Ducati Dreams: The Day I Almost Died in Hollywood
Musing 📝 (7m read)
My heart is with everyone affected by the devastating LA Wildfires. Wishing strength and resilience to all the victims during this incredibly difficult time.
I want to take a moment to appreciate my friend Chris, who was there for me during a particularly challenging period in my life, as mentioned in this post. I’d also like to thank Nicole for helping me this week in reconciling some blockers in my life.
It was a quintessential LA morning—clear skies, golden light, and a gentle breeze. I left my place in Beachwood Canyon, glancing up at the Hollywood sign as I pulled out of the driveway. Buses and cars carrying tourists clogged the street, some craning their necks for the perfect selfie, others scrambling to capture the iconic letters in the background.
The air was crisp enough to slip under my burgundy leather jacket and cool my skin as I kicked my custom dark gray Ducati Monster into gear, heading east on Los Feliz Boulevard toward work.
Radiohead’s haunting words from High and Dry echoed in my iPod headphones:
Flying on your motorcycle
You'd kill yourself for recognition
You broke another mirror
You’re turning into something you are not
Traffic was the usual morning rush chaos, with cars crawling in the fast and middle lanes, leaving the slow lane open thanks to the parked cars along the curb. I opted for the open slow lane, weaving carefully but confidently through the morning gridlock.
The sunlight flickered through the pine trees as I approached Lowry, moving at a steady 30mph. Then, out of nowhere, a sand-colored Saab crept directly into my path, barely ten feet ahead. My gut dropped as I yanked the brakes, but I knew it was hopeless.
The front wheel of my Ducati smashed into the Saab’s hood, the sound of crunching metal filling the air. I barely had time to process what was happening. In that split second, as I heard the violent crunching of metal, a flood of childhood memories surged through me.
Faces, places, and fragments of moments I hadn’t thought of in years flickered through my mind like a film on fast-forward. It was as though my life was trying to remind me of what mattered most, all in the span of an instant.
I can still vividly recall my unfiltered thoughts in that split second:
This can’t be it, I haven’t even begun to live, there is still so much I wanted to experience, I’m not even 30, and I’m going to die in a cliché motorcycle accident? Nadja
The whoosh of air surrounded me as I was thrown from the bike. I remember spinning, the harsh scrape of my helmet against the ground, and finally, a sickening thud as I landed on my tailbone, sharp pain shooting through my body before everything went black.
Sepulchre
The first thing I remember is waking up in a dimly lit hospital room, a sharp, searing pain radiating through my midsection. My friend Chris was sitting nearby, his face tense but relieved as he informed me that I was at Glendale Memorial Hospital. He explained that I had called him from the scene of the accident, though I had no memory of it. Apparently, when the paramedics arrived, the only thing I cared about was whether my Ducati had survived the crash.
I groaned about the unbearable pain around my crotch, and Chris, trying to lighten the mood, laughed. “Well, considering the huge dent your crotch left on the fuel tank of your Duc, it’s no surprise,” he said. He also told me that the police had taken down the driver’s information. The driver admitted to making an unprotected left turn, claiming he didn’t see me coming. Chris added, almost in disbelief, that the report stated I’d done three flips in the air before landing thirty feet away, butt-first.
The biggest blow, though, came when Chris broke the news that my Ducati was totaled and beyond repair. That disappointment cut through the fog of pain like a knife.
A nurse entered and handed me a prescription for painkillers, saying, “You’re very lucky. The x-rays show no internal injuries, just some heavy bruising to your tailbone and your groin. I see motorcycle accidents all the time and most people don’t walk out with no scratches. You are very fortunate that you didn’t land on your head and likely break your neck. Be careful. The doctor is going to release you now.”
But as I swung my legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand, my knees buckled under me. The adrenaline crash left me weak and trembling. Chris quickly stepped in, helping me to the car. I remember exiting the hospital and experiencing the bright sunlight anew, as if I were a ghost walking the world, caught somewhere between life and death.
Tangerine Dream
You’d think a near-death experience would be enough to make me quit.
It didn’t. Barely a week after the accident, I made my way to Newport Beach Ducati and came home with a new Monster S2R, a bike I affectionately named Tangerine Dream. My friends thought I’d lost my mind. They begged me to take it slow, and my girlfriend at the time wasn’t shy about letting me know she thought it was time to quit motorcycles entirely. But the Ducati wasn’t just a vehicle to me—it was part of the image I’d built: long hair, leather jackets, a place in the Hollywood Hills, and that unmistakable Italian machine roaring beneath me.
Even now, I can’t help but smile at the memory of slicing through Santa Monica Boulevard traffic on Tangerine Dream. Ducatis don’t just ride—they roar. That low, growling guttural exhaust note, especially with the aftermarket pipes, had a way of turning every head and leaving me with a thrill that no car could ever replicate.
As it turned out, the driver of the Saab didn’t have insurance, which made the whole ordeal even more infuriating. After two years of back-and-forth, and what felt like an eternity of filing claims and showing up to court, I eventually recouped the damages and expenses through small claims court.
Suppression Leads To Oppression
After surviving a near-death experience and upgrading my motorcycle, I was ready to return to my normal life. But deep down, something had changed. At first, it was almost imperceptible, but as time passed, it became impossible to deny.
The existential thoughts that had flashed through my mind before the impact—the ones about not living the life I had dreamed of as a child—continued to haunt me. For months, I would often find myself stuck in a daze, feeling nothing, as a bone-chilling emptiness radiated through my body. I began sleeping later and later, withdrawing from friends, and dragging myself through each day with a heavy, unfocused mind. Late-night strolls, wandering aimlessly through the Hollywood Hills, slowly became part of my routine. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t shake the creeping melancholy.
When my girlfriend finally broke up with me, exhausted by my apathy, I initially felt relief—I no longer had to carry the weight of her expectations or pretend I could meet her needs. She never stood a chance, because, unbeknownst to her, my heart was still tethered to someone else—someone I deeply loved and longed for. Nadja. Letting go of someone I wasn’t in love with brought a brief sense of relief, but that relief soon dissolved into a suffocating loneliness, dragging me further into the depths of my depression.
Even riding around Hollywood on Tangerine Dream had lost its magic. The thrill was gone, replaced by unexpected mini panic attacks that seemed to strike out of nowhere.
Everything in my Hollywood life started to feel wrong—hollow, empty, and painfully meaningless.
To be continued…
Over the holiday break, I saw this custom Indian Scout 🤩
