In the mid 70's, club racing at Willow Springs, in SoCal, I went into turn 3, leading the field on a "production" RD350 but with an "open" chambered RD400 on my tail. I was told that he came in hot and tapped my rear wheel. I high sided into the middle of the "Omega."
I was wearing a first generation full face Bell Star. That helmet was NOT upcut at the back. Those helmets, old timers will recall, were flat across the bottom from front to back. They would sit on the hood of a car, or on your bike's seat without wanting to roll off.
Well, as Ashman related about his friend, my chin hit the ground, and my neck was levered over the lower edge of the back of the helmet. When I woke up in the ambulance on the way to the hospital the big bosomed blond blue eyed "candy striper" nurse went into her checklist - as I was looking at cleavage - and asked me to squeeze her hand - no go. Left hand? No go. Wiggle feet? No go. I saw terror in her eyes and - stupid me - wondered if I ought to be scared too. Being a noviate and lacking proper bed side manners, she yelled to the ambulance driver "Radio ahead, we need a neurologist, we got a 'quad'."
My gurney was parked in the hall of the hospital when the pneumatic doors opened and I heard spiked golf shoes clicking and scratching on the hospital hall's terrazzo floor. Then from those shoes came the loud call of the doctor "OK, there's another Willow Springs quad, where the hell is he?"
Thank God, it turned out to be a badly bruised spinal cord and as the doctor began his evaluation, my hands and feet began working again. He said "Keep him overnight for observation" and left.
About an hour later, my two racing buddies, who had collected my wrecked bike and tools and had loaded it all (along with their two bikes) into our old Ford Econoline, walked in.
They said nice things and then got to the point. "Do ya want a ride home or not? And, if not, then what do ya want us to do with your stuff?" Well, I was single and knew that my dad would be pissed if he had to drive a hundred miles to get me back home, so I said, "I'll ride home with you." The hospital, unsure of who was paying, allowed me to sign a waiver, handed me a cervical collar, and I was released.
My buds were gracious. They let me ride shotgun. The third guy sat, bent over, on top of the middle bike in the back, for the ride home.
Forty years later, I had to have surgery, five level cervical laminoplasty, to fix the damage done so long ago.
