May Angels Guide You Home

Soccer Saturday. We were all packed into the minivan driving north along Highway 42 to my son’s first game of the season. I was behind the wheel, my wife in the passenger seat, our four kids buckled up behind us, and piles of balls, jerseys, and nets crammed into the back. I was jealous of all the riders enjoying the open road on such a fine spring day. Alas, a motorbike isn’t the most practical vehicle to transport such a mass of bodies and soccer gear.

Suddenly, my daydreaming was interrupted as we came upon a crash. Debris was all over the road, with multiple vehicles pulled over. It looked recent - no emergency vehicles on site yet. 

“I’m pulling over,” I said to my wife, as I parked on the opposite shoulder. “Make sure the kids stay in the van.” Reaching for my ever-present stethoscope, I cautiously crossed the highway to survey the scene in the ditch.

There were two groups of bystanders, about 100 meters apart, each huddled over a crash victim. The remnants of a cruiser-style motorcycle were 50 meters away, with pieces of broken plastic and twisted metal all over the place. A second banged-up bike was on its side on the shoulder. A third was farther south, mostly upright in the swampy ditch. 

Approaching the first group, I said, “Hi there, I’m a local doctor. What’s going on?”

Two bystanders were kneeling over a 60-something man lying face-up on the ground. They were checking his wrist for a pulse but couldn’t find one. “We heard some gurgling, but he hasn’t moved. Should we start CPR?”

His exposed chest showed gray skin. A foot was missing. Traces of blood bubbled out of his mouth. It was clear he was already gone. I knelt down and felt for a pulse myself, both at his wrist and the front of his neck. Nothing. Listening to his chest with my stethoscope, there were no heart sounds and his chest felt unstable. He’d obviously sustained major trauma to his torso, which was instantly fatal. Even if he was in a hospital, there was no way to resuscitate him. 

“No,” I replied. “There’s nothing to be done. If you two can stay here, I’m going to check on the other guy.”

I jogged further down the road and introduced myself to the other group. Thankfully, the second rider was breathing and conscious, but clearly delirious as he tried to get up off the ground.

“Hold on, sir. Just lay back down. Can you tell me what hurts?” I asked. 

“My left leg,” he replied, blinking as he stared up into the bright sky. Looking down his body, his left foot was angled unnaturally to the side, clearly broken above the ankle. I could hear the sirens in the distance. His breathing and skin color seemed okay, so I didn’t bother listening to his chest. A quick exam of his pelvis and belly reassured me he was likely free of any severe internal injuries. He kept trying to look down at his leg, but the weight of his helmet was pulling his head back uncomfortably. There was a third rider walking around between the first two, with blood running down his hand - my next priority. A fourth rider appeared at my side, with no apparent injuries, so I asked him to roll up his vest and prop it under his friend’s head. That would keep the second guy more comfortable until emergency services could stabilize him properly. 

I approached the third rider as he paced the scene erratically. He had deep scratches on his face, plus a cut on his finger that was slowly dripping onto the ground. No apparent major injuries, but he was obviously traumatized by what had just happened. He gestured to his friend, unmoving on the ground. “Is he…?”

I answered, “He passed away.”

The third rider was beside himself with grief. “The SUV… so fast… swerving in and out… I just hit the ditch…”

Between the bystanders and surviving riders, I pieced together the story. Four men were on their motorcycles traveling southbound on Highway 42. A pleasure ride. All were wearing the appropriate gear, most likely riding in formation, not speeding. A northbound SUV, driving aggressively, crossed the centerline and slammed into the lead rider, who was killed on impact. The second rider was also hit, which broke his leg. The third careened off the road into the swampy ditch, thus the scratches and bleeding finger. The fourth managed to pull over safely - he was the one who had rolled up his vest for his buddy. The SUV was damaged but largely intact. It ended up sideways on the shoulder a quarter kilometer north.

By this time the volunteer fire department had shown up. I reported my findings: “One fatality over there, one leg fracture there, and a third guy with a few cuts.” 

Traffic control was set up on the highway while medics attended to the second rider’s broken leg. I made my way back to the first rider, motionless in the ditch. One of the bystanders had covered his face with a shirt, but it didn’t seem right for him to be alone, even if he wasn’t “there” anymore. 

In medical school, one of my instructors shared with me the words he spoke over any patient who died under his care. “May angels guide you home.” He said it to remind himself that they aren’t just file numbers or notable cases - they’re people, each with a name, a story, and a family. Ten years into my own medical practice, I still do the same, just as I did that fateful day. “May angels guide you home,” I whispered as I looked down on the first rider’s broken body. Soon a fireman covered him with a yellow tarp. 

Back at the van, I used a water bottle to rinse the blood off my hands. I thought I’d washed away all remnants of the crash, but the dead biker’s cologne stayed on me for the rest of the day, the smell a constant reminder of the terrible tragedy I’d witnessed. 

During all my years of working in hospitals, I’ve learned not to advertise that I ride a motorcycle. Inevitably, when it slips out, my colleagues look at me like I have two heads. “Are you nuts?!” They’ve all seen the aftermath of ugly crashes. Paramedics, who are often first on scene, are especially turned off. One general surgeon jokingly calls them “organ-donor-mobiles”. Ironically, he’s an avid rider too. Even outside of the healthcare industry, motorcycles have a reputation for being death-machines, partly because of the few aggressive riders who give us all a bad name and partly because the chances of surviving a crash are so poor. Motorcyclists are thirty times more likely to die in an accident than those in traditional vehicles.

However, if that particular crash on Highway 42 had happened to my family in the relative safety of our minivan, I think the outcome would have been similar. An SUV crossing the centerline would have slammed straight into my side of the vehicle. Doubtful I would have survived. My wife would be lucky to escape with only a broken leg. The kids, all strapped in tight, hopefully would have been fine. The truth is that we take our lives in our hands anytime we leave the garage, whether on two wheels or four, but motorcycles have higher stakes. We all know this. If you spend enough time in the riding community, you inevitably hear about the ones we’ve lost over the years. When I saw such a deadly outcome firsthand, it made me reconsider riding altogether. That could have been me. That could have been any of us.

It’s easy to ignore this issue, just as it would’ve been easier to stay in the van and keep driving. But to stick our heads in the sand is a disrespect to the sport and all who enjoy it. Motorcycles are dangerous, and we should never be flippant about them. In fact, we should ride with the mentality that everyone else on the road is trying to kill us - such defensiveness may very well save our lives one day. 

Or it may not.

Two days later, with my hands clear of blood and cologne, the forecast showed another sunny day. I had two options to commute to work: my Tacoma - safe, reliable, and firmly grounded on four wheels - and my Yamaha FZ8 sportbike - less safe, fast, and packed with two-wheel fun. Just the thought of hopping on a motorcycle brought back a flood of memories from the weekend. 

But such are the risks of life. A transport truck could smash us into the afterlife; an aggressive cancer could consume us from the inside out; or a meteor could land on our heads in the middle of an open field. We take precautions - riding responsibly, watching our cholesterol intake, and for heaven’s sake never drinking and driving - but sometimes tragedy finds us no matter what. It just takes one bad driver to end someone’s life. My time could come tomorrow, or I could still be alive fifty years from now. We reduce the risks as much as we can, but the greater danger is letting fear dictate our lives. That poor guy who lost his life on Highway 42 did everything right - proper safety gear, riding below the speed limit, staying in formation with his buddies - and he still died. And if he’d been in a truck for that crash, he’d probably still be gone. However, despite the fatal outcome, we can be sure that he left this world on his terms. Tragic? For sure. Too young? Absolutely. And yet, his last memory on earth was of his happy place - sitting astride his favorite machine, enjoying a warm spring day with his buddies. We should all be so lucky to similarly go out on our own terms, whenever our time comes. 

The truck or the bike. It wasn’t an easy choice as I stood in the garage that morning, but I had peace about what I was about to do. I put on my leather jacket. I slid my hands into hard-knuckled gloves and velcroed them in place. Helmet over head, the strap snugged tight. Then I got back in the saddle of my Yamaha, started the engine, and twisted the throttle. Soon I was feeling the wind rush past me, thankful for the opportunity to ride once again. 

We are motorcyclists - premium gasoline flows through our veins! We must continue to chase the open road because that’s where we’re most alive. We ride responsibly and respectfully, as a collective brotherhood. Though it may one day cost us our lives, we keep riding. And not just by ourselves - we ride alongside the memory of all those who’ve tragically lost their lives before us.

And so, my fellow motorcycle riders, may angels guard you out on the open road, wherever that may be. And if your time comes while you’re there, like it did for our brother on Highway 42, may angels guide you home. 

© D. B. Ryen Incorporated, May 2025.

A version of this article appeared in Motorcycle Mojo, May 2025.

Introductory quote taken from Ecclesiastes 9:11. The Holy Bible, New International Version (NIV). Biblica, Inc. 1973.