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Crash reports for Dallas, TX
Location:
Jefferson Viaduct Blvd, Dallas, TX 75203, USA
Geometry:
Vehicle overtook from rear
Injury:
Life_threatening
Description:
http://www.wfaa.com/news/local/Accident-raises-urgency-for-bike-lanes-cyclists-say-137398723.html Full report
Location:
8000 Denton Dr, Dallas, TX 75235, USA
Geometry:
Hit and Run
Injury:
Fatal
Description:
Hit and Run Full report
Location:
8150-8198 Forest Ln, Dallas, TX 75243, USA
Geometry:
Vehicle overtook from rear
Injury:
Fatal
Description:
Driver sited for erratic lane changing and failure to yield. Full report
Location:
N Pearl St & Live Oak St, Dallas, TX 75204, USA
Geometry:
Bike turned into vehicle path
Injury:
Fatal
Description:
Cyclist sited for running stop light and riding drunk. Full report
Location:
10393 Forest Ln, Dallas, TX 75243, USA
Geometry:
Vehicle came from side
Injury:
Fatal
Description:
Motorist's eyes full of sun glare, impaired vision. Full report
Location:
5601-5637 Samuell Blvd, Dallas, TX 75227, USA
Geometry:
Vehicle overtook from rear
Injury:
Fatal
Description:
Driver sited for illegal pass Full report
Location:
2649-2671 S Belt Line Rd, Dallas, TX 75253, USA
Geometry:
Bike crossed into vehicle path
Injury:
Fatal
Description:
Cyclist sited for improper turn into traffic Full report
Location:
1310 N Cockrell Hill Rd, Dallas, TX 75211, USA
Geometry:
Vehicle overtook from rear
Injury:
Fatal
Description:
Report says Suburban was following incorrectly. Cyclist not listed at any fault. Full report
Location:
2701-2899 Kingbridge St, Dallas, TX 75212, USA
Geometry:
Bike swerved into vehicle path
Injury:
Fatal
Description:
No description. Full report
Location:
401-459 Old Mill Ln, Dallas, TX 75217, USA
Geometry:
Bike swerved into vehicle path
Injury:
Fatal
Description:
Bicyclist was riding against traffic Full report
Location:
12301 Plano Rd, Dallas, TX 75243, USA
Geometry:
Bike swerved into vehicle path
Injury:
Fatal
Description:
Motorist's side of the story the only report given.
http://www-fars.nhtsa.dot.gov/QueryTool/QuerySection/AccidentDisplayForm.aspx?ShowData=1&CaseYear=2009&StateNum=48&CaseNum=2170 Full report
Location:
3500-3598 Elm St, Dallas, TX 75226, USA
Geometry:
Bike lost stability and crashed
Injury:
Moderate
Description:
The bike tires got stuck in the DART tracks and the bike fell sideways. The tracks are not perpendicular to the road and difficult for even the most expert riders. Full report
Location:
13939-14005 Peyton Dr, Dallas, TX 75240, USA
Geometry:
Road hazard
Injury:
Moderate
Description:
Riding down middle of lane and did not know that a concrete section of road had separated from Asphalt section of road. I rode into the separated crack aqnd it swallowed my 700c tire and my bike immediately stopped and threw me over the handle bars. I was going about 15MPH Full report
Location:
5600-5646 Milton St, Dallas, TX 75206, USA
Geometry:
Vehicle backed into bike
Injury:
Moderate
Description:
Riding through parking lot after getting off train, truck started backing up just as I was behind it. I could not move out of the way fast enough so he ended up hitting my right tire and knocking me over. Speed was slow on both parties so damage was minimal. Full report
Location:
8005-8131 Park Ln, Dallas, TX 75231, USA
Geometry:
Vehicle overtook from rear
Injury:
Life_threatening
Description:
Seven months ago, I was on my beloved bicycle, a 6.5 trek Madone with the SRAM Red groupset and Easton climbing rims. Tipping the scales at a featherweight 13.8 pounds, it is like riding a carbon butterfly. I was closing in on a 50-miler, just five minutes from my own driveway, and the sun had not yet risen. It was a good start to the day.
I was riding west on Park Lane between Greenville Avenue and Central Expressway, approaching the light at Bed Bath & Beyondâwhen a pickup truck knocked me into the Beyond section. His wing mirror barely missed me, but the trailer was wider than the truck, and even though I was doing about 20 mph, the impact was shockingly violent. Iâm an alcoholic and a narcotics addict. A couple of years ago, I bought a bicycle and started to ride to my meeting. I liked it, and after a while I started riding farther. Then, one day, I kept going. Now Iâm riding instead of meeting. My bicycle is my lifeline, my meditation machine, and without question one of the reasons Iâm alive. I acquired the addiction to painkillers from years of playing professional golf with bad elbows and a worse first wife, and the alcoholism I guess is just an Irish thing. I have the double curse: the thirst and the internal stoicism to consume an utterly absurd quantity of alcohol and still remain lucid. I quit drinking not because I was a bad drunk; on the contrary, I was spectacular. Having kicked all my bad habits for the better part of two years, I finally thought I was addicted to something that wasnât going to kill me. The irony flashed through my head milliseconds after the corner of the trailer made contact with the middle of my saddle and then my lower back. I remember thinking, Oh, crap, I hope itâs not a beer truck. My head snapped back and I began to fly, like a silhouette of E.T. across the moon. All that was missing was the basket on the handlebars. I had everything else, down to the glowing red light, of which I had twoâone on the back of my helmet and the other, a dazzling Planet Bike flasher, clipped to the back of my jersey. I am, if nothing else, safety conscious on a bicycle. The only person who could hit me would have to have a grievance against Christmas trees or, as it turned out in this case, a pressing need to get to a red light. He just had to get to the red light before I did. With three broken ribs, a collapsed lung, a separated shoulder, a crushed left elbow, and several other gashes and bruises, I lie on the grass writhing silently like a goldfish on the carpet. I cough, spraying scarlet across the powerful beam of my front light, and I feel a piece of bone in my mouth. Thatâs not chicken, I think. Thatâs ribs. Unable to speak or take a breath, I am losing consciousness when a pair of hands comes from behind me, cool on the back of my sweating neck. One of them cradles my head, while the other picks my crushed left arm out of the road and holds it against the wreckage of my chest. âHold on, honey,â she says. âHelp is coming. Can you hear me? Hold on. Can you feel me hold your hand?â Coughing and gasping for air, I force my head back far enough to see a face. âDonât move,â she says. Then a man standing above, his arms folded. He is not looking at me. The lady says, âYou just ran him over!â âHe was in the road!â comes the reply, defiant. At this point, I donât know if Iâm going to live, but I do know that if I die, I definitely want to take this guy with me. If I could just get up, maybe I could push him into oncoming traffic. That way, even if the bastard survived, heâd know what it feels like to be hit by several tons of fast-moving metal. (For the record, it hurts.) Then sirens and paramedics and a board, to which I am strapped, hard. The nice lady with her cool hands is gone, and I miss her. The pain in my chest and shoulder is unbelievable, and my ears are filled with tears, but still I canât talk. I know Iâm in trouble, because weâre going fast. Every bump in the road feels like a stab in the heart. The centrifugal force of every corner feels like it is tearing me apart. I canât scream. And is a big, burly man with chiseled features using an ugly pair of shears to cut off my beautiful $450 skinsuit? Oh, no, being hit by a truck has made me gay! I wonder if I will ever see my family again. As he gets to my groin, Iâm realizing that Iâve been in a skinsuit for three hours. There are compression issues. Normally itâs bigger than that! Great, Iâm dying and spending my last minutes as George Costanza. But the medics are talking about hockey, so maybe Iâll live. I canât help but wonder why that guy in the truck needed to get to that red light before I did. Lights, bright white lights, and my wife Anita and daughter Erin, who is crying. I try to smile, which serves only to frighten my baby girl more. I must be in the E.R., I think. I try to talk and find I can get out one word at a time. âDid. I. Crap?â I ask my wife. She looks grimly at the doctor, who for some reason is preparing to drive a stake through my heart. Apparently, they think Iâm a vampire. âHeâs going to be okay,â he says, smiling, as he hands the apparatus to an intern, who has a stab at it but misses on her first attempt, hitting a rib. Hey, whatâs another rib? When a lung collapses, aka a pneumothorax, an instrument sharp enough to penetrate the skin and connective tissue of the ribs, but not so sharp that it might damage the lung further or anything else important, like the heart, must be driven through the rib cage. That, friends, is called a thoracostomy. Itâs like having a tent-peg hammered through your breast. Then a tube is inserted to extract air from the pleural cavity, allowing the lung once again to expand. Hours later, Iâm wheeled into a hospital room, surrounded by the usual paraphernalia, the IV drip, monitors, gauges, etc. And, wouldnât you know it, Eliot Spitzer is on CNN. Not being able to laugh at this jerk might be the cruelest blow of all. Nope, I canât laugh, I can hardly swallow, my left arm is on fire, my chest feels like John Daly has used it for a trampoline, and my left shoulder is so separated that Baylor is probably charging it for another room. âHowâs your pain level?â someone asks. âCompared. To. What?â âOn a scale of one to 10.â âTen. Thousand?â Now this is a problem for a narcotics addict, but my shattered body is not in a position to negotiate with my addled brain, which is making me say, âMore. Phine?â The first few weeks were agony, even with the drugs. Anyone who has ever bruised a rib or torn one of the intercostal muscles between them will attest to the pain. I had broken three under my left armpit, one of them in two places. Yay, I had a floater! I shall call him Chip. Finally I had something to celebrate. And the lung was on its way back, as the tube in my chest sucked out a mixture of blood, air, and, uh, stuff. I couldnât feel my elbow at all, which I figured was due to the anesthetic, but, as it turned out, four months later I still couldnât feel it. I may never feel it again, as the nerves, veins, and lymph drainage are blended into a puree, all because that guy had to beat me to the red light. Or maybe he was daydreaming of hookers in Amsterdam. In early March, the CBS golf crew was off work for the Madness. No big deal, I thought. Iâll watch the tournament, torture my broadcasting colleague Jim Nantz with text messages, and be back for the Masters in early April, fresh as a daisy. I whined my way out of hospital, probably a little earlier than I should have, and from my recliner in front of the TV, started driving Anita berserk. But my friends had other ideas. The text messages and e-mails came hard and fast. One day alone, I replied to 85 of them. I was getting winded on my BlackBerry. Itâs nice to have so many people who care, but this was a bit much. Two days later, I was screaming in a voice only my dogs could hear, âWe have to change our phone number.â A week later, so many people had inquired about my well-being that I was, in fact, being worse. I was sui-homicidalâa danger to myself and anyone within armâs length. The single messages were okay, but I quickly grew tired of the ones that, when I answered, came back with follow-up questions, followed by more, followed by âWell, if thereâs anything I can do for you, donât hesitate.â You know, hereâs a helpful piece of info for anyone who is tempted to say this to a seriously injured friend. If, in fact, there were anything you could do for him (and there isnât), the ambulance would have stopped at your house before the emergency room. Meaning well is nice, but for the wounded, thinking well is much better. Try one short text, preferably laced with inappropriate humor, like âNice work, I have dibs on your patio furniture.â If youâre a close friend, heâll know what you mean, and if youâre not, donât call. Give it some time, explain why you waited, and it will be appreciated. A little more than a month after the accident, I had to get out of the recliner, or Anita, the love of my life, was going to perform an amateur thoracostomy on me with a kitchen knife. Just as well, because I have to go to work anyway. Itâs the Masters. Iâve done 11 of them in a row, and, by God, I wasnât going to miss No. 12. Whatâs more, I took my provisional bike with me, as Skeeter the 6.5 Madone was still evidence, hanging mangled in Bicycles Plus. A little honey with a set of Reynolds carbon rims, Jenna the 5.2 is a couple of years old, but sheâs as comfortable as an old shoe, and when I got out of town and out of quack-sight, my butt was going to hit the saddle. My doctors told me I shouldnât be flying, but screw them. What did they know? Quite a lot as it happens. I survived the flight to Augusta with Anita, who, as my left arm is useless, had to drive me down to Augusta. After a day of being hugged, grabbed from behind by the shoulder, and Full report
Location:
8235-8239 Forest Ln, Dallas, TX 75243, USA
Geometry:
Vehicle overtook from rear
Injury:
Serious
Description:
3 lane rode, light traffice, bright day light, straight long open road, mid afternoon. Rider was wearing a bright green visibility vest, had on large rear tail light(4"x6"). Rider was taking full lane and was pretty much centered in the lane. Car simpley hit me from behind with 2 other empty lanes to his left. Crash flipped rider up on hood sending his head through the windsheild wich cause driver to panic and hit breaks sending rider 44 yeards down the concreat tumbling and sliding. Full report
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