Blog: How To Stop Traffic On I-80

The one thing I can’t remember is where I was going at the time, but that doesn’t matter, since the rest is clear as a bell. I was on my 1994 Yamaha Seca motorcycle going south on I-80 between Gilman and University in Berkeley. I was in the fast lane at around 60 mph, but was also, sadly, violating a basic precept of motorcycle safety (and driving safety in general) which is, as I’m sure you know: “Pay Attention.”

A nuisance when you’re on a motorbike is not being able to tell the time. Riding gloves often cover your wristwatch, and the preferred solution is to stick a small clock somewhere near your speedometer. So I was looking down at my gauges and contemplating where such a clock might be mounted.

I-80 is noted for what we call “rubber banding.” That is, the traffic takes it in its head to go really fast, then suddenly comes to a crawl or even a full stop. And so, being unable to solve my clock placement problem just then, I looked back up, only to discover that I was right on the verge of entering into a very undesirable, unhealthy, and all too intimate relationship with the car in front of me.

Many late model motorcycles come equipped with ABS (automatic braking system) that helps in these situations. But my bike didn’t have it, and so a series of predictable events unfolded as follows: I “panic” braked hard. My rear wheel locked up. My rear tire broke loose. And my Seca violently fishtailed and spit me off. It then fell sideways and slid away to the right across the tarmac, whereas I flew to the left and began to tumble down the narrow strip that lies between the fast lane and the highway divider. 

Eventually I came to a stop, having miraculously avoided hitting the car in front of me (as well as a couple more in the fast lane as I rolled past them down the strip). I stood up and surveyed the damage. My face shield had been ripped halfway off my helmet. My cloth gloves looked like rats had been gnawing at them. And the ski jacket I had on that day was rent and torn, with Polargard insulation popping out all over.

Oddly, my first thought was “Oh expletive, I’m losing my stuffing!” and I began a futile attempt to pack it back in. But as I came to my senses, anxiety about the stuffing gave way to a deeper concern for my bike, and as the way now appeared clear, I started a somewhat unsteady walk over to where the Seca lay on its side in the middle of the highway.

As I went along I took a quick look around. The traffic that had been in front of me was long gone. Behind, on the other hand, sat vehicles across all lanes of I-80, looking like the starting grid of the Indianapolis 500 before the race takes off. The drivers also appeared motionless, perhaps stunned by the scene they had just witnessed. 

I think you may agree that some parts of the human anatomy are better looking than others, and so it is with motorcycles. Upright, they look great, but ‘down,’ their underside becomes exposed. So there lay my Seca with its drain plugs, oil filter (and other parts that only a mechanic could love) in full view of complete strangers. On a positive note, it appeared that my bike, like its owner, had not hit, or been hit by anything.

As I was attempting to lift the bike, two guys jumped out of their pickup and helped me stand it up and roll it over to the righthand shoulder. The Seca made some funny sounds that alarmed me, but then I realized the transmission was still in gear and the engine was merely clunking over. With the bike cleared, the boys got back in their pickup, and the drivers on the starting grid now remembered where they had been going just a short while ago. They hardly needed a green flag to be on their way. I-80 returned to normal.

I inspected the damage. The right side of the bike was pristine, but the left side (which had endured the long slide across the tarmac) looked like a grinding wheel had been applied here and there. And a foot peg was missing. But as I could see no terminal injuries, I was about to try for a startup, when a police car came flying the wrong way down the University off ramp and pulled up to where I was standing. Whereupon the following exchange took place:

What has happened here?

I fell off my bike.

Where were you going?

Well, you see Officer, I was going from point A to point B, but I only made it to point A prime when I fell off. (OK, I didn’t say that. Just told him my now-forgotten destination—although I couldn’t see the relevance of his question. Oakland? Santa Cruz? Gilroy? What difference did it make?)

Was anyone hurt?

No. (I saw no need to discuss the “road rash” I knew I had.)

Was any other vehicle involved?

No, only this one.

I think you have a fuel leak.

I don’t think so. (And at that I hand-shifted the bike into neutral, and turned the ignition key. The neutral light blinked on, the bike started right up, and after a minute or two it settled down to idle and rev normally. I then informed my interrogator that I lived close by and could drive home on surface streets.)

The officer diligently processed all this information with the deep concentration required by his training. But eventually the deep furrows on his forehead began to dissipate, and it became clear that a conclusion was in the offing. Finally, his whole face brightened up as he announced, “Well then, I guess nothing happened.”

Having rendered his official determination (which carried, of course, the full force of law), he hopped in his car and peeled off back up the University off-ramp (no doubt relieved that a lengthy report would not be required, and further encouraged by a recollection that the Happy Sunshine Coffee and Donut Shop was located nearby).

And so it dawned on me that I had skated clean and was now free to go. While shifting was a little awkward without a foot peg, within 10 minutes my Seca was under its cover again in my back yard, safe and sound.

This story will be continued Wednesday.