The following is a story from The St. Petersburg Times.

Bam Bam Bigelow skidded off the motorcycle and onto the hard wet asphalt on State Road 50 one Sunday in early October on the west side of Hernando County.

The woman who had been on the back of his bike hit the pavement with a sound one witness said was like an open palm slapping the surface of water. Then she flopped around like a rolled-up rug.

Bam Bam landed about 50 feet up the road. The former professional wrestler with the tattooed scalp and the name no one can forget was covered in blood, but he managed to get up. He held his scraped-up arms straight out from his sides. He lurched back toward the woman, who was moaning.

He looked like a monster, the witness said later.

"Oh, baby," Bam Bam was saying. "I'm so sorry."

He collapsed almost on top of the woman. His body was touching hers. His head was by her head.

The man who used to wrestle people to the ground and jump on them and pick them up and throw them was powerless. For almost all athletes, there is the inevitability of a life after people stop cheering. For Bam Bam Bigelow, the story includes addiction to painkillers, time in rehab, calls from creditors, a costly divorce, three kids he hasn't seen in more than a year and child support not paid.

And a new love.

The woman on the bike was Janis Remiesiewicz, who's 41, has a house in Port Richey and has been dating Bam Bam for a year.

The name state troopers got off Bam Bam's license was Scott C. Bigelow, 44, with an address in New Jersey.

But the last address for Bigelow in public records was in Lake Ariel, Pa., and that ended this past April. It was on a road called the Hideout.

Men who weigh more than 300 pounds, have tattooed heads and answer to Bam Bam do not just disappear.

Unless they want to.

On Oct. 2, though, Bam Bam Bigelow was taken to Spring Hill's Oak Hill Hospital. Janis was flown to Tampa General and listed in critical condition.

Meanwhile, the woman who lives in Bam Bam's old house in Allenhurst, N.J., has to deal with the guys who keep looking for the previous owner.

"They pull up in front of the house and they stare at the house," Josephine Schror said over the phone. "Then they knock on the door and ask for Scott, and I tell them he doesn't live here no more. And they ask me if I know where he is and then they sit in the car and write s--- down and then they drive off."