From the novel, Union, WV, as main character Wayne Quarles rides his motorcycle to see his uncle in WV

Wayne ascended Allegheny Mountain and then crossed the border into West Virginia, where a colorful sign said, “Welcome to West Virginia, Wild and Wonderful.” The sun, by now low in the sky, peeked between the clouds and flowing green mountains. In spite of the anxiety of the previous three days, he felt himself feeling calmer and enjoying the ride and the scenery. Following the printed directions, he took the exit at Caldwell. He thought for a moment about stopping to remove his helmet, wondering whether West Virginia was an optional-helmet state. Not being sure of West Virginia’s rules and not wanting to risk any hassles during the last short leg of the journey, he continued with his helmet on.
    He turned south on State Route 63. He crossed a highway bridge over Howard Creek. He was surprised the bridge had a decking of wood, which was still slippery wet from the day’s rain. He wondered derisively what manner of department of transportation still maintained wooden bridge decking on its highways. His brain filled with thoughts of decrepitude and backwardness he’d envisioned about West Virginia. He crossed under the tunnel of a railroad track and began ascending the winding two-lane road.
    Finding himself finally away from traffic and feeling frisky, he wicked up the throttle. He was going about 80-mph when he rounded a right-hand bend and was temporarily blinded by a bright, setting sun. When his eyes re-focused, there were three deer sprinting across the road. “Shit!” He immediately stomped his right foot on the rear brake and reached his right index and middle finger for the lever of the more powerful front brake, but his rear tire had already begun to skid. BAM! The bike slammed to the pavement with his right ankle under it. Steel-scrapes and sparks. He gasped, wincing from pain in his ankle and ribcage, pounded by the impact. He and the Harley skidded across the oncoming lane and both arched off the pavement and over an embankment.
    He barreled down the rocky slope face-first.  He bashed his face against the rocks, gashing his left lower lip and chin, and fracturing his mandibular bone. His chest, left thigh and hip absorbed the remainder of the impact. The bike landed beside him, bounced and cartwheeled, and then landed again. Its crankcase cracked apart and oil spilled onto the rocks. The bike chugged for another few seconds and died.
    He felt before he thought again. His jaw sent searing pain into his head. He had trouble breathing with intense pain in his chest, on his left side, where he landed on his pistol in a chest holster. His right ankle, left hip and thigh hurt like hell and he peed in his pants. His body was prone. His face and chest rested hard against a rock and his left arm was pinned behind him. His face was a rictus of agony. He tried to call out but his jaw shrieked in pain. It was almost dark. A car’s headlights passed above him, but it didn’t stop. Pain swept over him as if he’d been slammed by a dozen baseball bats. Several more headlights came and went. Panic. Nausea. Surely someone must have seen the crash. A rescue was on its way. Surely.