By: by Jackie Vaughan
The sun was balancing gently on the horizon as I packed up my gear after a long day of amusing the fish with my clumsy efforts. I was stowing the tackle box in the back of the truck when the sun abruptly winked out behind a large bank of very dark clouds.
The sun lost its battle with the clouds and sank below the horizon, leaving the heavily tree-lined road in a darkness that blended into the blacktop. Storm winds set the tops of the pine trees swaying, bringing down flurries of slippery pine needles and occasional pine cones. The first drops of rain were huge, splatting on the windshield and causing the pine needles to stick to it. The wipers only smeared them. All I could do was turn the wipers on high and hope the rain would wash the needles off.
Obligingly, the rain became a full-force pressure wash. The needles disappeared, but so did everything else. I crept along, the headlights’ beam absorbed by the darkness. A sudden movement caused by a falling branch reminded me there might well be deer, rabbits, or other animals on the side of the road, ready to cross without warning. I leaned as close to the windshield as I could get, eyes straining to see ahead and to the sides at the same time. I knew it wasn’t safe to stop because there was no place to pull over.
I thought I saw the red eye glow of an animal. Looking ahead, I saw it flickering between the swipes of the wipers. I immediately hit the brakes, glad for the anti-lock option I’d chosen. I juddered to a halt about ten feet from the animal, which hadn’t moved. I turned off my lights briefly so it would move on, but it remained.
I finally crept closer. As my headlights cut through the watery darkness, I saw it wasn’t an animal, but a black motorcycle stopped in the middle of the road. The rider was making futile swipes at his face shield, succeeding only in creating greater smears. His black leather jacket and pants were no match for the rain, and he was soaked from the top of his black helmet to the soles of his black boots. He finally pushed the face shield up, started the bike, and continued his miserable trek.
In a very short moment, he became the Invisible Man. Although the weather and the terrain helped to hide him, he had become invisible long before he ever slung a leg over his bike. He had done it by unknowing choice, by following tradition.
When he bought his motorcycle, he took that first sometimes fatal step. He chose the most popular color for a bike—black. Black is the traditional color for everything motorcycle that’s not chrome. Black helmet, jacket, pants, boots, gloves, all to match the black motorcycle. Black can also be the color of death and mourning.
Black, far from being the friendly identifying color of the motorcycle community, is a rider’s major enemy. The majority of the time, especially when contrast is poor, such as dawn, dusk, dappled shade, or darkness, black disappears into the environment. Dress a rider in black from head to toe, put him on a black bike, especially one with a small, low taillight, and he’s the Invisible Man. He cannot be seen until the very last moment, and that’s sometimes too late.
The typical car driver is not motorcycle-aware, and a bike suddenly appearing seemingly out of nowhere may slow the driver’s reaction time or cause him to make the wrong decision. When there’s an collision of this type, is it the driver’s fault, or the rider’s? Both were culpable, but it is the rider who must bear more of the blame. He made himself nearly impossible to see, and it worked. He chose to be the Invisible Man.
Could he have become the Visible Man instead and avoided the price he paid? Yes, and all it would have taken was the right choices beginning when he bought his motorcycle.
His biggest mistake was to follow motorcycle tradition in making everything about him and his bike, except for the fancy bits of chrome, black. He should have heeded the old saw, “Bright is right.” A light- or bright-colored motorcycle should have been the first item on his list.
His next choice should have been a full-face white helmet with highly-reflective material all around it. No color matches or fancy graphics, just plain white. The first thing a motorist sees, or fails to see, is the rider’s helmet, because it’s the highest part visible. Next seen is the upper body, then the lower body and the motorcycle. By that time, the driver is too close for comfort.
While the bike and rider don’t have to look like a circus wagon, bright clothing and reflective material, especially on the upper body, are a must. A rider wanting the black leather look can wear a reflective orange vest while on the bike and tuck it into a saddlebag or tank bag when he arrives.
Adding extra lights on the back and sides of the bike creates greater visibility, too. Seeing a black-dressed rider on a black bike from the side is almost impossible. There’s virtually no contrast. Add a few lights and the riders’ bright clothing, and the bike suddenly appears.
Our miserable Invisible Man? He made it home that night because I followed at a safe distance behind him until he pulled into his driveway. He might not be so lucky next time.
