As the garage door opened, he looked up and noticed the morning. It was a cool but bright sunny morning... a beautiful day in March... one of those early Spring days, that makes you feel good, that chases out the winter blues, like a dog chasing a cat.

He took a big breath, and let it out slow. It was great to be up and going! He strapped his brown leather briefcase onto the motorcycle's rack with two yellow elastic bungee cords. Having no class tonight, his briefcase only held his lunch and a magazine.

As he buttoned his bluejean jacket over his shirt and tie, he checked his bike. It was a nice big one… a 500-pound, three-cylinder, driveshaft-coupled Yamaha 750, with a Windjammer fairing. Its metallic silver paint sparkled in the early morning sun. Its windshield glistened as though trying to get his attention. It was a beautiful machine.

He reached into his right pocket and fished out his key. Then, in one fluid motion, he lifted his leg and mounted the bike. He shivered, since the seat and steel sides were cold. He paused only briefly, inserted the key, and woke the engine to life. He liked the nice deep smooth sound of that engine, reassuring him that this machine, like his computer, would do anything he asked of it.

As the engine warmed, he put on his tight black leather gloves, pondered on that thought... and smiled. That was one of the two reasons why he bought a bike: he was good with machines. He could deal with them. The machines did not argue back, ignore him, or put him down, like his wife did.

The other reason was the excitement. His loneliness and the lack of intimacy in his 10-year-old marriage made him thirst for excitement. He had reasoned that it was going to be either a bike, or an affair. He quickly decided on the bike, since it was moral, ethical, and it would not rob him of any time. Although the temptation was there to do the other, he was satisfied with his decision. For the past year, he had enjoyed driving his bike daily to work, twice a week to night school, and around town on the weekends. He had ridden it through sweltering heat and freezing rain and snow.

He had even driven his 5-year old daughter Jennifer down the block. His wife, though, would not ride with him, not even down the block. He sighed... maybe it was the kids... it had been years since they had spent any time together.

He shock himself out of those thoughts of self-pity, and focused his eyes on his helmet, perched atop the bike's light. As he put on the helmet, his excitement for the ride ahead peaked.

He gave the throttle a quick flick to kill the choke, turned his headlights on, and paused with his hands on the grips.

"OK, sweetheart, let's go!," he said out loud, and in one motion, squeezed the clutch, kicked it in gear, and slowly released the lever, coordinated with some throttle twist, immediately resulting in a burst of forward speed.

He smiled as he methodically and mechanically shifted gears, feeling around him the contradiction of a warm sun but a cool breeze. He felt on top of the world! He was high. No alcohol could top this feeling.

He slowed to turn left into the extreme end of Weatherly Road. Looking from this vantage point down the main traffic artery of the suburb, he saw that traffic was predictably thin at this early hour.

Cruising down the straightaway now, he began planning his day. He enjoyed his work, and his classes. But he did not like going home afterwards. It was always the same: he would get home to an extremely messy house, and his wife would either ignore him or pick a fight. Let's see now, what was the fight about last night? Oh, yeah... she wanted a maid three times a week, rather than once.

Again, he shock himself out of those thoughts, and again, he focused his attention on the road ahead. He noticed the car about 300 yards ahead of him. It was one of those ubiquitous Honda Civics, and he noticed a VW van behind him. He'd seen him before around the neighborhood.

About 50 yards ahead, however, he noticed Charlie, an old co-worker from earlier days, backing out of his corner lot, and slowly approaching the stop sign to enter Weatherly. He wanted to wave at Charlie, but never had the opportunity… Charlie never stopped. He continued slowly running through his stop sign and entering Weatherly.

"Oh, God!" A cold chill went up his back.

He instinctively, immediately, and simultaneously, squeezed both handlebar levers, and both foot pedals. His brakes locked into a skid about 50 feet from Charlie.

"Thump-thump," he heard, and looked down to see if he had run over something on the road. There was nothing there.

He was expecting to screech to an immediate stop, but time seemed to slow down to a crawl. Everything was happening in slow motion.

He heard both tires squealing and screeching, followed ever so slowly by a loss of vertical balance, as the rear end tried to slide sideways. He shifted his weight to successfully balance himself and the squirmy bike. The pungent smell of burn rubber seemed in direct contrast to the previous fresh spring day smell, and reinforced his sense of danger.

As he rode his swaying bike straight down Weatherly, he looked, with tunnel vision, towards Charlie. Charlie still had not seen nor heard him. Charlie was still oblivious to the predicament, and Charlie was still slowly entering the intersection, about 25 feet ahead.

"Thump-thump," he heard, this time realizing what it was. It was his heart, pounding, trying to jump out of his chest.

Like the engineer he was, he now contemplated his accident probability. Could he steer out of the way? Unlikely, since he was doing all he could to balance the screeching bike. Was he going to stop on time? Unlikely. Charlie's car was just too close, and the heavy bike just needed more stopping room. Should he lay the bike down? No. That was for the movies, since rubber-to-pavement friction was much better than metal-to-pavement friction.

"Thump-thump"

Could he jump, springboard from the bike? No. There was just no time to unwrap from the bike in order to jump. Were they going to hit? Yep, they were. If they hit, how hard will it be? He looked at Charlie's car, 15 feet away... it was a 1965 Buick... built like a tank! Yep, it was going to be a hard hit.

"Thump-thump," and another chill went up his back.

If they hit, would it be at the passenger's compartment, or at the trunk? The low trunk might give him a chance. The taller passenger's compartment would crush him immediately.

"Thump-thump"

Slowly, oh, so very slowly, the bike continued to approach the Buick. There was nothing to do now, but wait and see what was going to happen. Charlie's car was 10 feet ahead, the tires were still squealing, and the bike was still going forward, rather fast.

"Thump-thump"

The view ahead did not look good. He was looking dead ahead at the car's passenger greenhouse as it slowly crawled left.

"Thump-thump"

Charlie was now 5 feet ahead.

"Thump-thump"

"Aarghh," he said as he slowly hit.

He felt a sudden pressure on his hips, and realized that the bike was now stopping, and he was not. The loud thud that followed had been expected. His handlebars were now wrestled away from his gloved hands, and his body moved slowly forward.

Was he ready to die? When was the last time he'd been to confession? Heck, when was the last time he'd been to mass? With the demands of work, school, professional associations, volunteer work, a wife and two kids he was not attending church too often. This wasn't good... and he now wished he had arranged his priorities differently... he was now having doubts as to where he'd go if he died.

He now noticed his motorcycle's front tire creating a large dent in Charlie's rear quarter panel, right behind the tire. Oh God, he thought, I won't die, just yet.

The waiting was over, but time was still passing quite slowly. His body now began lifting from the bike's seat. As he approached his bike's windshield, his helmet contacted it and swung down on his head, putting pressure on his teeth. The plastic windshield gave way at about the same time his front teeth did. He could not tell how many teeth broke, but felt the taste of blood.

Had he lived a good life? Fairly so, but not a very exemplary one lately. His marriage problems were distracting and consuming him. When he was younger he certainly had been closer to the church than now. Not only that, but his kids needed to be more involved in the church, like he did when he was young. This was another mistaken low priority. He should have taken care of the kids' church upbringing regardless of his own problems. He loved his kids.

He then felt pain in his left foot, so much so, that he wondered if the whole leg was staying on the motorcycle, possibly twisted around the brake pedal or the handlebar. But the pain went away immediately, and there was no feeling at all from that foot.

He went airborne, about 15 feet up, flying very fast, face first, having cleared Charlie's trunk. Time was still moving slowly, and he was still alive, thank God. But he was traveling much faster than was considered healthy.

Oh, how he wished he'd finished his Ph.D., he thought. And who would carry on with his work task? How much was that extra life insurance at work? Would the wife and kids miss him much... or would she be glad he died when they collected the insurance money? It was not much of a marriage, and he again wondered if there was anything else that he could have done to improve it. They've been going to a counselor to no avail. It was the same old thing... conflict between them as to who was the head of household. She wanted to control him, and he rebelled at this. Oh, well... this did not matter anymore.

His airborne body now began rolling left and coming down. He could see the pavement coming at him, and instinctively put out his left arm to break the fall.

When was the last time he spoke to his mom and dad? Two weeks ago? His mother had always liked to play games, to manipulate the situation. Her favorite was to claim that she would die soon, implying that he should humor her and do what she wanted, while she was still alive. He laughed!

As his outstretched hand touched the pavement, the arm telescoped into itself, accordioning, snapping and splintering. The shoulder hit next, knocking his breath out, and breaking several ribs. Blood splattered on his face. He then rolled onto his back, and continued to skid down the pavement, for several feet.

He realized that if he really made it through this mess, he'd be living on borrowed time... and would have to fix his life. Was this God's way of grabbing his attention?

He stopped, and then lay very still.

Just then, dusk came. He thought it odd that sundown would come so early in the morning. Darkness enveloped him. He slowly closed his eyes, and slept.