Under the Influence

This past Sunday, we were driving north on I-880, not in any particular hurry, heading off to a birthday celebration. As we passed the exit that leads to the Great Mall, I saw a disturbing scene out of the corner of my eye. A motorcycle, on its side, at the crux of an off-ramp; its owner crumpled on the ground, 20 feet down the grassy embankment. No emergency vehicles were on scene yet. I pulled the car up and stopped.

An EMT student was on scene as well, and had already determined the rider's status. He was conscious, barely, with pain in his hip and head. His thin, plastic, non-DOT-approved helmet was scuffed. His jean jacket seemed unbreached. He was able to tell me his name. But when I asked him what day it was, he said "Monday". When I asked him his age, and where he was, he answered with nothing more of a groan. He was not in good shape.

When the Fire Department arrived, they searched his pockets for his ID.

Along with his wallet, they found a baggie.

With white powder inside.

Yikes. I'd say that may be a reason why he couldn't negotiate that curve.