I was riding past the theater in downtown Guerneville, eastbound on the final leg back to Forestville. I heard a screech of tires and a thump, and then a louder thump, and breaking glass. And then I saw him, in front of the green Volvo, writhing on the pavement. He was screaming in agony.
I stopped the bike, pulled my phone out of my jersey, and dialed 911. As the phone connected, a white Dodge sedan with front end damage pulled across the intersection and parked next to where I was standing, headed the wrong way. At the same time, the injured man got to his feet and staggered across the intersection toward me, then collapsed at the curb. A woman went to comfort him. I told the 911 operator a car had hit a pedestrian, who was seriously injured. I stayed on the line for a few minutes until a fire engine pulled up. People were out of their cars, gathering around.
The firefighters were unhurried, professional, as they got the duffel bag out the compartment and put on latex gloves. Something told me I ought to hang around. For one thing, the man was dark-skinned, and his clothes old and worn. His English was thickly accented. He was agitated and fearful. And seemed, in that moment, so very alone.
The firefighters examined his head and neck, and at the same time, tried to get him on to a stretcher. He was resisting, begging them not to hurt him.
While we waited for the ambulance and the Sheriff—it was more than 20 minutes—this fellow in an orange cap shows up. He knew the woman driving the Dodge sedan, and he checked that she was OK. She was smoking a cigarette, rather shakily. Then he went over to the injured man, now bound to the stretcher, and mocked him a bit. “We’ll come see you in the hospital,” he sneered.
By this time, I’ve heard snippets of bystanders’ conversations, and I’m starting to put the pieces together. The injured man wasn’t a pedestrian, he was driving a motorcycle, which had smashed into the other side of the Volvo. But why?
The guy in the orange cap said the motorcycle had just been stolen from in front of his shop.
The woman in the white Dodge may or may not have been chasing him, and may or may not have brought her car into contact with the motorcycle. He may have tried to cut the corner to speed across the bridge on 116, as the Volvo pulled forward into the intersection. He wasn’t wearing a helmet.
I heard the injured man tell the EMT he was Punjabi, so I headed over to a local Punjabi-owned store to pass on the news. I figured he might have local family that needed to know. I told the clerk what I’d seen and a little of what I’d overheard. She said she had no idea who he might be, but would keep an ear out.
As I rode back through the intersection, on my way home, the driver was putting the ambulance in gear. I stopped for a look at the motorcycle and then pedaled home.
