The accident - Part 3
Updated: Aug 9
Friday 31st July 2026. It was a beautiful, sunny day for a motorcycle trip. Our destination was Niagara-on-the-Lake, and it was going to be a long ride. We would have to make our way through Toronto traffic, and I wanted to avoid Highway 401 as much as possible. Country roads are far more enjoyable on a motorcycle, so we left relatively early, around 9:00 a.m.
The only thing I had before leaving was a coffee, so I was hungry before long. We stopped at a community park in Napanee to eat some of the snacks I had packed.
As we were leaving Napanee, I experienced my first motorcycle "drop." To exit the park, we had to stop at a stop sign located on a sloped, uphill driveway. As Dave brought the bike to a stop to let traffic pass, I felt it begin to lean to the left. "Watch your feet!" Dave shouted. The next thing I knew, the Harley was lying on its side and we were standing beside it, completely unharmed. "Were you leaning left?" Dave asked. "I don't think so..."
Dave showed me how to help lift the bike. The thing was freakishly heavy. As we strained to raise it, at least two cars drove by. I was genuinely surprised that neither driver stopped to offer assistance. Once the bike was upright again, we continued on our way. For the next hour, I kept wondering whether I had contributed to the drop. Eventually, I decided it was simply the awkward angle of the driveway and put the incident behind me.
As we rode along Highway 2, I pulled my phone from the back pocket of my jeans, removed one glove, and started making a list of items I wanted to sell from the house. (Yes, I love lists!). When I finished, I put my glove back on and tucked my phone between my stomach and the waistband of my jeans. I didn't feel confident I could safely return it to my back pocket while we were moving.
We stayed on Highway 2 instead of taking the 401 and continued until we reached Cobourg, where we stopped for lunch. We found a wonderful little upscale restaurant called Pomona. It offered a lunch special only on Fridays and Saturdays, and although the menu was small, everything was delicious.
After lunch, we finally joined Highway 401. The truth is that there really isn't a practical alternative when it comes to crossing Toronto. Avoiding the highway altogether would have turned the trip into a two-day journey. The only other option would have been paying the hefty tolls on Highway 407. In hindsight, that would surely have been worth it.
Riding on the highway was unpleasant, mostly because of the heat. It was at least 30 degrees Celsius, and the constant noise of traffic, cars, trucks, and endless stop-and-go movement was exhausting. I celebrated every overpass we passed beneath, grateful for even a few seconds of shade. By the time we drove by the Yorkdale exit, I was feeling a little better. For reasons I can't fully explain, I remember feeling strangely at peace amid the chaos. Dave swears by the navigation app Waze, so we found ourselves in the collector lanes as recommended. Often, only a row of concrete barriers separated the collectors from the express lanes. We were riding in the far-left collector lane when I spotted a woman on a Harley in the express lanes beside us. I thought about pointing her out to Dave, but the roar of the traffic convinced me otherwise.
I was lost in my thoughts when suddenly I felt a violent impact from behind. Instantly, I knew we had been hit. For a fraction of a second, I saw Dave trying to steer the motorcycle in a safe direction. Then everything went black. My body was thrown from the Harley and dragged across the pavement. I felt myself tumbling, striking the road over and over, mostly with my arms. The pain was immediate and intense. Oddly, I remember having a single clear thought: It's okay. I'll be okay. The tumbling will stop. The pain will stop. I'll get up.
Everything happened so quickly that I can't remember the exact sequence of events.
At one point, my eyes were open and I could see the Harley still sliding down the highway, pieces flying off in every direction. It felt unreal, like a scene from a movie.
From my perspective, I stood up almost as soon as the sliding stopped. The motorcycle was about ten metres ahead of me. I instinctively looked in that direction, expecting to see Dave nearby. He wasn't there. Then I turned around. Dave was lying motionless on the pavement behind me. I ran toward him. "Dave! Are you okay? I'm here! Dave, are you okay? I'm here!" He was lying on his right side, his helmet still on. His head rested against his right arm. Anyone trained in first aid would have recognized the position immediately; it looked very much like a recovery position. I didn't move him. I barely touched him. I just kept talking. "Dave, are you okay? I'm here. I'm here." There was blood on his chin, and it looked as though blood was coming from his mouth. His eyes were partially open, which gave me hope. He wasn't unconscious, his eyes moved erratically, unfocused, almost as if he were trapped somewhere between waking and dreaming, he was unresponsive. It couldn't have been more than a few seconds before another vehicle stopped behind us. As soon as the driver opened his door, I shouted, "Call 911!" Then another vehicle stopped. And another. And suddenly, the woman on the Harley—the one I had noticed moments earlier in the express lanes—was standing beside me. "I'm highly trained in first aid," she said. "Can I help?" For a split second, I thought, I'm trained too. But of course, that isn't what I said. "Yes," I replied. "Thank you."
The first thing she said was, "The most important thing is not to move him. He could have a head injury or damage to his spine." Dave was still unconscious, and I kept repeating, "I'm here, Dave. It's going to be okay. I'm here." I can't remember his exact first words when he regained consciousness, but it happened before the firefighters arrived, the first emergency responders on the scene. I do remember one of the first things he said: "It hurts." When I asked where, he answered, "My right side." That was when I had a suspicion that his right arm was broken.
When the firefighters arrived, they asked me to step away so they could take over his care. The biker woman who had stopped to help asked if there was anything else she could do for me. I told her I didn't think so. "Can I give you a hug?" she asked. "One biker to another." I smiled and accepted. If only you knew, I thought. I was genuinely impressed by her. She had been riding in the express lanes and had stopped immediately when she witnessed the accident. Somehow, she had made her way across the concrete barrier to reach us and offer help. Her compassion and decisiveness were remarkable. Thank you, biker lady!
Once she left, someone brought me my phone and wallet, both of which had flown from my body during the crash. By some miracle, my phone was still working despite a screen that was shattered in countless places. I congratulated myself for not putting it back in my rear pocket earlier that day. Had I done so, I doubt I would have ever seen it again.
I felt strangely useless standing a few metres away while the firefighters worked on Dave.
Don't judge me too harshly, but I quickly snapped a picture of him lying on Highway 401. My thought process was surprisingly simple: He'll find irony in having a souvenir of the one time he shut down Highway 401. That was the only photograph I took.
I didn't photograph the motorcycle. I didn't even walk over to it. One of the saddlebags had been torn off during the collision and was lying nearby me. I remember repeatedly thinking that maybe I should retrieve the other saddlebag that was still attached to the bike and bring it with me to the hospital, but I never acted on the thought.
At one point, one of the firefighters came to get me. "Dave wants to see your face."
I knelt beside him long enough to show him that I was okay before stepping back and letting the first responders continue their work.
While I waited, I started talking with the first man who had stopped and called 911. He was a young Latino man wearing a gray tank top and a gold chain with a cross. He was incredibly compassionate. We talked about the driver who had hit us and kept driving...
A hit-and-run. The man was visibly shaken by the idea that someone could cause such an accident and simply drive away. So was I.
In the middle of our conversation, one of the firefighters approached me. "Did you hit your head during the fall?" My instinctive answer was yes. Then I hesitated.
"I'm not sure." (The next day, an inspection of my helmet would prove that I had, in fact, hit my head; although only lightly, and nowhere near as severely as Dave). Up until that moment, I had assumed I would be accompanying Dave to the hospital in his ambulance.
I was wrong. The firefighter instructed me to sit down. Since there was a possibility that I had suffered a head injury, he explained that I needed a neck collar. Moments later, one was securely fastened around my neck. Then he informed me that I would be riding in my own ambulance. From that moment on, I was no longer in charge of my person.
The paramedics arrived. Then the police. As one of the officers approached me, I joked, "I've been expecting you." I thought he would ask a hundred questions, but he didn't.
Something along the lines of, "The firefighters already gave me the basics." He asked what lane we had been riding in, explaining that Lane 1 was the far-left lane. That was our lane. Then he asked, "I know it can be difficult to remember after something like this, but do you know how fast you were going? Was it highway speed?" "Definitely not," I replied.
After a moment, I added, "Maybe 60 kilometres an hour." Looking back, traffic had been extremely heavy. We were probably much closer to 10 km/h than 60 km/h. I'll never know for sure. As I answered his question, I was lifted onto a stretcher and wheeled into the back of an ambulance. The latino guy blew me a kiss with his hand from afar and I return his gesture with a blown kiss not using my hands which were now covered by a blanket.
Once inside, I became obsessed with finding my phone. I was convinced it was still lying on the ground near the spot where the firefighters had told me to sit. The paramedics assured me that someone would look for it (turns out it was in my back pocket... Typical Isabelle moment!)
There was constant movement around the ambulance. Responders came and went, carrying various objects from the scene and pieces of information. At one point, someone appeared holding a pair of glasses. "Are these yours?" "No." Then I looked closer. "They're Dave's." Another responder told me that they had unhooked Dave's phone from the mount on his bike and that it was with him in his ambulance. (I was really impressed with that gesture).
A little later, someone shared an incredible piece of news. They had found the license plate of the vehicle that hit us lying on the pavement near our motorcycle. My immediate reaction was simple: Karma! (That turned out to be false information...).
Just before the ambulance pulled away, a paramedic from Dave's ambulance stopped by to check on me. Dave had sent him. The paramedic told me that Dave was going to be okay. He likely had a broken arm and they suspected a concussion because he was repeating himself and seemed confused. All I could think was: If Dave is repeatedly asking about me and telling everyone how much he loves me, that's not a concussion. That's just Dave being Dave!
My paramedic, Mike, explained that Toronto had two major trauma centres and that we would be heading to the closest one: Sunnybrook. And with that, we were on our way.
To be continued...
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