The Logan Effect (Episode One).

 March 18,1989, Downtown Birmingham—Traveling down Park Place on my 84’ Honda Nighthawk 550S at 40 miles an hour in a 25 mile an hour zone after an afternoon shower. A cab makes a left turn in front of me about 50 feet ahead. Being fairly inexperienced I instinctively lock my rear brakes in an attempt to fishtail my bike out of the path of the unsuspecting cab driver.

The motorcycle continues to slide forward with virtually the same momentum rendering braking and body language useless. The cab driver is completely unaware that I’m barreling towards him or he would have stopped in the middle of executing his turn, giving me the mere inches I need to clear his cab. Instead, he continues the execution of his left turn, which causes images to flash through my mind of being hospitalized,entangled in various life support systems and encapsulated in a body cast in care unit.

My motorcycle slams against the grill of the cab at an angle, crushing my left leg between the motorcycle engine and the chrome plated bumper. Instantaniously, my body is sent flailing forward over the hood of the car into the air. As my body rotates I watch my motorcycle instantaneously bounce off of the front of the cab, flipping violently to the into the air and crashing to the concrete, gasoline splashing from the tank.

As my body completes its final rotation the sidewalk in front of the Tutwiller Hotel comes into view. The crunching sound of my helmet against the concrete is repeated several times as my body tumbles across the sidewalk like a burlap sack full of potatoes. As I stand up from my tumble a crowd of bystanders rush toward me from all directions—scampering across the street, coming from the hotel, and jumping out of their cars. “Don’t move, sir!” someone yelled frantically as they grabbed my arm. “You were just in a terrible accident!! You must have been thrown 30 or 40 feet from that cab!!” The witness said as he scanned my body looking for blood. The only thought that crossed my mind was my motorcycle crushed, mangled and bleeding oil and gas all over the driveway in front of the hotel.

“Well, Mr. Burnett, looks like you have no broken bones from that motorcycle accident.” The doctor stated as he viewed the x-ray of my leg against the fluorescent light. “Not even a hairline fracture. You only have a small dent right here on the tibia.” He said as he pointed at an area of my leg just above my ankle. He grabbed my leg and twisted it fairly vigorously.  “What the hell are you doing that for!?!?” I yelled as he continued to jar my leg around. “Just making sure there isn’t a hairline somewhere else on your leg.” He said with a hint of arrogance as if he didn’t believe what he saw in the x-ray. “Maybe I’m superhuman.” I replied with a slight grovel while baring the pain.