A group of bikers stopped with a squeal of brakes and ran down the slight embankment to his side just as he gingerly moved himself to a sitting position. He could tell his left leg was bleeding through his long bike pants and his head felt rattled but in one piece. The rest of his body, although bruised, seemed unbroken. If he could only get his heart to stop racing.
"I'll live," Dean said in answer to the anxious questions of the approaching group as he tried to catch his breath. He knew the yellow shirted rider was long gone, but strangely, it didn't seem to matter anymore. Now he was sure he had some answers. At last it was all making sense.
"You better lay back down, mister," said one of the first arrivals. Someone pitched a jacket to the man who carefully placed it behind Dean's head. "You're looking kind of fuzzy."
"How about this," said another biker while still another whistled. The first arrival unfastened Dean's helmet, the object of their curiosity. When the protective headgear was removed, Dean saw why. The helmet was cracked down the entire length of the left side.
"You're one lucky son-of-a-bitch," someone said. "Looks like you got your money's worth out of that helmet." Another added, "You picked a pretty good spot to land, too. If you had dumped back up the road a couple of miles, you'd still be falling."
Dean was still trying to catch his breath when another car rolled to a stop on the road above him. He turned to look as the door opened. Standing there, in the afternoon sun, with a look of shock on her beautiful face, stood Cynthia Byrne.