The Crash – A Ride I Won’t Forget

By Bobbie Surber

Ten weeks ago today, Tom and I set out on our bikes from Sedona, AZ, headed for a little mining town in Sonora, MX. The plan? Visit our good friends Tom and Lynn—expats who’ve built a beautiful life there with their hotel and a yearly rider meet-up that’s become a favorite stop for us.

It started like any great ride: a cool Thursday morning, Sedona fading in the mirrors, Bisbee as our stop for the night, and an early morning border crossing on Friday. I was back on Tippi, my Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro. Tom rode his Yamaha 900. Ahead of us? Three days with Tom and Lynn in their Sonoran paradise and, of course, some excellent Bacanora—a local smoky cousin of tequila.

The Perfect Morning

We left Tom’s house in that perfect early light, the red rocks glowing like they do only in the morning. Onto Highway 89A, then climbing Highway 260 toward the Mogollon Rim. First stop: Payson for fuel and a snack from the top box. It was one of those perfect riding mornings—cool air, empty roads, and that smooth hum where the bike feels like it knows what you’re thinking.

From there, we rolled onto Bush Highway, then Route 188, Lake Roosevelt flashing blue beside the desert. It’s one of those stretches that makes you forget you even have a destination. Too soon, Globe showed up—time for another quick fuel stop and stretch.

Tom looked tired when he swung off his bike. I noticed, but let it slide. That was mistake number one.

When It Went Wrong

Highway 77 is a narrow, twisty canyon road. Tom led, I followed. He was riding too close to a double-trailer semi, hugging the shoulder. I wanted to yell “Move over!” but we weren’t running headsets that day—mistake number two.

The wind blast hit him hard. He veered toward the ditch—four, maybe five feet deep—plowed through two plastic road signs, and fought like hell to keep it upright. For a moment, I thought he’d pull it off. Then the bike hit a rock the size of a pineapple and went down.

I rode past to find a safe place to stop, heart pounding so hard I could barely swing a leg over to dismount. For a second, I almost let Tippi fall so I could get to Tom faster. Somehow, I steadied myself, pulled off my helmet, and sprinted uphill.

Best sound I’ve ever heard? Tom yelling. Painful yelling, sure, but yelling. He was conscious, breathing, and already doing a self-check—old ER doctor habits die hard.

Angels on the Road

Cars kept flying by until one truck pulled over. Out stepped Chris—a firefighter, of all things. He took control like it was second nature: called for help, righted Tom’s bike, and helped him climb out of the ditch. Minutes later, paramedics loaded him into the ambulance headed for Cobre Valley Medical Center. Chris even gave me a ride to the hospital and didn’t leave until he knew we were okay.

Scans confirmed it: a broken scapula and two fractured ribs. Painful, yes, but survivable.

That night, I sat in the hotel room, had a good cry then listening to Tom breathe, whispering thanks to the road gods and to Tom’s split-second decision that might have saved his life.

Healing & Moving On

The following weeks were slow. Broken bones heal according to their schedule. Tom never complained, just kept moving, day by day.

By week six, the doctors were shaking their heads—he’d healed faster than expected. And, in classic Tom fashion, he now owns another Yamaha 900, fully loaded with more extras than I even knew existed. That crash slowed him down, but it sure didn’t stop him.

I’m still riding Tippi, and we’re already planning a fall ride back to Sonora. That Bacanora run? Just delayed, not canceled.

Lessons From the Road

• • • If you’re tired, stop. Always.
    • Eat, drink, rest. These rides aren’t the place to “push through.”
    • Use comms. Sometimes one quick word can be the difference between safe and scary.

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