My dad was 19 years old and on leave from the army. He and his brother Buck and my Grandma were
on a trip to Canon City, CO.
They were returning in the night-time.
Uncle Buck was driving my Dad’s car with grandma in the passenger seat
and dad was behind them, driving Buck’s Harley Hog.
They were doing about 70 miles an hour through the foothills southwest of Colorado Springs, when a deer ran in front of the car. My dad saw brake lights come on for some reason, and throttled back. Then they went out as the deer left the road, so he sped up again.
The deer doubled back. Suddenly there was this huge doe standing stock still, paralyzed by dad’s single headlight. Dad locked up the brakes. The bike started leaning as it power slid towards the deer, and dad remembered lifting hi right leg over the gas tank so it wouldn’t get pinned when the bike went down.
Dad doesn’t remember hitting the deer. The next thing he knew he was sliding down the road at 70 miles an hour with sheets of sparks and flames coming off the handle bars. He was thinking “I’m on fire!” and trying to kick the bike away from him as they slid. Then it stopped and he was laying there staring at the stars, and crickets were chirping. He got up, surprised to find himself intact.
To say Grandma could be high-strung was an understatement. After the deer left the road, she was looking back, watching Dad’s headlight. Suddenly the light went out, and then there was this huge sheet of sparks and fire! She started screaming, “He’s dead! He’s dead!” at Bucky, who whipped a U-turn and ran back to the accident.
Grandma stayed in the car in hysterics when Bucky got out to find my dad kicking glass and debris off the road. “Did you get him?”
“Yeah.”
“Well hell, let’s gut him and put him in the trunk!”
Grandma got out of the car and crept up on Dad, tentatively reaching out to touch him as if he were a ghost.
Later at the Colorado Springs hospital, they were putting a cast on Dad’s arm where he had ground down some of his elbow. The county Sheriff arrived, asking “Where’s that feller poaching deer on a Harley?” He asked to see Dad’s ID, and dad handed him his wallet. He rifled through things, and found dad’s military ID and also his fake drinking ID. He showed them to Dad, and asked “Which one of these is you?” Dad indicated the Military ID. The sheriff put the others back in the wallet and finished his report.
The report said that from the skid marks, dad skidded 140 yards before hitting the deer, then kept the bike up for 200 yards (Dad doesn't remember this) before finally going over and sliding another 170 yards.
A week later, dad was driving the Harley through Denver when he spotted a couple of attractive girls walking along and got the bright idea that a power slide would impress them. Yep, he laid the bike down again, and ground down the cast on his arm in the same place where he had been patched up the week before.
They were doing about 70 miles an hour through the foothills southwest of Colorado Springs, when a deer ran in front of the car. My dad saw brake lights come on for some reason, and throttled back. Then they went out as the deer left the road, so he sped up again.
The deer doubled back. Suddenly there was this huge doe standing stock still, paralyzed by dad’s single headlight. Dad locked up the brakes. The bike started leaning as it power slid towards the deer, and dad remembered lifting hi right leg over the gas tank so it wouldn’t get pinned when the bike went down.
Dad doesn’t remember hitting the deer. The next thing he knew he was sliding down the road at 70 miles an hour with sheets of sparks and flames coming off the handle bars. He was thinking “I’m on fire!” and trying to kick the bike away from him as they slid. Then it stopped and he was laying there staring at the stars, and crickets were chirping. He got up, surprised to find himself intact.
To say Grandma could be high-strung was an understatement. After the deer left the road, she was looking back, watching Dad’s headlight. Suddenly the light went out, and then there was this huge sheet of sparks and fire! She started screaming, “He’s dead! He’s dead!” at Bucky, who whipped a U-turn and ran back to the accident.
Grandma stayed in the car in hysterics when Bucky got out to find my dad kicking glass and debris off the road. “Did you get him?”
“Yeah.”
“Well hell, let’s gut him and put him in the trunk!”
Grandma got out of the car and crept up on Dad, tentatively reaching out to touch him as if he were a ghost.
Later at the Colorado Springs hospital, they were putting a cast on Dad’s arm where he had ground down some of his elbow. The county Sheriff arrived, asking “Where’s that feller poaching deer on a Harley?” He asked to see Dad’s ID, and dad handed him his wallet. He rifled through things, and found dad’s military ID and also his fake drinking ID. He showed them to Dad, and asked “Which one of these is you?” Dad indicated the Military ID. The sheriff put the others back in the wallet and finished his report.
The report said that from the skid marks, dad skidded 140 yards before hitting the deer, then kept the bike up for 200 yards (Dad doesn't remember this) before finally going over and sliding another 170 yards.
A week later, dad was driving the Harley through Denver when he spotted a couple of attractive girls walking along and got the bright idea that a power slide would impress them. Yep, he laid the bike down again, and ground down the cast on his arm in the same place where he had been patched up the week before.
