And a lot of this progress is the result of animal research. I know, for example, that they were doing kidney transplants on animals at the University of Chicago Medical School before they did any on humans.

Thank George he was not fatally injured in that accident. However, it might have been truly miraculous for the docs to be able to advise that he was expected to make a complete recovery.

"The motorcylist was fatally injured tonight, but doctors have suggested that he has a 50% chance of pulling recovery."

(Hey folks. Critical injury means you'll probably be spending a long time in intensive care, may well die, and if you live you will probably have a long, painful recovery and may be partially or totally crippled regardless. If a doctor can say within hours of seeing you that you should make a complete recovery, you either weren't critically injured, or your doctor is Jesus Christ MD.)

...A COMPLETE RECOVERY YA SAY THERE DOC? I do want that DOC MESELF! (giggles)

I think the "critical injury" and the "complete recovery" phrases probably didn't come from the doctors at all, but from the patient and/or family.

No doctor is going to talk to the press without a carte blanche release from the patient- not something you're likely to get in a few hours (or even want to deal with in the first place). Second, almost all doctors hedge their bets on a trauma case outcome- after all, if it turns out he did get some serious permanent boo-boos, it would then look like it was the doc's fault. Not the motorcyclist's fault for engaging in an inherently risky sport.

Of course, the news folks have been known to embellish the facts a wee bit, too.

Um, I missed the part that made you laugh.

never know. some people are all grissle.

A few years ago, two friends of mine were racing bikes, doing about 125. A car swerved and clipped the tire of one of them. He lost control, swipped the guardrail, did a flying headstand on the guardrail and flew about 120 feet over a 20 foot embankment into the fast lane of oncoming traffic.

Police didn't cite him because they thought he'd broken both femurs (and was therefore as good as dead).

I saw him two months later.

He'd lost part of one of his pinkies.

They say the dumbest things on the news. Back during the Tennessee crematorium scandal, an announcer said, "One third of all Americans will be cremated this year." You'd think that would create mass panic. *g*

There was this kid living on the far north side of Chicago in autumn 1952. He had a bright shiny new Harley Davidson motorcycle. One of those lighter weight jobs with foot gearshaft on the right-hand side and a clutch up on the left handlebar. (Quite a stretch from the suicide-clutch Harleys of the type we called "hogs".)

One day this kid was riding his Harley eastbound on a side street, heading in the direction of Sheridan Road and Lake Shore Drive, at the start of his trip to begin classes at the University of Illinois campus on Navy Pier. "Harvard on the rocks", to those of you who remember that place.

The kid was riding his Harley cowboy style, leaning way forward on the 'bars. Which was okay until this big dog waddled out from between two parked cars. The kid wasn't pushing the Harley fast enough to run over and kill the fucking dog. Just fast enough to go over the top of the bars and come down on the street on his face.

After a few moments of unconsiousness, he crawled over and shut off the ignition, because the Harley was still running and spinning the back wheel at low idle.

A guy drove up, looked out at him. Drove off. Another guy drove up. This one got out, picked the kid up off the street, and drove him to nearby St Francis Hospital right across the city line in Evanston.

He took some stitches just above the right eyebrow, while a physician lectured him on how the human brain was more or less flexibly attached to the spinal cord with just enough wiggle room to bounce around ever so slightly inside the skull. Which was why so many boxers would wind up punch drunk. The kid listened, recovered, thought about life and near death, even came back to time after time to grab rides on bigger and more powerful bikes many a good time. (Learned how to handle Harley 74 suicide clutches, too, but that's another story.) He also thought long and hard just how goddamn lucky he was that autumn morning after he met the pavement the worst possible way.

Moral of the story? Don't hit no fucking dogs that get out in front of you. Unless you can figure out some split-second way to stay on the saddle and not wind up head-first on the street.

The kid was me, of course. Which was part of the reason I got into adulthood so damned ornery.

Arnold Harris
Mount Horeb WI

Yup, motorcyle crashes are always good for a laugh. This one had me in stitches, so to speak.