BURGER SCOOT

On September 25, 2024, I got into a traffic accident while riding home on my scooter. I am a retiree, but I occasionally work part-time as a retired annuitant at my old job. I traveled about 10 or 15 miles an hour in congested traffic and did not stop in time before I hit a red sedan on Broadway here in Sacramento. I remember landing on the asphalt and rolling my head to the left, seeing the tail end of my scooter before I blacked out. When I came to, somebody was over me asking if I was okay. He might’ve said something like, “Can you move your head?” and if I thought it was okay to remove my helmet and then started asking me questions about how I felt: whether I knew where I was, my name, the date, etc. I could hear sirens in the background getting closer.

Looking back on it, I think he should’ve waited for the EMTs to remove my helmet and to ask these questions, but he did not appear to harm me. When the EMTs rolled up and started asking questions, I answered them clearly; however, I couldn’t help but hear the fifth business in the background, especially somebody asking a question I’ve always wanted the answer: Why does the fire department have to come out every time an ambulance is called? I wanted to stop the EMT from questioning me and hear the answer from the big guy in the fire retardant jacket. It seems like a waste of taxpayer money

Because I answered all the questions about the pain I was feeling in my back, they delicately rolled me on one side, placed a plastic sheet underneath me, and then pushed a button or flipped the switch and shazam! The plastic sheet inflated around me like a Doughboy pool, holding my body static. They then picked up the rubber raft that I was snuggly encased in, put it on a stretcher, and placed me in the ambulance.

The EMTs gave me my phone, where I texted my wife that I was in an accident and that I was going to the emergency department at UC Davis Medical Center. She acknowledged what I sent her. I couldn’t help but notice the searing pain in my left arm when elevating my phone so I could text with my right hand. I think I could hear just about all of the guys in the truck let out a single groan, followed by the EMT sitting next to me, begging me to choose a different hospital. They said it would take forever to get into the emergency department and ultimately get me into a bed if they took me to UC Davis Medical Center. They implored me to choose Sutter or Mercy. I told them Sutter, and then, guarding my left arm, I used the phone’s voice-to-text function and told my wife about the change of destination.

They wheeled me right in when we arrived at Sutter’s emergency department. The EMT at the head of my gurney told me I had made the right choice: “See, we are in the ER already! If we went to UC Davis Medical Center, we would be in the back of a long line of ambulances.” I realized they wanted to dump me quickly so they could get back out there saving lives or, considering the time, clock out.

Staring up at the ceiling in the Sutter Memorial Center, Sacramento Emergency Department. It was a cacophony of phones ringing, ED staff answering phones, and chatter amongst the staff, with my pain rising and falling in the back to the front of my attention. My wife arrived, which was easily the high point since hitting the asphalt. After talking with me about what kind of pain I was feeling (back, left shoulder blade, left arm, and strangely, my left foot’s big toe), she found a chair next to my gurney. A nurse said hi, placed a hospital bracelet on my left wrist, verified who I was and what had happened, and asked me how I felt; she then disappeared, never to be seen by me again. Minutes later, there was a massive shuffle that my wife said was a shift change and the distinct smell of Jimboy’s Tacos, and I was reminded my favorite fast-food joint was less than two blocks away.

When my wife wasn’t tending to me or conversing with medical staff, I checked out the whiteboard beside my gurney. There was “Peds,” “Triage,” first names of staff, and a big “SMCS” at the top (presumably for Sutter Memorial Center, Sacramento). I got bored with that game and started to think of Mathieu, someone I used to work with who walked away from two traffic accidents. Both his scooters, a Yamaha Vino and some cheap Chinese rig, were totaled. Mathieu was in very good shape. That fact reminded me of Ernesto, the property manager of our investment property. Ernesto regularly rides his touring road bicycle in a club. At one point, he told me he was in the hospital and later at home recouping for a couple of months due to a high-speed bicycle pill-up that resulted in spine damage. Ultimately, he had to have some of the disks in his spine fused, and he suffered a broken arm. He added that his doctor told him he was lucky he was in shape, so he healed much quicker. So I’m on this gurney in Emergency with a jacked up back and the ghosts of Mathieu and Ernesto are haunting me and my RN with is sitting with me in that ER and she doesn’t have to say a word, her words, Mathieu walking away from two traffic accidents and Ernesto the road bike enthusiast’s words are there hanging over me like a pall.

When I got tired of thinking of that, I thought about popular songs about bikers who bit it (since there are no songs about scooterists who literally “hit the road,” but the only one I could think of was “Leader of the Pack.” It’s not one of my favorite songs, to be sure. A few days later, while convalescing, I would find a bunch of, at least to me, obscure songs about or at least referencing scooters, but on that gurney, I could only think of Montrose’s “Bad Motor Scooter” and the climax to a film with loads of scooters, “Quadrophenia” where Jimmy pushes his ex-idol’s Vespa GS off the cliff at Beachy Head to shatter on the rocks below. However, neither of those moments in popular culture has to do with a scooter accident. Soon, I abandoned that time waister and realized I had quit scootering a year too late.

About a year ago, I was riding home from dropping off bulletins at my church when I decided to have lunch at one of my favorite places, Cafe Dantorels. When I arrived, I found the parking lot was full, even the one spot that really wasn’t a parking spot, but I could fit my ride in. Before going home, I decided to stop by the side of the road and think of a backup plan. But when I tried to place my left foot on the ground, I realized too late it was a storm drain about three or so inches lower than the asphalt. The physics of a 200-plus-pound scooter falling to the side was too much for my body to control, and the scooter and I pitched over. I didn’t get hurt, and the scooter only suffered a small dent, but I realized how old I was at that moment, and after picking up my ride, starting it, and riding to the intersection, I concluded that my wife was right: it was time to limit my rides. She was more than willing to drive me around, and I had already begun to use Lyft more often. So, I started using other forms of transportation, and I was relatively okay with that: the thrill of riding my Vespa GT 200 had officially passed. If only I had felt that way when my old boss asked me to put in a week at the end of September, I wouldn’t be on this gurney at SMCS Emergency Department with a jacked-up old body.

When an emergency doctor finally saw me, he ordered a CT scan of my head and neck and another scan of my chest. Time passed. I thought of Jimboy’s Tacos, how much more my toe hurt than my chest, Jimmy pushing that Vespa GS off that cliff in “Quadrophenia,” what condition my scooter was in, and the revelation that outside of insurance money, I didn’t give a shit about my ride. Next thing you know it I was being wheeled into imaging for my CT scan.

When the results came back, I was cleared of any brain or neck trauma, but I fractured five ribs on my left side. He didn’t say anything about my left arm or shoulder but must have known about it since I reported pain in my left scapula to the emergency medical technicians. The doctor placed a lidocaine gel patch where most of the fractures are (left side near my back) and sent me home.

I am here to report that the patches are not worth the powder to blow them up! I did have some painkillers left from my last procedure, so I took one of those each night at bedtime and ibuprofen during the day. Knowing the addictive powers the painkillers have, my wife halved the dosage after a few nights. The fascinating thing about fractured ribs was that as I inhaled, I could feel my ribs expand and move my broken rib cage. When I exhaled, they returned closer to my lungs with a THUMP! The depressing question about that was how they were supposed to mend when they were constantly moving.

My complete ignorance in all things medical made me think I would be out for five months, but I never asked my wife, a nurse for over thirty years. Two days after the accident, a nurse practitioner at my regular clinic (my doctor was not available) felt it would be closer to six weeks. But this isn’t to say I will be 100 percent, just well enough to help around the house and maybe even return to my daily walks. During the first three or four days, my wife had to tend to me almost like I was paralyzed: cleaning me after I defecated and putting on/taking off my underwear and t-shirt. It was humbling and made me want to heal faster, though there wasn’t much I could do about the healing process.

A couple of weeks after the accident, I told my wife I was going for a walk to drop off a due library book, then proceeded to Venus, a neighborhood bakery and coffee shop where I used to walk to many days a week before the accident. (Some people garden when they retire, I visit neighborhood coffee joints.) My wife later said she could have warned me I wasn’t ready to walk that far but was impressed that I wanted to stretch my legs. Venus is about half a mile south of our house. My wife reminded me to take my phone and text me if I needed to be picked up. Walking down our driveway, the big toe of my left foot immediately objected. Three houses down the street my back joined in on the Concerto in Pain. Less than a quarter of a mile down South Land Park Drive, my arm got into the symphony. I texted my wife that I needed to be picked up. I felt like an ass. Thankfully, my wife was supportive and only suggested walking up and down our street for now. Smart woman.

Over the next two weeks, I began to gain some mobility and was able to crap alone, clothe myself, and shower without my wife’s assistance. I also regularly, albeit not daily, walked up and down my street. Every night, though, I needed to be “tucked” into bed: my wife would tuck a long, firm pillow (originally meant as a decorative top pillow) under my back so I would have added support. It helped me fall asleep comfortably, but between 3:00-5:00 p.m. every morning, I would wake up and could not fall back to sleep–my back pain where my ribs fractured ached too much. I would get up, dress myself in underwear and a T-shirt, walk to the family room, and sit in our La-Z-Boy chair until I felt drowsy. I would then recline the chair and fall asleep for an hour or two until around 7:00 a.m., when I would sit up in the chair and wait to be fed.

By the third week, things were continuing to improve, albeit gradually. My nurse practitioner (NP), who had ordered an X-ray that netted inconclusive results on why my arm was lame, had now ordered an MRI. Now, a few weeks after the accident, I was on the table as two techs applied straps across my chest and my left arm, holding it stationary. Ever since I was a teenager, I had had MRIs done every five years or so because I have a seizure disorder, but they were always for his brain. Those were easy to withstand since the only thing I had to keep still was my head, and they had me locked in place. The only thing I had to endure was the annoying noise. This time, however, I had injured his arm, so I needed to keep my whole torso quiet; one would think strapping me in would help, but it didn’t. I guess I moved my arm once, and they had to re-shoot my arm. When the time in the loud and claustrophobic tunnel was over, I could go home, and over the next day or so, a panel of doctors would figure out what was going on with my wing.  

What the MRI showed was a fracture of the scapula and that I would have to see an orthopedic specialist and probably a physical therapist. First, the five fractured ribs, now this, and I hadn’t had a doctor look at my left foot’s big toe yet. I tested that big toe again by trying to walk to Venus again, and I made it there this time! I took a long break there, though since the place changed ownership, it wasn’t worth staying too long. (It used to be Barrio, but it had more selections and was open longer.) There was not much to eat there then, but I stretched out my coffee time, sipping so I could let my big toe recoup for the walk back.

About a month after the accident, I no longer needed to be “tucked” in and was going to bed like a normal person. This meant I could go to bed on my own steam and at my own time, which was a big emotional improvement for me. The only difference between this time and before the accident is the pain getting into bed, the pain rolling over on my right side, and when I woke up between 5:00 a.m. and 7:00 a.m., the feeling like I had woke up after being mugged and kicked in my chest for quite a few minutes. The next week, I started riding my bike to coffee shops around the neighborhood. It was scary since I couldn’t handle too much pressure on my left arm.

Another week passed, and while my ribs are still sore, my left arm is giving me fewer problems; My left big toe is still making extended walks and bike rides rough, but I am definitely over the hump, so to speak, and on November 14, I saw a couple of orthopedic specialists who cleared me for yoga, rowing, and yard work. (That last one was a request from my wife, who has been doing all the work for the last eight weeks. She was happy to hear that I had received the green light but warned me the Mother Theresa Act had officially ended.) I was so happy to get the clean bill of health that I forgot to stop by the front desk on my way out and schedule my first of a few physical therapy sessions. I have had physical therapy before and forgot how slow the process is getting assigned a therapist, a studio, and a date and time. As of this posting, I am still in the process of being assigned a therapist. Last night, I attended the Sacramento Philharmonic. That was the first time I had been out, and recently, I had told my old boss I could work part-time again starting in December. Things are returning to normal.

There were things I planned to do when I first got my scooter, as I wrote about in posts starting around 2010: I wanted to join the Vespa Club of Sacramento or the Royal Bastards of Sacramento, but neither of those ventures worked out for me. I had plans to ride farther to find the best burgers outside of Sacramento. I remember working with Google Maps to find surface roads to get to burger joints in adjacent areas like Arden-Arcade, Carmichael, Rancho Cordova, Citrus Heights, Elk Grove, Roseville, Rocklin, Folsom, Gold River, and even further out areas like Davis, Vacaville, Yuba City, Wilton, El Dorado Hills, but riding to most of those locales were only ideas. Some places would take a long time to reach via surface roads. I wasn’t in a hurry. In the meantime, I realized how monotonous my reviews of hamburgers were. I should have learned my way around the kitchen before reviewing food. Shortly after launching BurgerScoot.net, I discovered Rodney Blackwell, a true burger junkie who also is an amateur photographer. Looking over his early website, I realized I didn’t have much to offer in terms of rating local burgers. Also, his photography was far superior. Check out his website here. With Blackwell doing his thing, BurgerScoot.net looked insignificant.  

Even something as easy as riding less than three miles down the street to my local movie theater to watch films on the big screen didn’t pan out. Ultimately, the scooter was no longer a hobby or pastime but just a way of getting from one place to another. Even though I am still hurting as I’m writing this, and my scooter has been towed away, I don’t feel the hole in my soul that I might’ve thought I would have if I had lost my wheels a few years back. I have a Class C and a Class M driver’s license, but I don’t drive anymore, and my options for traveling around town are now whittled down to my bicycle, Lyft, the city bus, and bumming a ride off of a family member. I recall a time when I detested Lyft, Uber, etc., I even wrote a post on the subject. Check it out here.

This morning, before I posted this diary of pain and change, my son asked if I wanted to go out to breakfast with him. When I said yes, he told me to pick the restaurant. I reflexively said Cafe Dantorels. While walking from his truck to the restaurant, we walked by the prophetic storm drain—the one that tried to tell me it was time to reduce significantly my riding time. I almost pointed out the cast iron Cassandra to my son. Instead, I focused on what I would order, what I always order. I couldn’t help but think I wouldn’t be visiting this place very much, and that’s when it hit me: there was one thing I happily used my scooter for—eats. And in the scooter’s absence, I realized I wouldn’t be eating here that much anymore. Specifically, I won’t be eating at Scott’s Burger Shack, and, oh my god! I won’t be eating at Jimboy’s Tacos as much! I guess that’s what Lyft is for.