I was eighteen years old, had been out of high school for a year, and the summer of '69 had just begun. Both of my two custom motorcycles, a 1948 Harley knuckle head and a 1951 650cc rigid frame Triumph chopper, were completely disassembled and consisted of many boxes of miscellaneous parts. There never seemed to be enough money to get the Triumph engine back from being rebuilt by Bob Chantland (who once worked on Jay Leno's motorcycle). Plus, I wasn't quite sure of my ability to put either bike back together, but even if I could, it would take months, if not years.
What I wanted was something I could drive. So, after I saw an ad for a 1965 BSA 650 cc, I sold my convertible, my mother helped me get a loan, and I bought the bike. I remember taking it out for a test ride in my old neighborhood of North Minneapolis, up Penn, and out past the cemetery. The BSA would be my only transportation. On one occasion I drove it out to my parents Lake Koronis summer cabin, but I also drove it back and forth everyday to work at the rubber factory.
Summer was almost over, and I had just installed a new set of handlebars. Since owning the bike, I had done minimal modifications. My friend Ron's dad painted the gas tank with some green lacquer that came with my Triumph, and I removed some excess wiring and unnecessary parts, but other than that, it was just like I purchased it. The bike had some problems with the clutch and front forks, but it always ran.
I tickled the carbs till gas overflowed from the bowls, and I probably gave it two or three kicks. The bike rarely started on the first, but almost always by the third. To try out the bars, I drove to my friend Dave's, near Delano, about 30 miles west of Minneapolis.
It was a great day to take the bike out on the highway. I took Highway 12 and headed west through Long Lake and Maple Plain. The Labor Day weekend had just ended, and it was a warm sunny September day. After arriving at Dave's and parking the BSA, we took Dave's car and met two girls Dave new. We were giving them a ride home, and after driving around we ended up at a park near Lake independence. We didn't have bathing suits, so we rolled up our pants, waded in the water, splashed around, and swam a bit near a dock, owned by Glampe's resort, right next to the park. The water was shallow, like the water at the end of our dock on Lake Koronis. I had swum and dove there ever since I could remember.
As I was walking on the dock, diving off the end just seemed like such a natural thing, so I took a run, and I dove into the water. Once in the water, the first thing that I remembered was floating face down, straining to move my head to get some air. I could see the sky, but couldn't breathe and continued to struggle trying to reach the surface. I did not know what was wrong, but do remember, at some point, briefly praying. Then I saw myself walking in the snow and flying in a plane, a single-seat style jet flying above the clouds. The memories I had before blacking out and going unconscious were there, but it didn't seem possible there was enough time to have all those thoughts. Not all the memories of the conversation I had with God with very clear - I may have tried to make a deal, as I often did - but the visualizations were quite vivid even months later.
Then I opened my eyes and saw white cumulus clouds floating in the bluest sky imaginable. The sun was shining warm on my face, and everything was so peaceful, if there is a heaven, this could have been it. For just a few seconds, it felt good to be alive. I now realized I was alive.
Then Dave and the girls were asking me questions. A sheriff was standing over me and asked me what was wrong. Did I hurt? I did not know what was wrong. I didn't have any pain, but I couldn't move my arms or legs. He asked me if I needed an ambulance and I must have said yes.
I found out months later that the sheriff was there because the resort refused Dave use of their phone to call an ambulance. They did not want to be liable for the cost, so instead they called the sheriff. I cannot remember anything about that ambulance ride.
Lying on the litter in the hallway of the hospital, I was wet and so cold. I was told that my parents were called and would arrive soon. Because I was only eighteen, the hospital needed my parents' consent prior to starting any procedure. I talked with a doctor, not having any idea who he was, but asked him what was wrong with me.
He politely informed me, "you broke your neck"
I responded, "shouldn't I be dead then? Isn't that what they do to people when they hang them?"
He told me that you don't always die when you break your neck. I don't remember ever seeing that doctor again.
I spent six weeks at North Memorial Hospital in a circle bed. My cousin Terry had died a year earlier in that hospital after crashing his Harley motorcycle. Yet, my mother was still willing to help me get a loan to buy the BSA. Contrary to what I was warned would happen, my motorcycle did not put me in the hospital. It was still safely parked at Dave's parents' farm. I had kicked the starter for the last time in my parents' driveway.
