Ass and ye shall receive.

I'm sure glad I was wearing my helmet on the day I got road rash, the 5th of October 2006. I remember opening my garage door and thinking it was a good day for a ride, and then my memories skip to about 4 hours later as I was laying on a backboard in a CT scanner. Apparently in between I'd gone for my ride, and probably high-sided taking a left turn on a gravel road. Both the bike and myself had been in the ditch, based on the grass bits packed into my helmet's top vents and into some exposed phillips screw heads on the bike. After crashing I evidently straightened out the bike's handlebar controls enough to make it functional, then rode to a farm house where the occupants called 911 for me after seeing my condition. I don't remember giving the doctors my parents' phone number but I do remember talking to my dad in the wee hours that night and then he picked me up at the hospital the next morning. We weren't sure where the bike (and therefore my keys!) was but I directed my dad toward my usual ride routes till we saw it at the farm where I'd stopped.

I still have my first helmet. I keep it as a reminder, as the chin bar is nearly ground off. Stupid high-side wrecks.