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Insurance Claims

killbam — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 05:26:42 +0000

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

That soft pillow of a van.

The Michigan police officer looks friendly, perhaps a little bored patrolling the sparsely populated upper portions of idyllic Michigan. He’s not too pudgy, but looks like he mostly deals with tourists and helping people find directions.

With a pen and a piece of paper, he surveys the destruction to the bike in a tense moment of truth. There are no CB360T markings on the bike, but there is still the vin. Like a reverse used-car salesman, I try to direct his attention to the damage.

“There’s some damage here on the left side, this headlight is crashed in. Over down here the footpeg is bent. On the other side the turn signal is working, but the glass has been shattered. The headlights still work. Thank god both tires made it through, we can probably get it to a shop. In the front, the handlebars were crooked, but we bent them back enough.”

He write and writes and then asks me what happened.

“I was coming from around the corner, and had to ride around some bicyclists.” – I probably had to ride around some bicyclists. It could have been true.

“Then the van and I collided.” – I intentionally avoid saying that I hit the van and I make sure to sound like a victim of circumstance, with a tinge of I’m-sorry overlaying a restrained anger at the van driver who decided to hit me.

“Would you say you were out of the lane?” The cop fires back at me.

The lane? There aren’t any lanes here, and if there were, there would only be one and a half lanes. Still, I decide to go for the honest approach. If I’ve nothing to hide then maybe he won’t check if the CB77 registration lines up with the VIN number on the actual bike. I would gladly take a $300 ticket to avoid court.

“I guess.” I say sheepishly.

“Yea.” He says, indicting me, “Those goddamn bicyclists.”

“Oh yea.” I mumble, under my breath . We understand each other! Those goddamn bicyclists! That swam of yellow lycra wasps buzzing by on their 21 speeds! They caused the crash! They are a nuisance! There’s some now, flying by!

The cop walks through the swarm bicyclists over to talk to the driver of the van while I stand on the side of the road. Dad, Jenny, Jon and Rob busy themselves with the bike, although I’m sure they’re stealing glances at me waiting to see if I’m going to be written a ticket.

Rob’s photo of the damage.

Tthe morning was a bit cool but now the sun has come out and properly warmed up the day. I’m a little hot in my textile pants under the 1pm sun. It makes me uncomfortable to be in motorcycle gear and not moving.

When the cop comes back over, he says all of our paperwork is done with and we can be on our way. He gives me a piece of paper with a number and a url where I can look up the report. I immediately lose it.

Constraining my enthusiasm for getting away with no ticket and no vin number check, I walk over to the motorcycle and the rest of the riders, and explain the good news. Let’s get out here! HURRY!

I put on my helmet and sit on the bike, it starts up and still feels good. If we get away from here it’ll just be fine.

“Let’s go!” I shout through my helmet, at everyone else who is still gearing up.

“Wait,” The cop says, and walks up right by me. “What type of bike is that?”

I panic. The type of the bike! We took off all the badges, it says CB77 on the registration and insurance. Honda, I don’t know, CB, Vintage Honda CBR, THIS ONE, CLASSIC, CB77, CB360, 360T. If he’s a rider, he might know the difference, the CB77 that’s written on the registration doesn’t look anything like the CB360T.

Wait, is this a test? If I lie will he take me to jail? If I tell the truth will he let me off easy? Does he know?

“It’s a Honda CB77.” My dad lies buttoning up his helmet. I stare at the cop. The cop doesn’t say anything, he looks at me.

“Okay.” He says and gets in his car and leaves in the opposite direction. Everyone hops on their rides.

I look down at the bent bars, and smashed speedometer.

Softly I apologize to the CB360T, and ask it to carry me home. We ride out to finish up the Tunnel of Trees. I’m first, and I ride fast.

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Down

killbam — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 05:26:58 +0000

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

I always thought that if I were to go down, I would make sure that all my body parts worked before I got up. Check out myself methodically, like a computer starting with my toes and moving up one side at a time. No point in going fast, might break something that wasn’t broken before.

Instead, I immediately stand up.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” I keep repeating to myself. All I know is that my bike is somewhere in the middle of the road. Jon, Rob, my dad and Jenny are nowhere to be found.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, is the driver ok?” I wonder.

I take off my gloves and walk closer to the van, now the adrenaline is pumping through me. I feel like I can push over that stupid van for being there, but what I really want to do is tear my helmet off and throw it into the forest.

I walk towards the van and a line of bicyclists in bright yellow ride by me.

The left turn signal now touching the tank.

The driver gets out of the car, she’s an old lady, in a pink sweater shaking uncontrollably. The type who might have grown sons and looks forwards to church every Sunday.

“Are you ok?” I shout.

“Yes. Are you ok?” She meekly replies. It’s a good question. I still have all my gear on, my neck hurts a bit. For some reason, I think I slept funny on it. My hands are calm, and I take off my helmet as she says, “I’m going to get my husband.”

“What? Are you sure?”

Rob rides by, he doesn’t even hesitate as he parks his bike down the road in front of the illegally insured CB77. He immediately begins to pick it up as the other two bikes drive by to help him.

“Are you sure?” I repeat to the lady. The damage on the van is worse than me. I side swiped it, and bounced off. The door closes just fine as she gets back into the car and turns around. She lives right down the road, two or three turns at the exit.

I reassure everyone that I’m okay, and take off my gear. There’s a small hole in my boot, my gloves are bit torn up, my right side got hit harder but there’s damage on the left too. There’s a nice deep wide set of scratches about 2 inches around on my helmet in the back, might not have made it out alive without it.

The right shoulder.

Everyone works on the bike while I stand around taking in the situation. The bike is illegal, registered under a different make and model with fake plates. We’re still hundreds of miles away from home with out enough space to carry and extra person. And the bike isn’t even mine, it’s Rob’s and my dad’s. They trusted me to ride it because I’m the one who never crashes. Everything, the bike, their trust, our vacation, was broken.

“It’s okay,” I tell my dad, “when that lady and her husband come back, I’ll just pay them off. We’re 30 minutes away from a police station and none of these bikers are going to call the cops.”

The van drives back up and parks in the same spot. Out steps an old man, bald, flannel, and the perfect counterpart to the lady. He doesn’t seem particularly like the patriarch who would handle situations like these, but he’s a little more assured of himself. The old lady stays in the car.

“Dn’t worry,” he says. “I called the police.” And we stand around in the middle of nowhere exchanging information and uneasy small talk. It’s hot in the sun, especially with all my gear, which I begin to take off. Minutes pass, the old man gets in the car as I walk over to the pit crew working on the bike.

All googly eyed now.

The bike starts up, but the handlebars are bent. It is in poor condition, but it actually still runs. Rob rides in around in a small circle. Every so often, some bicyclists stop and ask if we’re okay. They’re not so bad after all.

In a way, we take similar risks and deal with the same shit. Bikes that break down, a love for mechanical things and the open road. Earlier we even saw a bicyclist that had gone down. I guess it happens to them too.

“Look,” I whisper to my dad, ”maybe I can convince him to call off the police. We can leave, everyone is okay.”

His look tells me he’s not entirely confident I can pull it off, but I think I can. I walk back over to the van. As I approach again, the old man steps out.

“Hey, you know, I don’t think there’s anything for the police to do here. You’ve got everything you need, we’ve got everything we need. There’s no reason for us to stay here.”

He thinks for a bit.

“I did call the police, and they are coming. You’re right.” I try not to crack a smile, “There is no reason for us to stay here, but you will stay.”

Then my dad walks over.

“We’re on a schedule here. We’re going to get going. We’ve been waiting for 30 minutes. Jeff will call the police and tell them not to come.” To which the old man replies:

“Yeah. Uh. Ok.”

But the police on the other end of 911 are not so understanding. The dispatcher tells me that since the accident happened on public land, the police have to check it out. He says they’ll probably be another 15 minutes, but he’s wrong. It takes them a total of an hour before the policeman arrives.

“Hello officer.” I say as he steps out of his car.

“Is that the bike?” He says.

“…yes…”

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The trip I didn’t want to start

killbam — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 06:03:18 +0000

Table of contents for A Lap of Lake Michigan

A Lap of Lake Michigan

Rob’s M class license is less than a week old. He started riding for real this summer, but we’re about to ride more in 3 days than he has in 3 months. None of us though, except for me, have ever put in the as much mileage in one trip as will be required to go around Lake Michigan.

To complicate things, Rob will also be riding a bike from 1976 which was fired up for the first time in 20 years a day ago. We’re not sure where the bike came from except for the fact that it didn’t have any papers and wasn’t taken care of at all.

And no papers means we couldn’t get the CB360T registered. It’s insured, but because we picked it up in a warehouse from a Harley dealer for $200 Illinois is making us wait two months before anything happens.

“WHERE IS THE CB77 REGISTRATION AND INSURANCE???” My dad text messages me on Friday. And I already know what he’s thinking. We’re not taking my CB77, but we’re going to leave the badges off the CB360T and pretend it’s a different, older bike.

“It’s insured, but not registered.” Dad tells me. “A cop won’t know the difference, and nobody will check the VINs if we get pulled over.” He’s right.

“We can’t get pulled over, this thing barley does 60” I respond. I’m confident, but I know cops have a way of messing with you. I don’t feel like I’d be able to lie to an officer and a quick glance at the VIN will probably end our trip and get the bike impounded.

This is one of the many thoughts running through my mind as I get out of work early on Friday. I’ve got a lot of work to do, passed deadlines, and grad school starting. I had to move my stuff out of cube on Friday into boxes because they’re moving things around to add more people. My biggest worry though is the weather and the route.

There is predicted rain for Monday night at the end of our trip. Traction probably won’t be a problem, but I know I’m the only person with full rain gear. There’s a chance of hypothermia even in summer temperatures if you’re wet, but more likely it will just make everyone absolutely miserable. It’s like taking a freezing shower for hours on end.

For about a month, I delayed planning the route. I honestly don’t want to go on the trip. Since moving back from California, I feel like the adventure is dead. Google Maps is also not good at planning long trips that you decide on. It keeps crashing on me and I can’t seem to print out directions. I have nothing written down for our route around Lake Michigan.

He whole of living in the Midwest is problem if you’re an avid motorcyclist. The roads are straight, flat, square, and the locals aren’t friendly to motorcyclists. There is no lane splitting, so the metal explosion factory between your legs just serves to cook you further in your already inappropriately heavy and hot gear.

I get home hoping that with a little luck, we’ll be off in about 30 minutes. Better to get it over with. We can make it to Green Bay by night and get the boring stuff out of the way but when I get there Dad is in the garage, in shorts and a t-shirt working on the 360T. It’s still not assembled.

Jon and Rob aren’t anywhere to be seen.

“They’re probably out buying airsoft guns,” he says in a moody tone, which is never good. I start to help him assemble the 360T hoping that by working hard I can calm my dad’s mood. The bike ran for the first times last night after rush shipping a bunch of used parts off eBay which themselves were of objectionable quality. New tires today means re-assembling a lot of the bike.

About an hour later Jon and Rob show up, surprisingly packed and ready to go as we fire up the 360T again. Jon and Rob bought some rain gear, but my dad doesn’t have waterproof anything. Jenny doesn’t have anything waterproof either, they say they’ll just tough it out but I know they’re hoping for no rain.

Rob packs his bike

I’m a little mad not only because nobody listened to my warning about the rain, but also because we’re about an hour behind my made up schedule. Dad then puts the Hayabusa up on the bike lift for some reason. He says we need to change the clutch fluid all of the sudden. It delays us another 30 minutes as we take off the plastic side fairings, and I keep glancing at the daylight going down.

The Busa on the stand, not ready to go

The neighbors come out to wish us well and make jokes as we’re about to leave. The first stop is gas. New plan: make Green Bay sometime tonight.

It’s a proper going away party!

We hop on the highway and head towards Wisconsin with Dad on the CB360T (we’re afraid it’s going to break down), Rob next on the VFR (the least powerful of the remaining bikes), me, and Jon with Jenny on the back of the Hayabusa (temporary).

Obama is doing work on the roads so we’re keeping a tight formation. People like to serve in-between bikes, and there’s no shoulder so we need to protect our lane position. Around the O’hare oasis, something wiggles on the back of the 360T in the lead and Rob’s backpack falls off.

Rob looks back and slows down next to me. He points backwards. I shake my head and point forwards. There’s no stopping here. Traffic is moderate because of vacationers, there are trucks, and there’s no shoulder at all.

The first chance we get is the O’hare oasis, where we pull over. Rob is pissed. He wanted to wear the bag, but we told him to tie it down even though wearing a bag is okay for short periods. Eventually even the lightest weight will hurt your back.

Two of our bikes have saddle bags on them, and one of them has a bag that rides on the tail. Everything else is just backpacks and knapsacks. They’re awkwardly shaped and don’t sit well on the backs of motorcycles and they’re not waterproof but still… I’ve never lost a bag and neither has anybody else I know, and we’ve tied a lot of stupid things to the backs of motorcycles.

Rob wants to go back to get the bag.

“We’re at the O’hare oasis. The next turn off is about 15 minutes north, and the last one is 15 minutes south, we’d lose an hour just getting back here” Jon says.

“Besides, the bag is probably destroyed and even if it weren’t we couldn’t stop and pick it up.”

We all argue for about 5 minutes on what to do. Dad and Rob want to go back and get it. Jon thinks it’s too dangerous and the bag is already done with. I think we need to get to Green Bay tonight and we can’t afford an hour. We settle on calling the police to have someone pick it up. Jon makes the call, they say they’ll look out for it.

Some of Rob’s clothes are gone, including some of his rain gear and a warm weather clothes and Jon is being unsympathetic to Rob’s loss, although Rob’s main complaint is he lost a limited edition hoodie. We can feel it’s already getting cold. Rob hops on the 360T because we think it might cheer him up to ride “his” bike and we ride on.

About 5 minutes later Jon zooms in front of us and signals for us to pull over to the side of the road for an emergency. I make a mirror check, the CB 360T is gone.

Rob simply slowed down and eventually stopped, a little ways back, on an overpass, in the construction zone, where there are no shoulders and where he’s sitting right in the middle of the lane.

We call him, but he doesn’t pick up. Jon hops off his bike and starts to run after him soon disappearing.

Jon calls, they can’t get the bike started or off to the side of the road which means that it’s in the middle of traffic and cars don’t bother to slow down as they pass them. Rob and Jon are taking turns trying to kick start the bike and they begin to push it to where we are.

I start trying to call the hotel we’re staying at to cancel my reservations without anybody asking me to do so. Originally, I wanted to play the whole thing by ear, but everyone told me yesterday to book a hotel room. They’re afraid Green Bay will be packed with bastards like us going on vacation to Illinois’ private resort of Wisconsin. I paid for the hotel rooms through Priceline, except when I call them their automatic system doesn’t recognize my telephone number. After messing with my phone for 15 minutes to get the reservation number, they say they don’t recognize that either and it won’t let me talk to a person.

I call the hotel instead and ask to cancel my reservations. The girl on the other end sounds cute and cheerful.

“Sorry, can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“You booked it through Travelocity didn’tcha?”

“Priceline actually”

“Well, we can’t cancel anything online. You’ll have to call them.”

“I already tried, they aren’t recognizing my telephone number.”

“It’s okay, they probably won’t let you cancel anyway. Hee hee. That’s why you should always just call the hotel yourself!”

My mood was getting worse. I feel sorry for Rob. This whole trip was a huge disaster.

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