Before I start telling you the story of my accident, I would like to thank following persons with all my heart: Anna K for driving me to Moab and taking care of my daily needs, Dr. Weeks and all of Moab Allen Memorial Hospital for their friendly and professional treatment, the agents from Elvia travel insurance for giving me the freedom not to worry about money in this troubled moment. Thank you, thank you!

Anna is one of a group of climbers I met in a hostel in Moab and now she was relaxing in the shade of a stone when I returned to the Creek Pastore public campground near Needles district of Canyonlands National Park. In this moment I felt safe but it took a few seconds and some deep breath strokes until I could collect of what was left on energy to wave my hand and something like shout: “Help me, I fell!”

Two hours before I took off to climb up the rocky track to Hurrah pass. It was awesome! The last couples of days in and around Canyonlands NP charged me with self-confidence, the Metal Masher track which I drove twice for the pure fun of it launched me to a new personal level of motorcycling. On this roundtrip now I was just about to discover how to improve balancing my weight on the foot bars to enhance controlled sliding in curves. Full of joy, drunken from the thrill of driving I relaxed, went off speed to chill down before I’ll arrive back on the camp. My mind was still on the pass. Or ahead cooking a nice dinner on the gas stove. Somewhere, I can’t remember, but most certain not in the current, which was about five or ten minutes to go. It was on the face of a grinded rock, slightly downhill, that without my prior notice the handlebar broke out with such a force that it slammed through my left thumb. Everything went so quick that before I could even think about a reaction, the right end of the handlebar touched the ground. The only thing left for me to do was focus on minimizing the impact of the fall on my body. With my forearm I supported and pushed me around so I slid like a flipped turtle on by back protector. I couldn’t prevent that the motorcycle was hammering on my right foot like a mint press.

Riding motorcycle in general or riding on dirt roads in specific means that you say yes to a certain amount of risk. It’s almost everywhere and every time possible that you crash. For the worst case I prepared myself what I think protected me from serious trouble: I always wear full body armor and prepare myself mentally over and over again with what-if-then-scenarios. With the latest I mean things like not reaching out with your hand when you’re falling or using the adrenaline rush of the first moment to stand up and lift up your motorcycle if that is possible. It was. The pain in my left hand and the right foot was something between extreme and unreal. I took the chance of the moment to get back onto the bike and continued driving. These minutes were precious. At the time I arrived on the campground I held my right foot off the bar, not able to put the slightest pressure on it and I couldn’t use my fingers of the left hand to only turn off the engine anymore. (Now how you handle the side stand and get off your bike with only one foot and one hand? That was funny!)

Now is this the end of motorcycle travelling? My wish was to drive back to New York, the place where 2003 the journey around the world began. I’m undecided. It takes time and patience to recover. I will see, you will see. Stay put!