Anger Persists Thanks to Idiot Drivers

By Bud Wilkinson of RIDE-CT.com

It was June 17^th, the day after many of us in the riding community in northwest Connecticut were shocked to learn of the death of T.J. Zappulla of Torrington. Riding compatriot Gary Randall and I were headed north on Route 179, approaching North Canton with Gary in front. As we arrived at the intersection of Route 309, a car suddenly started to pull out from the side road, forcing Gary to swerve to avoid being broadsided. I grabbed my brakes, stopped and flipped up the face shield of my helmet – prepared to deliver the offending driver either an icy glare or some well-chosen cuss words as she drove by me.

Seeing that I had stopped, the oblivious driver completed the left turn into the southbound lane of Route 179 having herself stopped with the car’s nose nearly half-way across the road. When she got to where I was, she stopped her car and looked over at me with an uncertain look on her face. My anger dissipated slightly in anticipation of a flustered apology. What she said, though, left me speechless: “Route 44. I’m looking for Route 44.”

My outrage instantly returned. I wanted to scream, “You clueless idiot! Don’t you realize that you could have killed my friend? What the hell were you thinking?” The news of T.J.’s death certainly fueled my emotions. Instead, after a moment of calculated silence for effect, I mumbled, “Keep going straight.” Gary later said the driver never looked in either direction for oncoming traffic before turning on to Route 179.

Scenes like this happen every day for motorcyclists. Bill Marchand of Torrington, who was riding with the group in New Hampshire when 25-year-old Ashley Bailey of Jay, Maine crossed a double yellow line and plowed into Zappulla (pictured at left) on the afternoon of June 15, was kind enough to talk with me for the news story that I wrote about T.J.’s death. During our conversation, Marchand mentioned a truism that’s known to all who ride – there are those who have “gone down” and those who will go down.

Gary’s gone down and been hurt severely. I’ve gone down. Zappulla went down twice in a riding career of more than 35 years and some 300,000 miles. The first time was two years ago. He suffered bad road rash and broken ribs. The second time proved fatal.

By now, non-riders who are reading this may be asking, “Why do you ride? Why do you take such risks?” If you’ve never ridden, no words can explain why. If you have, no words are necessary. The topics of risk and sudden death don’t often come up in conversation when riders assemble. It’s not that we’re superstitious or in denial. It’s just that the pleasure of riding and the camaraderie captivate us. We accept the risk. The feeling of freedom, the exhilaration of acceleration and even the element of danger are seductive.

Ever driven behind a motorcycle and noticed how approaching riders wave or extend two fingers in a low salute as they pass by one another? It’s our way of acknowledging the bond that exists between us; a bond that usually extends beyond brand loyalty or preference for type of motorcycle. At the gathering Tuesday afternoon to celebrate T.J.’s life, there were lots of Harley-Davidsons (his preferred brand) in the parking lot as well as other brands of cruisers, along with a sprinkling of sport, adventure and vintage bikes.

Having ridden with Zappulla and his close friends from the Torrington area on occasion, I know just how much he loved riding and how necessary it was for mental well-being. I joined with some of those friends to ride to the service. To attend and not ride a motorcycle would have seemed very, very wrong. Hearing applause as we rolled to a stop was uplifting. While I wasn’t a close friend of Zappulla’s, I can’t think of him now and not smile.

As a writer, nothing bothers me more than making a careless mistake. In news gathering, given deadline pressures and the amount of copy that appears each day in print and online, mistakes happen, yet errors can make me cringe even years later. A RIDE-CT column last August about another friend of Zappulla’s, Charles Olsen, had an incorrect headline. The column specified that he owned a Spanish-made Bultaco but the headline said the bike was “Italian.” Whoever wrote the headline had bad day, just as I had when I wrote about Zappulla some five years ago and misspelled his name “Zapulla” throughout the column.

To appropriate a song lyric from Harry Chapin, “Another man might have been angry, another man might have been hurt,” but not T.J. Yes, he got in some clever digs the next time we rode, but he was less bothered by the mistake than I was. In fact, I almost dropped out of the procession to breakfast that morning because I felt so miserable over messing up his name.

Mistakes may happen, but the one Bailey made that took Zappulla’s life goes beyond momentary carelessness or irresponsibility. I cannot help but want her to be charged, prosecuted, found guilty and punished severely. Even more, though, I’d like to take everyone who has never been on a motorcycle, put them on the back of one of my bikes and take them for a ride to make them fully appreciate the potential consequences of their actions when behind the wheel.

(Originally published in “The Republican-American” on June 23, 2012.)