December 06, 2005
I was perfectly situated atop his beat up old bike stand; above the snow and slush that had gathered a few yards from shore on the ice. From head to toe I was wrapped in warm, layered winter wear. So warm, in fact, that my oversized mittens inhibited the use of my camera. I doffed them briefly in order to snap a few shots as John rode around the outside of the track that the other riders were now clearing with snow blowers and shovels. Still, it was cold and I quickly replaced the camera to my coat pocket in order to return my hands to their insulated mittens.I had taken three stills and two videos over the course of fifteen minutes. Despite the four inches of snow that John was riding through, he appeared to be having fun. I could tell that he was getting anxious to get the fruits of his labor, the studded ice tires on his Husky motorcycle, onto the cleared track and I only hoped that the guys doing all the plowing weren�t getting pissed that he had crossed the track a few times, bringing fresh snow onto their cleared path.
I decided to wait until he got on the track to take more pictures.
I watched on, from atop my perch, as he swayed to the left of the track and then veered his bike toward right, making an S turn which would place him further out onto the ice.
I had seen the yellowish area of the ice long ago. My eyes lingered on that slushy, thin area more than once but I knew he would avoid it. I knew he would hear the caution in my head because I knew we were that close. He could hear my thoughts and feel my trepidation. Besides, he was the professional and this was merely my first time out on the ice with a motorcycle.
So why is he sweeping further out; away from the track? I wondered.
And, within an instant, my black mittens rose to my face as my mouth opened wide in a silent scream. But he did not hear me. He did not turn to look or simply know what I was thinking or find the caution of my heart flowing through his veins. Rather, he was driving forward, but also downward.
As though he were meant to ride somewhere other than the surface of this earth, as though he had been on the ice one too many times in years gone by and thought it more interesting to explore down below; he sank. As graceful and as quietly as the snow that fell the night before, he fell into the cold, cold waters of Lake Koshkonong.
I could see his hand raised high above his head about 300 yards away but no one else could see it. I was running and I was screaming, audibly this time, toward the guy whose name I couldn�t remember. He couldn�t hear me over the whir of the Toro snow blower but luckily the man with the shovel, Mark, did. His arm pointed toward John and we all looked out to see him, in awe, and in the water.
He was in as deep as his chest and I was yelling to him and running toward him. The ice would bend and whine below my feet as though to groan, I told you so. The warning was, quite obviously, a little late.
When we arrived toward the edge of hole where John had made with his entry, I could see that he had gone so far as to prop the handlebars of the bike against the ice. Nice, he was thinking of the damned motorcycle, I thought. I could see his orange helmet and the yellow gloves on his hands. They were not the ultra, oversized mittens that I was wearing because he needed to feel the clutch and brake levers of his bike. They were thin and had pads on the palms so that he could grip. But they weren�t gripping the ice. The ice that just kept breaking before him.
He would put one leg up, attempting to climb out of the hole, but the ice just kept on breaking. I heard the guy next to me, the guy whose pants and jacket matched � that Mark guy � yell at John to keep swimming. �Keep moving, buddy.� But John didn�t hear him. John was in his own world, inside his orange helmet and yellow gloves and inside the freezing temperatures of the lake. Finally, after four or five attempts, Mark�s words made it across to John�s ears. �Keep moving, buddy! Keep swimming!�
The snow blowing guy had returned to shore in order to obtain some sort of rope and the help of another rider who was warming up in his truck. He brought out tie down straps and proceeded to tie them together as I frantically yelled at him to hurry the hell up. I turned back toward John who had carved a path in ice about 30 yards from the point of his entry. It wasn�t working. He wasn�t out of the water yet and I wasn�t able to do a damned thing.
He asked us, more than told us, that he was going to try climbing up his bike. Just as he said this, the handlebars of his bike sank below the dark waters. FUCK. Why aren�t they just pulling him out of the fucking water?
The guys were fumbling calmly with the tie down straps and I was watching my Baby disappear � getting tired and frustrated. He�s going to drown. He�s going to get tired and sink and no one will save him and FUCK.
The straps were tied together. John said he was getting tired. He was getting tired and he couldn�t pull himself out of the water. They threw him a ramp, tied to the straps. They told him to lay it lengthwise across the ice and use it for leverage, but he couldn�t hear them. He was trying to climb the ramp. My Baby�s not gonna make it.
�Hurry up, guys, I�m getting really tired,� John slurred through frozen lips.
I kept yelling at him to get out. I was cheering him on as though he were in a race and couldn�t quite get around that A rider in front of him. This was the big race against time. No medals to be had and no prizes to be one � just a life. You�re not going down like this, John, so get out of that fucking water!
Finally, the guys were able to get through to John and he turned the ramp sideways. Mark, the snow blower man, and another rider began to pull on the makeshift rope. It wasn�t working very well as they had no traction on the snowy ice. Mark laid down before hole and the other two guys proceeded to pull at his legs.
�One, two, three, PULL!�
I watched Mark�s face contort into determined haste and he pulled until John began slide out of the water and onto the ice.
�One, two, three, PULL!�
He was almost free of the water, save for his legs, and he yelled at them to stop. Three times he had to yell because they were so focused on freeing him from that icy grave.
�STOP!� he shouted in his last breath of strength.
He had his hand looped through the tie downs and he felt like they were pulling his hand clean off his body. He ached terribly but was able to prop himself up onto his feet. Barely a foot away from the broken ice, they guys were yelling at him to roll forward; not walk. But he walked. The stubborn bastard walked. He walked away from the hole as though it were just another day.
He had been in the water for about ten minutes.
I didn�t wait to say a word to John. I didn�t wait to touch him or to hold his hand or to help the guys as they undressed his hands and lifted his helmet off his face. I simply ran as fast as I could back to the shore where the van was still running and the heat was still blazing hot inside. I�m so fucking glad we didn�t turn off the van. Good van. Good heat. I pulled a blanket out from under fifty pounds of gear and prepared the bed in his van for his recovery. I tugged and pushed objects out of the way and hit my head upon the van�s roof. My hands were shaking.
When John was at the van, I could barely release the hinges from his heavy boots. My hands were still shaking and he told me to calm down. He told ME to calm down! He said it was okay and that he was okay. I pulled off one boot. Two boots. His shirt and underwear were all that were left when one of the guys said,
�Hey, nice ass, John. If nothing else, you have a nice fucking ass.�
No one laughed but I was glad he said it. It seemed to help me realize that John was back on shore. He was no longer struggling in the water. He was no longer going to leave me alone in this world to wonder what could have been. The visual of fishing his stoic body out of the freezing water began to dissipate as well as the feeling of wretched horror in witnessing the demise of the man that has stole my heart. I could finally breathe.
But I couldn�t get the image of his orange helmet out of my head. His eyes looking around at us as though we were just standing there, staring, watching, as he fought for his life. His eyes and the several moments he fought before realizing this was getting too intense. I couldn�t get the image of his hands out of my head as they scratched the surface of the ice only to slip back down into the water. The struggle. The writhing pangs of adrenaline swathed in inimitable shots of fear. I doubt I�ll ever be able to dismiss these images.
I wrapped him up in the blanket in the van.
�You can�t get rid of me that easily.�