daniel beck

New Album:

Buy the Farm

Who am I?

I grew up in church. I played baseball in high school. I’ve kept a journal since my junior year, mostly documenting the events of my daily life, but also writing for personal discovery. In college I majored in engineering. I just wanted to have a useful and stable job after college. I wanted to be attractive enough to the opposite sex that I could find someone that would be willing to marry me and start a family (the search continues). I drug my college career out by dabbling in literature, jazz piano, singing in the choir, and playing as much intramural basketball as I could squeeze in. I told my parents I got a motorcycle to save gas on my commute to college. Of course, I also thought the bad boy image that came with a motorcycle couldn’t hurt my chances with the college girls. For myself, I enjoyed the feeling of peace and freedom that comes from the open road.

Have you had a wreck before?

When you straddle a big V-twin engine the smell of oil and gasoline fumes tempt your wild instincts. The fast freedom is dangerous; but that’s why you want it. The precarious nature of expanding your explored territory on such a horseless fastback isn’t for everyone. As the old saying goes, there’s 3 kinds of motorcycle riders: 1) those that have wrecked 2) those that will wreck 3) and those that are lying to cover up the embarrassing wreck they’ve already had. The foreordained motorcycle crash is an inglorious and often humiliating right of passage orchestrated for every rider by the implacable witch known as fate. I had mine a couple of years ago when a truck pulled out in front of me in rush hour traffic. I laid my bike down; twisting the clutch handle along with the flesh of my left hand. Embarrassed, I hopped up, spun the clutch handle around, and sped off down the freeway. With stinging road rash up my back, my doe-eyed innocence was as tattered as my shirt and jeans. The main injury was my pride.

Why did you decide to ride that day?

February 2009 was rainy and cold. My car had been in the body shop all month so my only transportation in these miserable conditions was my motorcycle. On March 5th, a sunny spring Thursday, I finally got my car out of the shop. Spring Break starts tomorrow! I’d just finished my last midterm. It would be a shame to waste time studying in a computer lab on such a gloriously sunny day. I’ve got to get on the motorcycle. Today I’ll go far from the city traffic and no one will see my dorky full-face helmet shielding my face from the cold spring air. I often had to remind the cops, who seem to prioritize safety over looking cool, that Texas law doesn’t require you to wear a helmet. I put on my cowboy boots and saddled up my motorcycle.

Why do you like riding in the countryside?

The siren song of a gently curved road echoes through the tall piney woods of east Texas beckoning at the throttle. The hidden beauty of the shy secluded back roads languishes for miles. The motorcycle blazes a trail through my meandering imagination. A path opens into a forgotten reverie kindling a cosmic romance. I haven’t seen a soul in miles. As I crossed a bridge near a lake, I could feel my soul drifting out over the still water. Hopefully, I’ll be lost for a few hours. I’ve been set free into a realm of boundless possibilities and inexpressible beauty. For a brief window in time, aimlessly drifting above the sublime and graceful landscape, I am Peter Pan.

How did the wreck happen?

As I approached a stop sign, I could see his face in profile; his eyes not on the road. Careening around the corner, he violently jerked his car into my lane. I guess he was trying to catch something that was falling into the floorboard of the passenger’s seat. Like a bad dream, stuck in quicksand, I swerve for the ditch. Tik-Tok. Milliseconds drag by. He’s still not even looking at what’s in front of him. As he’s fully in my lane coming straight at me, it felt like he was trying to run me over. I thought to myself, “This will be my first serious wreck.” Tik-Tok. F*#k this guy! (or I HATE THIS GUY) BOOM! (head on collision)

How did you feel right after the wreck?

I looked at my arms, torso, legs; Fine. Fine. Fine. Okay, where is the individual who was driving that car? No need to exchange insurance; I’m going to beat the living piss out of him. I’ll probably just get manslaughter; I don’t have a weapon. Still lying on my back, I notice I’m not wearing my boots, and my face shield is gone. I must have lost them flipping end over end rag-doll style after face planting into the hood of his car. With my socks knocked off too, I could see my toes flopping around like decorative tassels. My God! What happened to the bones? I knew I’d never grab a rebound and follow it up with a two-handed jam ever again. My foot isn’t even made of clay; its more like playdough.

Were you in shock? What was it like?

Peacefully, lying on the side of the road I notice the friendly puffy white clouds drifting through an otherwise clear blue sky. Winter is over. Roadside sunflowers gently engulf me as I check to see if the clutch handle has ripped off my fingers. I’ve had a beautiful life. It sure has been fun jumping, running, and just good ol’ walking. Thoughts of vengeance drift away on the wind without a leg to stand on. The birds rejoice at the new life and blossoming opportunities on the breeze…as they’ve done every spring for a thousand years. Spring break starts tomorrow. Joyfully I twinkle all ten fingers in front of my face, hoping to accompany the birds on piano.

Can bad be good?

When I was scolded and sent to my room as a child, I would mess it up and wallow and fume. Once I was so upset that I smashed the globe (I was mad at the world) that had belonged to my late grandmother. You can’t take that back. If I was in trouble, I just wanted to make things worse. At my 6th birthday party, a friend gave me the coolest thing you could have in kindergarten, a Ninja Turtle wrist watch. My mama didn’t like the Ninja Turtles. She once heard Michelangelo say, “Sometimes good has to join evil to make good happen.” That’s a dark saying for the kiddos to grapple with. I was warned the watch wasn’t water proof. Later, with tears streaming down my cheeks, I drowned that watch under a water faucet.

How did you handle the decision to amputate?

Days after the wreck, a doctor offered to try and save my foot. My mangled foot was barely hanging on. I’d already let it go. A deep voice snarled in my thoughts from the shadows of my soul- ‘I hope the foot DOES get amputated!’ “Do what you think is best Doc.” I told the surgeon. I didn’t want to be responsible for tossing my foot away. I’m not going to mess up my room and make things worse. That path leads to desolation. Before I went into surgery, mom and dad were with me beside my bed, holding back tears. I looked my Dad (a former golden gloves boxer and a Marine) right in the eyes, then I smiled and said, “I’ll be fine.”

How serious was the injury?

The bandages were fully removed months later. The most athletically pertinent features of my foot (the toes, the ball of my foot, the arch of my foot) were all gone! What’s this stump thing where my foot used to be? I didn’t need to ‘test-drive’ it; I knew this sh*t ain’t going to work. I can’t run. I can’t jump. I can’t stand up, balance, and lift weights. I can’t even walk. Maybe I could limp. I wanted to hide my tears from the nurse; but more than anything, I just wanted my foot back.

Physical Therapy?

With a cavalier smile, an overly friendly physical therapist assistant stripped the bandages off, exposing my naked stump and asked, “Who was your surgeon?” The shame washed over me. I’m crippled – anyone can see that. I’m a weak and ineffective man. Where was that voice growling from the shadows that wanted this? In the light of day that strong voice was silent. I guess the head physical therapist could read my face and came over. “I’m sorry this happened to you”, he said. “Try to move this foot.” The message was clear: no use feeling sorry for yourself - time to get to work.

Were you mad at the man that hit you?

One day the ever-thrifty insurance company gave me back the boots I had been wearing during the wreck. When I saw where boot had been torn open (most likely by the gear shift) I exploded in a tearful rage. I wanted revenge. I searched for the man’s address who had hit me on accident reports. I planned a murder. I wanted to maim him and burn his house down with him in it. I had been told I needed to forgive him. I prayed for his death instead. “Kill him O Lord so that I don’t have to.” One day I received word that that man had died of a heart attack.

Were you able to forgive the man who hit you?

I fantasized about exacting vengeance on other drunk drivers with a baseball bat. However, physical therapy gradually led me into weight lifting where I was able to laser focus my desire to punish and destroy onto the weights. Now I was building; I was not tearing things down in a demon spirit of revenge. I developed the courage to enter bodybuilding contests. I also started Swing Dancing. I’d never had the gumption to participate in bicycle touring races, or dancing, but here I am! I’m not bold enough, or presumptuous enough, to say I have forgiven the man who hit me. I don’t know what I would say to him if he were alive. I might thank him for the trials he put me through because of all the good that came from it. I walk with a limp now. So did Jacob after he wrestled with God.