Why I still ride after a motorcycle crash

Sometimes, you have to get back on the horse that bucked you. For me, that horse was a V-twin engine on two wheels.

Every year, around this time, we hear of the motorcyclists who die, riding our roads and highways. Last September I came close to becoming one of those grim stories.

I am a safe rider. I ride hoping for the best, but prepared for the worst. So when I saw a car in an adjacent lane spinning out of control, my hands and feet started working the emergency braking I'd practiced on my safety course.

But coming to a full stop at highway speed isn't easy.

Bike destroyed, but alive

I skid for dozens of metres, my engine shut down and I swerved to avoid the tailgate of a truck ahead of me. I remember the distinct sound of crunching metal as my bike crashed into the concrete median on the 417. I remember tucking my head as I was propelled over my handlebars. And then things went dark and quiet.

When I came to, lying on my back about six metres from the wreck that was once my precious motorcycle, the firefighters and police had the same message, and I'm paraphrasing here, as it was all a bit of a blur:

"You have a guardian angel, you know that? No one walks away from a motorcycle crash on the 417 ... and it looks like you're going to be OK."

My bike was a crumpled reminder of what could have happened to my body.

Rewards outweigh risk

I'm a journalist. I've reported on my share of motorcycle fatalities.  I've seen the aftermath and I've interviewed the grieving families. It's tragic, it's shocking and it's life-changing. Despite all that, there was never any question: I'd ride again.

There's nothing quite like the exhilaration of straddling an engine through infinite valleys of wooded landscapes and crimson sunsets.

This spring, the time came to hop on a bike again. Mine was a writeoff. So, I borrowed my friend's Harley for my first post-accident ride.

I didn't think the accident shook me at all. But the day I decided to hop back on a motorcycle, I started to freak out. I chew gum aggressively when I'm nervous. I was chewing a lot of gum.

Deep breath. Helmet. Leathers. Ignition … and then the signature thrum that marks the start of the excitement.

As soon as my feet left the ground I had to get used to the unfamiliar sensation of thrust and balance. But, a few minutes later, I was sporting a grin from ear to ear. The freedom of a good ride is pure bliss and I missed it, oh so much.

I chose to ride again because, for me, the reward outweighs the risk. And I know I'm not the only one.