Friends comfort one another around Michael Johnson's beloved BMW motorcycle at the University Chapel April 1.

Michael Johnson canoeing on a camping trip in Quetico Provincial Park, Canada.

Michael Johnson is pictured in 1988 on his first long distance motorcycle trip. He rode the entire Blue Ridge Parkway and Skyline Drive.

JOHNSON

Laughter, then tragedy: Michael Johnson's end unlike his celebrated life

By: BRIAN HUGHES

Posted: 4/7/09

When 706 scrolled across her cell phone screen, Carolyn Johnson felt a wave of trepidation.

It wasn't the first time.

She has that gene mothers have, the one where the mere sight of a matching area code triggers visions of the worst. For her, 706 meant her boy, Mike. And when unfamiliar digits followed 706, it meant there was reason to worry.

But she swatted away the paranoia like she had in the past, greeting the voice built up to reaper-like proportions.

"Mrs. Johnson?"

"Yes," she said.

It was University Police Chief Jimmy Williamson. The paranoia was justified. The news was why she feared the 706.

Michael A. Johnson, assistant dean at the graduate school, shot himself in the stomach, police said, while in the parking lot of a budget hotel about an hour northeast of Athens. Her boy, Mike, 44, died three hours later.

Feb. 26 began with a trip to Chuck E. Cheese but turned into her doomsday.

Carolyn has nothing more than theories as to why her son's fading moments were spent gripping a Smith and Wesson 357 Magnum inside a Honda CR-V in Lavonia.

But she accepts it as inevitable - like the hand turning on a clock.

Prankster and friend

April Fool's Day was an atypical time to mourn.

More than a month after Johnson's passing, Carolyn and her husband, Dick, posed next to their son's beloved BMW R1200 Motorcycle before a celebration service in the University Chapel.

Overcome with emotion, they squeezed one another behind a photo of their son, shielding themselves from the passing students, craning their necks to see what the hubbub was about.

Carolyn pivoted back toward the bike and rang a tiny bell on the rear of what friends described as the "Swiss Army Knife of motorcycles."

A skull dangled across the bell, which made some chuckle. The faint ding rendered visions of a pink tricycle rather than a hog that tested the sound barrier. On a day when tears were surpassed by snorts, it was clear Johnson played for laughs - even from the grave.

"What better day to celebrate Mike than today?" proclaimed Andrea Griffith, Johnson's neighbor and pawn in the prankster's renowned gags.

She remembered Johnson sprucing up a neighborhood Port-A-Potty during a drought. Johnson adorned the haven with a sign reading "Andrea's Water Conservation Project."

IN REMEMBRANCE

Donations can be made to:
The University of Georgia Arch Foundation for the Michael A. Johnson Graduate Fellowship, 394 S. Milledge Avenue, Athens, GA 30602

He would shoot off fireworks from his backyard, oblivious that the Fourth of July and New Year's Eve happened just twice a year, and that it was illegal, she added.

The shenanigans never wore on Griffith, who said Johnson was the first to help with a flat tire or invite you over for cookies.

"He was the sweetest, nicest man anybody could ever meet," she said.

As they added a piece to the Michael Johnson time capsule, friends lined up to share anecdotes, swearing the whoppers were unembellished and just part of Johnson's magnetic personality.

Even inmates were drawn to Johnson, said motorcycle buddy Tom Lee.

He told the story of a man who tried to lure Johnson to a downtown side street in an apparent attempt to rob him. Instead, Johnson gave the man his business card and told him to call if he needed anything

He did a few weeks later - from jail.

Johnson then went to visit his new "friend" in Athens-Clarke County Jail.

It's no wonder why Johnson was tasked with increasing enrollment at the graduate school.

If he could get a complete stranger to call him from prison, how hard could it be to convince a 20-something to study in Athens for a few years?

Lee said the two had talked about a summer motorcycle trip to Costa Rica just days before his death.

He said even there, Johnson would have walked up to complete strangers and asked, "What's your story?"

"He would basically interview everyone he came in contact with," Lee said. "You won't find anyone who cared about people as much as Mike did."

Infection and hallucinations

Why then, would a man described as outgoing, blissful and downright infectious to be around, find himself in a Lavonia Sleep Inn parking lot covered in his own blood?

Around noon on Feb. 26, Johnson was found slumped in the front passenger seat of his Honda CR-V with a Smith and Weston 357 Magnum touching his hand, according to a Lavonia Police Department report.

"Motel employees found him in his car with blood on his hands," Lavonia Police Chief Bruce Carlisle said. "He was conscious and able to confirm that he shot himself."

Johnson was transported to Greenville Memorial Hospital where he died in surgery, Carlisle confirmed.

His mother said it was a combination of sleeplessness and medicine gone amuck that led to his shocking last act.

She said Johnson and his girlfriend, Mimi Sodhi, assistant provost for the Office of Institutional Diversity, recently went to Europe to visit her family and travel.

Getting help

Suicidal thinking is usually associated with problems that can be treated (e.g., depression or anxiety). Solutions to your problems do exist, even if you are currently unable to see them. Suicidal crises are almost always temporary. Do not keep your thoughts to yourself, help is available for you.
What to do in non-crisis situations:
Call CAPS during regular working hours for a telephone screening - Phone: 706-542-2273
What to do if you are in crisis or feel that you cannot keep yourself safe:
Come to CAPS for a walk-in evaluation
After hours and on weekends call the UGA Police at 706-542-2200 to speak with the on-call clinician or call The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline - a 24-hour, toll-free suicide prevention service available to anyone in suicidal crisis. 1-800-273-TALK (8255).
- Compiled by Brian Hughes

But he came back in January with a bacterial infection, she said. Doctors put him on Levaquin, an antibiotic for treating infections, which led to bouts of insomnia and hallucinations lasting up to a week at a time.

"Quinolones, including Levaquin, may also cause central nervous system stimulation which may lead to tremors, restlessness, anxiety, lightheadedness, confusion, hallucinations, paranoia, depression, nightmares, insomnia, and rarely, suicidal thoughts or acts," the Levaquin Web site states.

Johnson worried about her son's mental state five years ago when he was still reeling from a "nasty divorce" with his wife of more than a decade.

"He told me, 'Mom I would never do anything to hurt myself,'" she said.

Though Carolyn knew her son was having trouble sleeping, he assured her his health was "100 percent better" just days before his trek to Lavonia.

He told her he would come back to Elizabethton, Tenn., in March to visit.

The next time they saw him would be to identify his body.

A bleak final hours

According to Carolyn, Michael stayed in a hotel in College Park on Feb. 24.

But instead of going to Atlanta's airport the next day to board a plane to Virginia for a conference, he went to Lavonia.

No one knows why. Maybe he was trying to go home his mom contends.

"I really think Mike's sleep deprivation caused him not to think properly," she said. "He probably had no idea what he was doing."

Sodhi, Johnson's girlfriend, declined an interview request for this story.

However, Johnson told her "I can't do this anymore" the Sunday before his death, according to his mom.

Carolyn said Sodhi has unwarranted guilt about the suicide.

"She blamed herself," she said. "She's been real hard on herself. But it's not her fault. It was just Mike's time to go."

He left suicide notes for his parents and Sodhi, reaffirming his love for all three. He wrote he couldn't eat, sleep or make Sodhi happy anymore, Carolyn said of the notes.

In his final moments, Johnson's panorama was dismal: Bubba's, a convenience store housed in a trailer promoting 24-hour lottery sales (it was closed), a bright Mexican restaurant and a dilapidated motel next to the Sleep Inn.

Not a picturesque finale for a man who traveled to Shanghai, who was known for motorcycle rides through the North Georgia Mountains and along the Atlantic coastline.

Regardless, his mom believes this was how it was supposed to be.

"If God didn't want it to happen, it wouldn't have," she said.

Tenure of accomplishment

Angela Jewell was a hit with one golfer thanks to Johnson.

Last April Fool's Day, Johnson littered the University golf course with balls displaying Jewell's phone number and a promise of $500 for retrieving the ball.

This was news to Jewell, who had to douse the golfer's pipe dream when he called to claim his prize.

"The guy was not very happy," the program coordinator for the graduate school said. "But that was Mike."

Danny Andrews wants his biking buddy back. He recalled road side chats about women and "things guys talk about" during their motorcycle odysseys.

"Mike was like a 3-month-old cocker spaniel," he said, clutching the podium during the celebration service. "He was full of life, happy to see you and you were happy to see him. You couldn't help but love him even though, when left unattended, he would be the one jumping on the furniture."

To friends, it may just seem like a footnote. But during his tenure at the University, graduate student enrollment increased by 7 percent and African American enrollment increased by more than 40 percent.

He also helped increase graduate school enrollment at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, his stop prior to the University. He was vice president at Milligan College in Tennessee, his alma mater and self-described "Harvard of the South."

Sitting in her pajamas, Carolyn is still coming to terms with outlasting her son.

Her message machine sends you off with a "Thank you very much and may the Lord bless you" delivered in a Southern drawl shaped by small-town living.

It's not the same there anymore.

"Every day you cry," she said over the phone. "Every night you cry. But you just function. That's just the way it is."