for the ride. The temperature was in the high 50’s, which might be cool for some, but I had stripped the liner out of my Joe Rocket Meteor 5 ballistic jacket and stuffed it into the top case. Mike was dressed for the season, though we both expected it to warm up in the afternoon. (It would get to the high 80’s down on the coast.)

“How many folks will be at the diner,” asked Mike.

“That’s a tough question to answer,” I replied. “There could be 50, or none. It’s a mood thing.”

My riding partner Dick Bregstein had been planning on this ride, but his bike had developed a stalling problem the day before, and I knew Dick wasn’t one to fight a balky engine for a couple of hundred miles if he didn’t have to.

This was to be the ride I had dreamed about all winter. A rural road through Delaware’s salt marshes and wild bird sanctuaries... The smell of the ocean mixed with the aroma of pines... Old cast iron lighthouses and two-room schoolhouses on the same road... And a bar, right on the water’s edge, serving rum and clams and fish that were in the ocean that same time we were pulling out of Pennsylvania. This bar (its more of a temple to my personal values than your typical gin mill) has live music in the summer, and women wearing scanty little things drinking “hurricanes” in the sun. The incoming tide occasionally swells up onto the street, and it is not uncommon to find a few Harley’s parked outside.

My vision was to sit on the deck of this place, with a cool drink in my hand, surrounded by my closest friends, all giving me shit and laughing, and with a line of BMWs at the curb. It was a fairly simple request.

There were 15 bikes at the diner and 12 of them were BMWs. The guys had come from a 50-mile radius (for the exception of Mack and Mike, who had come much farther) and a carnival atmosphere prevailed. Everyone had a full tank too. (That should have been my first warning that this ride was doomed.) We piled into the diner and the manager was delighted to give us a single table for 17 (another bad sign). Finally, the waitress smiled at the request for separate checks (which was the absolute kiss of death). Then she said I had nice eyes, and lifted up her shirt. (I should haver known right then and there this ride was cursed.)

A very decent crowd showed up for breakfast. That is the author first on left, sitting next to Karen Kennedy, and her husband Mack Harrell. Karen is unaware that her husband will break her leg in two places, about 22 minutes from the time this picture was taken. Corey Lyba is sittig across from Karen. His moving his face so it looks like rubber.

(Photo by Mike Cantwell -- Cick to enlarge)

Since the distance wasn’t that great, less than 100 miles down, we lollygagged over breakfast. The run directions were passed out and I reminded each in the group to ride their own ride. Glancing through the crowd, I could see that the majority of these guys were peg draggers. The boys might be inclined to run hot on this one. No matter... Everyone knew where we were supposed to end up.

Headed south on Rt. 100, the group was strung out over a mile. I realized that Mack Harrel, his wife Karen (pillion), and I were in the last two spots. I signaled for Mack to close it up and gave “Fire Balls” the throttle. From Rt. 100 we hit US-202 South and turned onto RT. 926, which becomes a beautiful road, where expensive residences give way to more expensive stone houses (predating the Revolution), and finally to horse farms. Mack accelerated like a sea anchor, but I eventually positioned us farther up in the line behind Mike Cantwell.

The long line of BMW's (and a couple of others) at Augustine Beach in Delaware.

Don't look for the author as he is not there. Sixteen bikes took this ride.

(Photo courtesy of Rogers George -- Click to enlarge)

At a right angle kink in the road, the leader, Matt Piechota, deviated from the course to take a very twisty and really pretty run along the Brandywine River. Thirteen riders followed. David Case, riding a beautifully restored BMW museum piece, cut right. (Dave was not joining the group for the ride.) I followed him as I was one of two riders who knew we were picking up Clyde Jacobs, in front of Buckley’s tavern, on Rt. 52. Again, this made no difference as we were all riding our own rides and had the complete directions for the run. The right turn was the original course.

Looking out at Delaware Bay from JP's on the Wharf, North Bowers Beach, De.

(Photo courtesy of Rogers George -- Click to enlarge)

Route 926 hits Rt. 52 at a light, and a left turn will bring you through the property of Longwood Gardens, arguably one of the most beautiful estate gardens in the United States. Having made this left, I saw that Mack Harrell, his wife Karen (on the pillion) and Dennis Doose were behind me. It was a gentle shot through some open fields and woods to US-1 and I slowed to stop for the light at this intersection.

Dennis shot up beside me, and cut to the left-hand shoulder. In an instant, he had his bike shut down and was peeling off his gear. “What the fuck,” I thought. “I wonder if he’s got a bee or something in his jacket.”

The town of South Bowers Beach is about 85 feet from North Bowers Beach, but a 20-mile ride by motorcycle.

(Photo courtesy of Rogers George -- Click to enlarge)

Then I looked for Mack Harrell on his big BMW GS. There was no sign of him in either mirror. I snapped my head around and saw the bottom of the yellow bike spanning both lanes, Mack and Karen were sprawled on the ground behind it.

We were 22 minutes into the ride.

Dennis Doose was there in ten seconds. I got my bike turned around and headed for the left shoulder, which turned out to be the only solid pavement in 100 yards. It was 15 feet long. I duck-walked the bike down to wreck on the soft shoulder, then realized it would be impossible to get off in the soft duff. At this point, Mack was up, and he and Dennis righted the GS. They had just gotten it to the shoulder (precariously balanced on some scrap) when a cop pulled up and closed the road. They moved Karen to the shoulder, where it was determined that she was seriously hurt, with an injury to her leg.

About this time, Mike Cantwell pulled up, having left the other group to see where I had gone. He dismounted in the soft duff, and went to assist, only to watch his bike topple over two seconds later. The shoulder was so soft, however, that the fall didn’t even put his mirror out of adjustment. Dennis Doose assisted in picking up a motorcycle for the second time that day.

The ambulance arrived and the EMTs loaded Karen onto a gurney. Then they wisely went back and asked Mack a few questions. He is advanced in years, between 70 and 168 years old, and they were concerned he might have a hidden injury. After a brief discussion, they printed “DNR” (Do Not Resuscitate) on his forehead in black magic marker and drove off.

About this time, Clyde Jacob pulled up having been summoned by my call.

The cop interviewed Mack about the cause of the accident, which seemed to have been triggered by the confluence of gravity and the loss of forward motion. The only thing that could have possibly prevented this crash, would have required the driver to put one of his feet down. Riding a motorcycle is a complicated thing, and there are a lot of tricky procedures to keep in mind. For Mack, this is one of them. (Mack is going to practice this dangerous maneuver sitting on a chair in his kitchen, or whenever he uses the toilet.)

To my amazement, Mack jumped on the GS and chased the ambulance with all the determination of a lawyer. Dennis, Clyde, Michael, and I formed a huddle to determine the next step. It was at this point Cantwell told me that Mack had asked for me to meet him at the hospital. I called two other people in the main body to let them know that I was out of the running for the day. Matt Piechota and Chris Jacarrino took over the run. My three pals wished me well and took off for Delaware.

I have some experience with hospital emergency rooms and motorcycle accidents. A brief stop in the emergency room, getting examined, filing the paperwork, getting an x-ray, and a doctor to read it would take all of two hours. I knew Karen was alive and well by the way she cursed at the EMTs who lifted her. So I decided to return home, about 11 miles away, and get the truck. My thought was that the truck would serve as a useful base of operations, allowing me to read a book, watch television (portable DVD player), smoke cigars, or nap while I waited for information from Mack.

I found Mack at the hospital about an hour later. Surgery (a rod in the leg) was under discussion and they wanted a second opinion. Mack volunteered my services to take Karen to another hospital and Saint Barnabas was the one of choice. I had never heard of it before. That’s because it is in Essex County, NJ, two hours and 53 minutes from here.

EMTs converted the back seat in my Suburban into a hospital bed. They lined it with sheets and a blanket, and tossed in Karen, who was wearing one of those open-backed hospital gowns and a splint on her leg. A nurse handed me a huge hypodermic needle, saying “Stick this in her neck if she complains of pain.”

“Is it a pain killer,” I asked.

“No,” she replied. “Liquid Plumber.”

Karen lit up a cigarette and said, “Step on it, fat boy. We're burning daylight.”

I had my window down to take advantage of the spring air, which could have been early summer. The incoming breeze fluttered her gown a bit, and I the rearview mirror framed a glimpse of a tattoo of Mack, made out to look like Elvis, on her thigh. (It was either Mack or Willie Nelson, as the beard was executed in great detail.)

She caught me catching the glimpse in the mirror and said, "Keep your eyes on the road, Blimpo."

Saint Barnabas Hospital is in Livingston, NJ, along the old Erie Lackawanna Main Line. The GPS routed me there through Chicago. But we pulled up in good shape and Karen let out a squeal when she saw Mack outside.

My phone rang several times enroute, as the guys called me from the bar in Delaware. They wanted to let me know that my three pals had joined up with them, that they were having a great time, and to thank me for a great ride. They described the chill of the cocktails, the sweet saltiness of the clams on the half-shell, and the trill of the ride. Actually, they asked about Mack and Karen first. Several then inquired what he was going to do with the motorcycle. (The vultures circle quickly with this group.)

In a discussion about the accident much later on, some of the Mac-Pac’s GS riders cautioned Mack that the bike’s power-assisted brakes, even with the ABS, can slam that model to a sudden stop, which may have played a role in the accident, and two others in which he dropped the bike at a standstill.

Some of their recommendations included:
• Not filling the side bags with library books before leaving for a ride.
• Leaving the free-weights back at the gym.
• Not carrying a hot water heater strapped to the back of the bike.
• Attempting to remain conscious when bringing the bike to a stop.

Yet the boys are the soul of practicality, and had an engraved piece of metal made for the bike’s dash. It reads, “Place feet on ground at full stops.”

While motorcycle accidents give me the creeps, I prefer to deal with those where there are no fatalities. The bike sustained some degree of damage to the left jug, and the incident would have been a wash had Karen not been injured. I understand the surgery was successful and that Karen’s long-term plans include a Kawasaki Ninja. Mack and Karen are friends of mine, and I was glad to be of assistance during these circumstances. I will never forget the effort and personal sacrifice endured by Dick Bregstein on my behalf, when I was hit by that mini van in Virginia in 2006. It was my turn to "pay it forward."

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2009
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)