We were up late that morning having enjoyed a good nights sleep after a fantastic two days of riding. I leisurely took my bike to Deeley's and left it for the day to get the first service completed in preparation for the trip east. The day was then spent hanging around the hotel with my Bro awaiting the third arrival. Nuthin'. Not a peep. All day. I went back and picked up my hog before closing time.
Bro and I went out, had dinner and a few pints and scoped the ball game on the box at a local. We walked back to the hotel around 11PM. There is a note pined to our hotel room door. The La-Dee-Da-Dee-Doo has arrived. He is now somewhere in the immediate vicinity. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
We looked around the hotel and rang his room but he and his bike were nowhere to be found. The front desk clerk had seen 'em though 'cause he was in his face earlier about signing some papers. Bro and I have just closed the door to our room when there comes a knock and lo and behold........ it is he!! And he's feeling pretty damn good about himself. To us, he looks like shit. With the skin on his face all pulled back from the wind and his eyes buggin' out. And he was babblin' a mile a minute, something about giant bugs drillin his head at a hundred miles an hour, forty four hours ridin' at Warp 9, gallons of caffeine etc.etc. We slow him down best we can and soon he was able to fill us in on the details.
He departed his home in Toronto Saturday, September 15th at 2:30 in the morning, crossing Windsor to Detroit at six AM. The trip, up to and including Chicago, was relatively sane. West of Chicago, the Bat Out of Hell broke loose. Seems that the northern prairie states have little in the way of law enforcement when it comes to upholding speed limits. As he tells it, during daylight hours anyway, no one really cares how fast you drive.
The BMW RT 1100 is built to take rider and passenger at speeds of over 160km/h all day long. And that is just what he did. Minus the passenger. Or so he claims. Near as he recalls, much of the Prairie leg of the trip averaged over 170kph, stopping once for a seven hour nap at a motel in North Dakota nineteen miles from the Montana border. And he stopped once a day to eat a sub sandwich. Oh yeah, and gas. He did stop for gas. I think.
Montana state troopers on the other hand aren't quite so forgiving as those in the Prairies 'cause there was a cop who he met who thought that 95 mph in a 75 zone warranted a prize that cost our hero forty bucks.
He reached the US / Canada border south of Vancouver Sunday evening in thirty three and one half hours after entering the states in Detroit and the conversation with the customs official in B.C. went something like this:
"Citizenship"?
"Canadian".
"Where and when did you enter the States"?
"Detroit, Michigan at 6AM Saturday".
Pause, pause, pause, while our Nut Bar watches the border guard doing the math in his head.
"Well I guess you don't have anything to declare. Welcome home". Says the official.
If I was the border guard, knowing our pal like I do, I woulda come to a different conclusion about lettin' him back in.
By now it was about 11:30 Sunday night and he was wired to the max. In spite of only six hours sleep in the last thirty nine or so, I found myself wondering how he was ever going to deflate and stop vibrating enough to get a few winks. 'Cause sleep would be the best thing right now. For us all. Tomorrow's a huge day.
Epilogue
Our hero pulled off a stunning achievement. Not with standing that, having arrived and hooked up with us on time, he would then go on to ride another 600 kilometers on Monday and, on Tuesday he would turn around and begin the trip back home with me, he had just completed damn close to 4,440 K in forty seven hours including a sleep of seven hours! Forty hours driving time door to door. And he had all the gas receipts to prove it. His introduction to the front desk manager had him verifying and signing off on his arrival time.All of this documentation would later be sent to the Iron Butt Association. He requested their entry level recognition of:
1,000 miles in 24 hours and
1,500 miles in 48 hours
The IBA wrote him back and congratulated him on his error in submission and they were very please to upgrade his achievement to:
The Bun Burner Award for completing 1,500 miles in 24 hours and
The Saddle Sore Award for 2,000 miles in 48 hours.
All miles. Not our girlie K's.
The plaques are on his wall at his home. I've seen 'em.
To this day, now eleven years hence, he still suggests that he hasn't been able to walk properly since.
Tuesday, 3 July 2012
Our Break Out - Post #28
She took me directly to the hotel and I checked ............. me in. She stayed in the parking lot. Honest. No sign of my Bro yet, or the Nut Bar for that matter, in person or by way of a message. I stripped down, showered and dressed to do some light riding. I left a note at the front desk for them both and set off to cruise. I drove to the nearest highway and set off. Highway break in is better than the stop and start of the city in the early hours. I was out for over six. Returning to the hotel to find that my brother had arrived.
He fills me in on the details of his journey. Due to the heightened security there were no flights. He did drive all the way, having to swap rentals at the border 'cause they rental he had wasn't permitted to cross into Canada. He traded it in on one that could and carried on. All told, about sixteen hours. By this time it was now pushing nine PM Thursday night. So we walked to a nearby steak house, chowed down and called it a night.
First thing Friday morning, my bro caught a cab to Deeley's. He rented his cycle and we met up back at the hotel. We packed the bikes for the weekend and set out.
Our route took us north, past the cut off east to Whistler, up the Sunshine Coast through Horseshoe Bay, Langdale, Earls Cove, Saltery Bay, Powell River, concluding our first day in the very picturesque Town of Lund. There we stay the night then back track to Powell River in the morning to catch the northern most ferry across The Strait of Georgia to land at Comox on Vancouver Island. From there our choice was a right to Port Hardy at the northern tip of the island or a left and west to Tofino on the Pacific coast.
I had this idea in my head from the beginning, that I needed to baptize the bike with some Pacific Ocean from the most westerly point in Canada that I could find, with the hope that, someday, the same could be done with the Atlantic in the east. Consulting the map, we realize the only substantial north south highway on Vancouver Island is located on the east coast due to the numerous inlets, coves, rivers and lakes along the west coast. Accessing the west coast by heading north was going to take a lot more time than we had available. This pointed us in the direction of a trip south then west, through the Redwood forest, to the Pacific coast of the island.
We set out from Comax south, hanging a right at Parksville, and on to Port Alberni. I will never forget as long as I live, the Redwood forest of Vancouver Island. There was an immense canopy of trees blocking the sun from a clear blue sky, the entire way across the island. And the temperature in among the trees was significantly higher than before we entered in spite of the lack of sunlight. There was a low lying fog hugging the ground cover and the earthy smell of the peat and the humidity of the forest was incredibly pronounced. That's what riding a bike was for. In a car you travel through a scene without the interface. On a bike you are in the scene. Apart of it. And all of your senses are working overtime to take it all in. Absolutely a remarkable experience.
We make the coast just north of Ucluelet and hang a right to Tofino arriving in time for a late lunch in the small harbour town. But first we took the bikes to the Pacific Rim National Park where there was direct access to a boat launch and parking near the water I scooped up a cup full of the pounding surf and flang that wholly water at the gas tank while saying a few words about the life I live, how lucky I am etc. etc. The ceremony behind us, we moved on to flang a few beverages into us.
Later that afternoon we began to retrace our route back through the forest and make the ferry crossing at Nanimo to arrive at our hotel by ten o'clock Saturday night. Still no sign of our third Stooge. Lights out.
He fills me in on the details of his journey. Due to the heightened security there were no flights. He did drive all the way, having to swap rentals at the border 'cause they rental he had wasn't permitted to cross into Canada. He traded it in on one that could and carried on. All told, about sixteen hours. By this time it was now pushing nine PM Thursday night. So we walked to a nearby steak house, chowed down and called it a night.
First thing Friday morning, my bro caught a cab to Deeley's. He rented his cycle and we met up back at the hotel. We packed the bikes for the weekend and set out.
Our route took us north, past the cut off east to Whistler, up the Sunshine Coast through Horseshoe Bay, Langdale, Earls Cove, Saltery Bay, Powell River, concluding our first day in the very picturesque Town of Lund. There we stay the night then back track to Powell River in the morning to catch the northern most ferry across The Strait of Georgia to land at Comox on Vancouver Island. From there our choice was a right to Port Hardy at the northern tip of the island or a left and west to Tofino on the Pacific coast.
I had this idea in my head from the beginning, that I needed to baptize the bike with some Pacific Ocean from the most westerly point in Canada that I could find, with the hope that, someday, the same could be done with the Atlantic in the east. Consulting the map, we realize the only substantial north south highway on Vancouver Island is located on the east coast due to the numerous inlets, coves, rivers and lakes along the west coast. Accessing the west coast by heading north was going to take a lot more time than we had available. This pointed us in the direction of a trip south then west, through the Redwood forest, to the Pacific coast of the island.
We set out from Comax south, hanging a right at Parksville, and on to Port Alberni. I will never forget as long as I live, the Redwood forest of Vancouver Island. There was an immense canopy of trees blocking the sun from a clear blue sky, the entire way across the island. And the temperature in among the trees was significantly higher than before we entered in spite of the lack of sunlight. There was a low lying fog hugging the ground cover and the earthy smell of the peat and the humidity of the forest was incredibly pronounced. That's what riding a bike was for. In a car you travel through a scene without the interface. On a bike you are in the scene. Apart of it. And all of your senses are working overtime to take it all in. Absolutely a remarkable experience.
We make the coast just north of Ucluelet and hang a right to Tofino arriving in time for a late lunch in the small harbour town. But first we took the bikes to the Pacific Rim National Park where there was direct access to a boat launch and parking near the water I scooped up a cup full of the pounding surf and flang that wholly water at the gas tank while saying a few words about the life I live, how lucky I am etc. etc. The ceremony behind us, we moved on to flang a few beverages into us.
Later that afternoon we began to retrace our route back through the forest and make the ferry crossing at Nanimo to arrive at our hotel by ten o'clock Saturday night. Still no sign of our third Stooge. Lights out.
Departure Day - Post 27
I had to travel light. Everything I needed for the next eight days had to pack on the bike. And there was a pile of very heavy leather, a helmet, boots, rain gear, etc. And the most efficient way to transport the boots and the leather was to wear it. All I had as luggage was a Harley bag that was made to strap on the bike behind the back rest. I carried a disposable bag that had miscellaneous stuff, the rain gear etc. that I would dump when I transferred everything to the saddle bags.
I arrived at the airport, on time, the morning of, dressed like Arnold Shwarzenegger in The Terminator. Including the wrap arounds, with my helmet tucked under one arm. Security was a little aghast. Especially in the aftermath of the events of two days ago. Needless to say I was scrutinized rather extensively. Fortunately I had arrived early cause in the end, we departed right on schedule. The first plane out of Toronto following 9/11. And the best part was as the plane started to back away from the terminal I reached down picked up my helmet and put it on my head. That got a few people laughing and we struck up a conversation during the flight where I shared what was really going on with the costume.
Fortunately the helmet was not required. We landed as planned in Vancouver. I took a cab directly to Deeleys. My bike was waiting for me front and center in the parking lot upon arrival. I spied 'er immediately. I went in and introduced myself to Gigi.
You know how you talk to someone on the phone, never having met, and you kinda formulate an image in your mind as to what the caller may look like? This isn't something that just I do right? Well having talked to Gigi a number of times getting the deal done I admit, I contemplated, just once, maybe twice, what she would be like.
The fact that she was in the finance department left me with the impression, likely a middle age accountant type, whatever that is. Wrong. Guess I should have known better cause it is a cycle shop first and foremost. Yikes! I'm a wee bit tongue tied at first greeting cause this gal is a drop dead gorgeous brunette that is every inch a very classy biker babe through and through. I try and stick with the business at hand rather than saying something completely stupid while trying to be cute. Always the better policy when you're not all that suave and debonaire to begin with.
She escorts me outside to make formal introductions between me and my pig. Love at first sight. It takes no more than twenty minutes where by the plates are installed, the standard, newbie overview of facts and features of the bike was concluded and the 1449cc, V-Twin with fuel injection..........fuel injection......... is fired to life. There is not a prettier sound on all of God's green earth. I try and contain my excitement as I began loading my gear while my baby hummed and got to warming up.
As I was ready to mount up, Mr Deeley and a number of the sales and maintenance folks came out to greet, shake hands and congratulate me on my putting it all together. A very kind conclusion to such and epic journey. Harley owners really are a family, or a brotherhood if you will, and they do live that image. So with a promise to return in three days time for the service before heading east to Toronto, I bid a fond fare well. No wheelies. No burnout off the lot. Just a controlled exit with no popping the clutch or stalling. Smooth. We were made for each other.
I arrived at the airport, on time, the morning of, dressed like Arnold Shwarzenegger in The Terminator. Including the wrap arounds, with my helmet tucked under one arm. Security was a little aghast. Especially in the aftermath of the events of two days ago. Needless to say I was scrutinized rather extensively. Fortunately I had arrived early cause in the end, we departed right on schedule. The first plane out of Toronto following 9/11. And the best part was as the plane started to back away from the terminal I reached down picked up my helmet and put it on my head. That got a few people laughing and we struck up a conversation during the flight where I shared what was really going on with the costume.
Fortunately the helmet was not required. We landed as planned in Vancouver. I took a cab directly to Deeleys. My bike was waiting for me front and center in the parking lot upon arrival. I spied 'er immediately. I went in and introduced myself to Gigi.
You know how you talk to someone on the phone, never having met, and you kinda formulate an image in your mind as to what the caller may look like? This isn't something that just I do right? Well having talked to Gigi a number of times getting the deal done I admit, I contemplated, just once, maybe twice, what she would be like.
The fact that she was in the finance department left me with the impression, likely a middle age accountant type, whatever that is. Wrong. Guess I should have known better cause it is a cycle shop first and foremost. Yikes! I'm a wee bit tongue tied at first greeting cause this gal is a drop dead gorgeous brunette that is every inch a very classy biker babe through and through. I try and stick with the business at hand rather than saying something completely stupid while trying to be cute. Always the better policy when you're not all that suave and debonaire to begin with.
She escorts me outside to make formal introductions between me and my pig. Love at first sight. It takes no more than twenty minutes where by the plates are installed, the standard, newbie overview of facts and features of the bike was concluded and the 1449cc, V-Twin with fuel injection..........fuel injection......... is fired to life. There is not a prettier sound on all of God's green earth. I try and contain my excitement as I began loading my gear while my baby hummed and got to warming up.
As I was ready to mount up, Mr Deeley and a number of the sales and maintenance folks came out to greet, shake hands and congratulate me on my putting it all together. A very kind conclusion to such and epic journey. Harley owners really are a family, or a brotherhood if you will, and they do live that image. So with a promise to return in three days time for the service before heading east to Toronto, I bid a fond fare well. No wheelies. No burnout off the lot. Just a controlled exit with no popping the clutch or stalling. Smooth. We were made for each other.
Friday, 29 June 2012
The Aftermath - Post #26
Sir Nut Bar's implications were the simplest. Other than the time he put aside for the trip, not much else would change. He would leave and arrive back later than originally anticipated. But the duration would remain the same. A scheduling issue, nothing more.
The situation for me and my brother was significantly more involved. Even more so for the bro', because the U.S. lock-down would be considerably longer than ours in Canada. He needed to get from San Francisco to Vancouver and, as it turned out, my plane went ahead on schedule. His did not.
He learned quickly that there was no way a plane was to be leaving San Fran on Sept. 13. In fact, I believe it was about a week before the airspace in the U.S. was opened up again. Now, you might think in light of the events the reasonable thing to do would be to stay home and feel OK with that decision. Angel had rather vehemently stressed this option. And she had done so with the possible understanding that the United States would be declaring war with a very nebulous adversary. And my plan was, prior to all this, to bring the bike home through the States.
I had driven the Canadian route in my university years. Been there, done that. What we had planned for this wee adventure called for something completely different. A route through Washington, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming and South Dakota with Yellowstone and Sturgis, South Dakota as highlights on the list. And now I was hearing that Angel felt traveling through the US at this time was likely going to be fraught with unnecessary difficulty. She had suggested that border crossings could only serve to exacerbate the potentially troublesome situation. And with the military, National Guard and/or State Militia's presence everywhere, she envisioned us landing in a whole pile of trouble.
I, on the other hand, believed there couldn't be a safer place in the whole world than America in the immediate aftermath following the big event.
Not that it was a huge point of contention; after all, she did play a giant role in bringing this dream to fruition. But I REALLY wanted to bring the bike back through the States. And in the end I was willing to accept that she had a valid concern and if my plane was to fly, I would bring the bike home while riding within Canada.
Simple enough. Me bro', on the other hand, had a more difficult situation. When he heard my plane was to go, he hadn't yet heard from his wife, who was on business in London at the time. She had tried to reach him on the West Coast but I guess the phone lines were overloaded and she couldn't get through. And he had to make a quick decision. If he was to still participate he was going to have to rent cars and make the drive. And that meant he had to get started immediately if he was to meet the schedule.
At the time of his departure, he hadn't heard for certain that my plane would fly on time. He set out in the rental from San Francisco hoping that I would get away close to the scheduled flight. The drive would take him about 16 hours to do the 1,600 kms. But he would likely need to change rental cars at the border adding time to the overall production. Which in the end, is exactly what happened. So he set out, not having reached his wife and not having confirmed that my plane would leave on time. My travel agent tells me Wednesday to go to the airport, as planned, Thursday morning, expecting to fly. There may be delays, but it is likely that I would get away.
Very optimistic.
The Snag - Post #25
We had set everything in motion. My 'bro was ready to fly from San Fran. His rental hog was all lined up. "NB" had the Bimmer tuned up and ready to fly. I had completed the deal, ownership papers in hand, the Ontario plates secured, packed the luggage, and I was told my baby awaits my arrival at the showroom in Vancouver. Anticipation was reaching a boil.
Then, two days from my departure date for Vancouver, the most unbelievable event unfolds on my computer screen. I was sitting at my desk at work at 8:45 a.m., contemplating the day ahead, wondering what excitement it would bring. The typical daily life of a salesman living the moment on the edge. I just adored that roller coaster ride when the news comes that the deal you've been working on for two years craters and . . . no money from that one! Or, even better, the phone rings and you hear the deal is done and you get to feed the family for the next month. Awesome!
Well, news comes in many forms and on that day a colleague of mine sticks his beak in my office door and says:
"Did you hear what just happened in New York"?
"Ahh . . . there's a lot going on in N.Y. most the time. More specific, please".
"Turn on your computer and get to CNN"
I do.
And I watch over and over again, in utter disbelief as a fully loaded passenger jet flies into the World Trade Center.
Followed by a second.
I must admit, watching the first plane's approach --- and ultimate demise --- I immediately thought in the early moments that it had to be pilot error, or that something was terribly wrong mechanically with the plane to cause this catastrophe. It was simply unfathomably to me that this event could possibly have been willful.
And then then second plane arrives on the scene. And the magnitude of the horror is over whelming. Like they said. That moment changed and redefined the future of the United States forever. Unthinkable how anyone could harbor such hatred of someone else's philosophy or their way of life. I would never be able to grasp the motivation behind such an act. The rest of my morning was spent watching the events unfold on my computer. Eventually I pulled myself away, came home early, got the kids to bed and sat with Angel in front of the TV.
How do you explain that to young kids?
Eventually the two of us had to face this new reality and, on a more mundane level, how it would affect my trip west. At the least, it would likely need to be delayed because all planes in North America were grounded for the immediate future. My plane was scheduled to leave Toronto on Sept. 13 at 6:30 a.m. I contacted my travel agent and she said to stand by but, at the moment it wasn't looking too good to go. Angel suggests that I consider an all-out cancel. Put the bike on a train and ship it. Ouch!!! What an absolutely, unbelievably terrible idea.
But possibly the sensible course of action.
I began looking into the cost of canceling my hotel accommodation in the hope, at that point, it was simply a postponement and not a cancellation.
The Logistics - Post #24
The issue was that I needed to land in Vancouver with the bike signed, sealed and in my name, prior to my arrival because I did not want to have to have to deal with any possible cock-ups that might arise. And the Agreement of Purchase and Sale had to be fully executed in order for that to happen. And the Agreement of P&S had to include the reference to the license plate. And the bike was being purchased in B.C. Which meant B.C. plates. Gigi informs me she would have to put a B.C. plate on the bike, reference it on the documents, and courier me the documents for signature.
Not good. That would have just created additional paper work and additional cost to license twice, because that would require a transfer to Ontario plates upon arrival home. I asked her to consider, instead, sending me all the information on the specific bike, including the VIN number. I would register the bike here in Ontario, buy my Ontario plates and send her the plate information. She could then complete the Agreement of P&S, referencing the Ontario license, and courier them back to me for signature. Not exactly standard procedure, but in the end, she agreed.
With the Acquisition-of-the-Bike part of the deal concluded, it was time to focus on the logistics of getting it home. Two other individuals wanted to be involved in the whole adventure to assist. And neither of them were Angel(s!). She felt the whole idea of an across-the-country purchase was ever so slightly whack. So she opts out. No, it was my brother and the Nut Bar with the Bimmer that wanted in.
Me bro' was living in San Francisco at the time all this came together. He elects to fly to Vancouver, hook up upon my arrival and rent a bike from Deeley. We would then spend a few days putting the required 1,600 kms on my hog traveling around Van, service the bike, i.e. new oil and fluids, before heading home. We needed to plan for a route that was 1,600 kms, round trip from Vancouver, before the first service. For the bro', all this is easy. Fly in. Rent. Ride for three days. Fly out.
The plan for the Nut Bar is a wee bit more complex. He decided he would leave Toronto on his BMW, drive straight to Vancouver with as much 'Non-Stop' as he can handle, meet up with us, possibly in time for as much of the three-day break-in cruise that he can and then, ultimately, escort me home to Toronto. Including the 1,600 kms breaking-in part, that is roughly 10,000 kilometers in 10 days. Now I have always adored long-distance rides, but I told him he's crazed just the same. He insisted that from an Iron Butt point of view, it was "a piece of cake".
The Iron Butt Association. Fifty thousand members world wide. And 50,000 of the toughest riders on the planet, according to their logo on their web site. These folks are extreme when it comes to long-distance endurance riding. I have no idea how long the organization has been in existence. There is little info available. What is available are the rules and regulations associated with earning the accolades from your fellow riders for completing incredibly difficult journeys. If you care for a taste of what these folks are all about you can read more here:
www.ironbutt.com/about/default.cfm
DO NOT try this stuff at home!!! I think you need to be somewhat unhinged to attempt this stuff. I would like to think that they are professionals and therefore completely capable but I'm not so sure. There are no membership fees. There are no prizes. And there are very few rules and regulations. All you have to do to gain entrance to this very exclusive club is prove you met the club's threshold and actually did the ride you claim, supported by gas and mileage receipts. And signed off by independent witnesses at both the Start and Finish Lines. NB had done all his research. He knew all about these folks and was convinced he would fit right in.
Not good. That would have just created additional paper work and additional cost to license twice, because that would require a transfer to Ontario plates upon arrival home. I asked her to consider, instead, sending me all the information on the specific bike, including the VIN number. I would register the bike here in Ontario, buy my Ontario plates and send her the plate information. She could then complete the Agreement of P&S, referencing the Ontario license, and courier them back to me for signature. Not exactly standard procedure, but in the end, she agreed.
With the Acquisition-of-the-Bike part of the deal concluded, it was time to focus on the logistics of getting it home. Two other individuals wanted to be involved in the whole adventure to assist. And neither of them were Angel(s!). She felt the whole idea of an across-the-country purchase was ever so slightly whack. So she opts out. No, it was my brother and the Nut Bar with the Bimmer that wanted in.
Me bro' was living in San Francisco at the time all this came together. He elects to fly to Vancouver, hook up upon my arrival and rent a bike from Deeley. We would then spend a few days putting the required 1,600 kms on my hog traveling around Van, service the bike, i.e. new oil and fluids, before heading home. We needed to plan for a route that was 1,600 kms, round trip from Vancouver, before the first service. For the bro', all this is easy. Fly in. Rent. Ride for three days. Fly out.
The plan for the Nut Bar is a wee bit more complex. He decided he would leave Toronto on his BMW, drive straight to Vancouver with as much 'Non-Stop' as he can handle, meet up with us, possibly in time for as much of the three-day break-in cruise that he can and then, ultimately, escort me home to Toronto. Including the 1,600 kms breaking-in part, that is roughly 10,000 kilometers in 10 days. Now I have always adored long-distance rides, but I told him he's crazed just the same. He insisted that from an Iron Butt point of view, it was "a piece of cake".
The Iron Butt Association. Fifty thousand members world wide. And 50,000 of the toughest riders on the planet, according to their logo on their web site. These folks are extreme when it comes to long-distance endurance riding. I have no idea how long the organization has been in existence. There is little info available. What is available are the rules and regulations associated with earning the accolades from your fellow riders for completing incredibly difficult journeys. If you care for a taste of what these folks are all about you can read more here:
www.ironbutt.com/about/default.cfm
DO NOT try this stuff at home!!! I think you need to be somewhat unhinged to attempt this stuff. I would like to think that they are professionals and therefore completely capable but I'm not so sure. There are no membership fees. There are no prizes. And there are very few rules and regulations. All you have to do to gain entrance to this very exclusive club is prove you met the club's threshold and actually did the ride you claim, supported by gas and mileage receipts. And signed off by independent witnesses at both the Start and Finish Lines. NB had done all his research. He knew all about these folks and was convinced he would fit right in.
The Deal of a Life Time - Post #23
Trevor Deeley, of Deeley Import,s resided in Vancouver, as have his family for many years. He and his papa, Fred, are icons in the motorcycle world. His dad started selling Harleys, imported from Milwaukee, in 1917 making Deeley Imports one of the oldest motorcycle dealerships in the world. In 1973 Trevor was asked by Harley Davidson to become the exclusive distributor for HD in Canada. He accepted. And since that time, every Harley sold in Canada has been brought into the country through Fred Deeley Imports, Vancouver.
What better place to go to get my machine? I phoned him. He didn't answer. Right away that is. After running the gantlet of gate keepers, I was able to convince one of them that my need was absolutely urgent and that nothing less than leaving a direct message for Mr. Deeley on his voice mail would suffice. I am, after all, a salesman.
So the message was left.
"Mr. Deeley, sir. I need to talk to you about purchasing a new Heritage Softail through your Vancouver store. I reside in Toronto. I am 42 years old and I have wanted this bike all my life. The fact that my circumstance has recently afforded me the opportunity to actually proceed with an acquisition, is a bit of a wee miracle. At least in my mind. So here I am. This event is so monumental for me the only way I can put this together that reflects the magnitude of the purchase itself, is to make a deal with you, fly to Vancouver and ride 'er home. Please call me to discuss the possibility when you have the time".
A week later I am sitting at my desk at the office working. The phone rings.
"Hello, Peters speaking".
"Mr. Peters, Trev Deeley calling from Vancouver. I understand from your message you have a very important, life-long dream that needs to be realized. I am returning your call to inform you that there is nothing that we here at Deeley would be more pleased to do than to assist you in making your dream come true. After all, you are a very important person".
"Mr Deeley, sir. Thank you for the kind thought. But I sir, am but a piece of shit. You on the other hand, are a very important person. I thank you so very much for taking the time out of your schedule to return my call.
Not generally the way I would speak on the phone with a 'First Contact'. But we were talking motorcycles here, biker to biker. We discussed the bike. Standard package. He told me the price. I agreed. It's like buying a Ferrari. You don't negotiate the price. He then brought his finance gal, Gigi, on the line to work out the details and, leaving me in good hands, he bids me adieu.
Gigi is fantastic. Pictures of the bike were emailed. Upgrades discussed and agreed to and the final price list is forwarded. The deal was completed that day. The only glitch was getting it inked.
What better place to go to get my machine? I phoned him. He didn't answer. Right away that is. After running the gantlet of gate keepers, I was able to convince one of them that my need was absolutely urgent and that nothing less than leaving a direct message for Mr. Deeley on his voice mail would suffice. I am, after all, a salesman.
So the message was left.
"Mr. Deeley, sir. I need to talk to you about purchasing a new Heritage Softail through your Vancouver store. I reside in Toronto. I am 42 years old and I have wanted this bike all my life. The fact that my circumstance has recently afforded me the opportunity to actually proceed with an acquisition, is a bit of a wee miracle. At least in my mind. So here I am. This event is so monumental for me the only way I can put this together that reflects the magnitude of the purchase itself, is to make a deal with you, fly to Vancouver and ride 'er home. Please call me to discuss the possibility when you have the time".
A week later I am sitting at my desk at the office working. The phone rings.
"Hello, Peters speaking".
"Mr. Peters, Trev Deeley calling from Vancouver. I understand from your message you have a very important, life-long dream that needs to be realized. I am returning your call to inform you that there is nothing that we here at Deeley would be more pleased to do than to assist you in making your dream come true. After all, you are a very important person".
"Mr Deeley, sir. Thank you for the kind thought. But I sir, am but a piece of shit. You on the other hand, are a very important person. I thank you so very much for taking the time out of your schedule to return my call.
Not generally the way I would speak on the phone with a 'First Contact'. But we were talking motorcycles here, biker to biker. We discussed the bike. Standard package. He told me the price. I agreed. It's like buying a Ferrari. You don't negotiate the price. He then brought his finance gal, Gigi, on the line to work out the details and, leaving me in good hands, he bids me adieu.
Gigi is fantastic. Pictures of the bike were emailed. Upgrades discussed and agreed to and the final price list is forwarded. The deal was completed that day. The only glitch was getting it inked.
The Catalyst - Post #22
Oddly enough, about a month earlier, I had been sitting in a restaurant with a colleague of mine, talking about what's next. I told him I was unclear but I sure did love riding. That Angel and I were thinking about heading back to Arizona in the near future. He says, "Why don't you just buy one of your own if you are that committed"? I say it's hard to justify such an expense when faced with all other obligations at the moment. And I don't know if my back would hold up over time. He says get over it and just do it. "Yeah, yeah, easy for you to say, but I doubt I could ever convince Angel on that whole program".
He asks, "What would you buy if you had the chance"? I tell him oh that's easy. There's only one bike in the world worth owning and that's a Harley Davidson Heritage Softail Classic in burgundy red. With fuel injection. Fuel injection. He asks if he was to buy a bike, given my understanding of him and my experience with bikes, would I recommend the same ride for him? I reply without any hesitation "Hell no. You'd kill a Harley in your first year. You demand so much from your machines and equipment, you'd flog the thing to death. You need nothing less than a BMW".
This guy is a completely possessed nut case. (Herein after referred to as "Nut Bar" or "NB" for short). I have never met anyone so driven or overwhelmingly focused on the job at hand. He is completely obsessed with any task he gets his mitts on, to accomplish it in the face of total adversity. This boy needs high performance. Nothing "touring" about him. He needs the Panzer tank of cycles.
And true to form, about four weeks after our lunch, I'm sitting in my living room one Saturday morning, sipping my coffee, reading the morning paper and the dog starts barking her freaking head off in the window, 'cause of some commotion in the driveway. I get up and go to the window and here is the Nut Bar stepping off a brand new, emerald green, BMW RT 1100!!!! The part that is somewhat incredible is that prior to our lunch, (so he tells me later) he had never even thought about riding, let alone buying a bike.
Immediately following our lunch he signed up for the motorcycle licensing course. He completed it in three weeks, bought the bike and showed up in my drive way asking, "Have you got yours yet? C'mon man!! What are you waiting for?? Let's go!! Git 'er done!"
Yikes! How shitty do I feel now?
So with the peer pressure in my face and Angel's big payday, the stage is set, the path is cleared and I boldly set out for where I thought I would never get to go.
But when you have wanted something so badly for most of your life and it suddenly comes to fruition, you can't just walk down to the corner store and pick one out. No siree. This is a massively huge deal. And the actual acquisition has to be as epic as the overall conclusion. I realize very quickly that my next major obstacle will be convincing Angel that this bike needs to be purchased about as far from home as I can possibly get. That way I can fly to her and ride her home. Vancouver should do nicely, me thinks.
Thursday, 12 April 2012
Angels Offer - Post #21
I had begun riding in earnest around the age of 35. I had done some in the university years just to quench the thirst but when I hit my mid-30s I renewed my licence and took off for the southern U.S.. I had joined a frequent-rider club that involved Harley rentals throughout the southern states. At first I was on my own, but then Angel began joining me. I absolutely adored everything about it. I think there was a time when she actually loved it, too, but her passion was no match for mine. I savoured perfect conditions and enjoyed some of the most gorgeous scenery in the world. I travelled through Florida, California, Nevada and Arizona primarily. Top to bottom, border to border.
It was all about packing the bike and driving away. We would go for one or two weeks at a time, and never with the kids.
Well, this went on for years and then, with my two injuries and the greatest part of my rehab behind me, I began looking for a new focus that would give me that purpose or thrill that was now missing. It wasn't to be diving or participating in the martial arts any longer, because I just wasn't capable. And It probably shouldn't be riding either because I wasn't supposed to sit. But riding was all-consuming.
Then Angel, who had gone back to work in the residential real estate industry, walked in the door one day with a substantial cheque from selling a house, hands it to me and says, "This is for you, for looking after us all these years. Time for you to go and buy the bike you've always wanted, don't you think"? With a house to maintain, a mortgage, two kids to get through university, etc,, I always thought I would have to enjoy my riding through the rental club. It's just too expensive a toy to think of actually owning. And the season here in Ontario is really too short to justify the kind of riding I enjoy --- long distance. Over long periods of time. Load 'em up and drive away. It was never about fair weather. Sunday drives to the store to pick up bread. That's OK, too. But it was the adventure of heading out on lengthy overnight trips to the unknown that captured me. To travel the small stuff out and back over days or weeks.
Angel's offer blew me away. With all the other priorities we had in our lives, she knew just how passionate I was about this and how, if never lived, would always be chewing at me. I like to believe I could live with that. Forever. Because of all the other fantastic things we shared. But being given full support to go and get the wheels I've wanted my whole life was absolutely mind-blowing to me. I was completely and totally overwhelmed by the prospect. But not so much that I thought of talking her out of it. I jumped all over her. Then I jumped all over it. And began the process of putting it all together.
It was all about packing the bike and driving away. We would go for one or two weeks at a time, and never with the kids.
Well, this went on for years and then, with my two injuries and the greatest part of my rehab behind me, I began looking for a new focus that would give me that purpose or thrill that was now missing. It wasn't to be diving or participating in the martial arts any longer, because I just wasn't capable. And It probably shouldn't be riding either because I wasn't supposed to sit. But riding was all-consuming.
Then Angel, who had gone back to work in the residential real estate industry, walked in the door one day with a substantial cheque from selling a house, hands it to me and says, "This is for you, for looking after us all these years. Time for you to go and buy the bike you've always wanted, don't you think"? With a house to maintain, a mortgage, two kids to get through university, etc,, I always thought I would have to enjoy my riding through the rental club. It's just too expensive a toy to think of actually owning. And the season here in Ontario is really too short to justify the kind of riding I enjoy --- long distance. Over long periods of time. Load 'em up and drive away. It was never about fair weather. Sunday drives to the store to pick up bread. That's OK, too. But it was the adventure of heading out on lengthy overnight trips to the unknown that captured me. To travel the small stuff out and back over days or weeks.
Angel's offer blew me away. With all the other priorities we had in our lives, she knew just how passionate I was about this and how, if never lived, would always be chewing at me. I like to believe I could live with that. Forever. Because of all the other fantastic things we shared. But being given full support to go and get the wheels I've wanted my whole life was absolutely mind-blowing to me. I was completely and totally overwhelmed by the prospect. But not so much that I thought of talking her out of it. I jumped all over her. Then I jumped all over it. And began the process of putting it all together.
The Brown Room - Post #20
And the years went by. Everything morphed into new priorities. I stood at the office, I swam in the pool and I often thought of just how lucky I was to be able to be here and enjoy all things life still afforded. In some ways life slowed due to the need for daily maintenance. That all kept me home more often than it used to which meant I got to participate more in the wonderful adventure that is home life with Angel and the brats.
But I pined. Some. Never outward and not a lot. And what pining I did I thought I kept effectively to my self. My own stupid fault, after all. But a huge part of me missed all the action of what was. I was always one to be looking for the next thrill. The next adventure. I was an accredited scuba diver. And I had travelled far and wide enjoying some of the best dive sites in the Americas over the last 20 years. Something I did for myself as Angel was never keen on the whole ocean thing. Although she always did the lying on the beach part really well. But diving, too, had come to an end.
I am no expert on what makes a relationship work but I do know that for us it was imperative to have two very separate and fulfilling lives that came together, as often as possible, to share with each other. Angel and I both had that absolutely. Joint interests but somewhat secondary to our own as individuals. And I desperately needed something else to fill a rather substantial gap in that regard.
I had a love of motorcycles that was a lifetime deep. I wanted one since the first day I saw some dude cruise by on one. I dreamed of turning 16 and getting my 'M' licence. To prevent my pursuing that whole avenue, my dear old Dad, to his credit, put as much metal, plastic and cloth between me and everything I was to run into during the learning-to-drive years. And I ran into a lot o' shit. He bought a Ford Econoline 200 van, not for me specifically but to assist with his antique car restoration business. Towing cars and car parts all over eastern Canada and the U.S. became a regular pastime for my brother and me. And we would use the van.
Until one day he and I decided the van would serve us much better if we finished it all up with aluminum mag wheels, shag carpet --- floor and ceiling of course --- a comfy double bed, a wee refrigerator and a giant sound system. Voila! :The Brown Room" as she affectionately became known. And with all the recently installed cosmetics. "We certainly won't be loading all that greasy, oily car shit in 'er anymore, right?
Dear old dad was a little taken back when he had to go out and buy another van. But as we have previously acknowledged, kids are relentless. So he did. And over the next seven years the Brown Room travelled from Vancouver to Newfoundland and from Thunderbay to New York. She had had over 500,000 miles on three engines when we finally laid her to rest on the east coast of The Rock, over 2,500 kilometres from home.
Pops not only provided us with the best memories any teenagers could ever hope for, he saved us busting our selves, or worse, by keeping us both off motorcycles during the insane years. Male teenagers in my day and age just weren't right in the head. And I don't believe anything has changed today. There is a brain rewiring thing that happens in the male teenage years that makes rational thought a very rare occurrence. And therefore a very serious disconnect with bikes that should be addressed. I came to believe, over the years, that no one should be permitted to obtain a licence to ride until they have had 10 years of accident-free driving a car under their belt. This would save a lot of lives. But it seems the time when you want a bike most is when you are young and crazed. The time when you are least capable of dealing with it. Anyway, it's appropriate to take a moment and send thanks to both Mom and Dad for keeping us off 'em until we were less likely to kill ourselves. It is also very reasonable to offer up a "So sorry" to both Mom and Dad for smashing up so many of their cars, vans and trucks while we tried to figure it all out.
But I pined. Some. Never outward and not a lot. And what pining I did I thought I kept effectively to my self. My own stupid fault, after all. But a huge part of me missed all the action of what was. I was always one to be looking for the next thrill. The next adventure. I was an accredited scuba diver. And I had travelled far and wide enjoying some of the best dive sites in the Americas over the last 20 years. Something I did for myself as Angel was never keen on the whole ocean thing. Although she always did the lying on the beach part really well. But diving, too, had come to an end.
I am no expert on what makes a relationship work but I do know that for us it was imperative to have two very separate and fulfilling lives that came together, as often as possible, to share with each other. Angel and I both had that absolutely. Joint interests but somewhat secondary to our own as individuals. And I desperately needed something else to fill a rather substantial gap in that regard.
I had a love of motorcycles that was a lifetime deep. I wanted one since the first day I saw some dude cruise by on one. I dreamed of turning 16 and getting my 'M' licence. To prevent my pursuing that whole avenue, my dear old Dad, to his credit, put as much metal, plastic and cloth between me and everything I was to run into during the learning-to-drive years. And I ran into a lot o' shit. He bought a Ford Econoline 200 van, not for me specifically but to assist with his antique car restoration business. Towing cars and car parts all over eastern Canada and the U.S. became a regular pastime for my brother and me. And we would use the van.
Until one day he and I decided the van would serve us much better if we finished it all up with aluminum mag wheels, shag carpet --- floor and ceiling of course --- a comfy double bed, a wee refrigerator and a giant sound system. Voila! :The Brown Room" as she affectionately became known. And with all the recently installed cosmetics. "We certainly won't be loading all that greasy, oily car shit in 'er anymore, right?
Dear old dad was a little taken back when he had to go out and buy another van. But as we have previously acknowledged, kids are relentless. So he did. And over the next seven years the Brown Room travelled from Vancouver to Newfoundland and from Thunderbay to New York. She had had over 500,000 miles on three engines when we finally laid her to rest on the east coast of The Rock, over 2,500 kilometres from home.
Pops not only provided us with the best memories any teenagers could ever hope for, he saved us busting our selves, or worse, by keeping us both off motorcycles during the insane years. Male teenagers in my day and age just weren't right in the head. And I don't believe anything has changed today. There is a brain rewiring thing that happens in the male teenage years that makes rational thought a very rare occurrence. And therefore a very serious disconnect with bikes that should be addressed. I came to believe, over the years, that no one should be permitted to obtain a licence to ride until they have had 10 years of accident-free driving a car under their belt. This would save a lot of lives. But it seems the time when you want a bike most is when you are young and crazed. The time when you are least capable of dealing with it. Anyway, it's appropriate to take a moment and send thanks to both Mom and Dad for keeping us off 'em until we were less likely to kill ourselves. It is also very reasonable to offer up a "So sorry" to both Mom and Dad for smashing up so many of their cars, vans and trucks while we tried to figure it all out.
A New Kinda Plunge - Post #19
I do believe I was most likely a fish of some sort in a previous life. When I was much younger than I am today, I spent a huge amount of time in the water. Having been tossed in the pool at the age of two had something to do with it, I'm sure. I can even remember the first bone I ever broke at the age of 14 was, oddly, my left ankle. A running accident at camp. I was sent home to the city to have the ankle set and put in a cast, and then I was shipped back to camp with crutches. When parents ship a kid to camp, that's where they stay until pick-up time.
This happened in the middle of a swimming marathon, where each troop in camp had six days to log as many lengths as possible. The group with the most would be crowned victorious at week's end. I decided that I would wrap the cast in plastic Saran wrap, stuff the foot in plastic shopping bags and the leg in a green garbage bag, seal the works with duct tape and dive in to the lake to do my bit. We placed. And when it came time to accept our award, yours truly got to represent our troop and hobble to centre stage on crutches in front of the entire camp. Guess they had all heard of the nut case with the busted fin swimming for our group --- the applause was special to behold.
Yes, I loved to swim. And the one thing I could still manage, first with the ankle and then the back, was swimming. The absolute perfect solution for gentle, non-weight bearing exercise. In the beginning, I would dangle the ankle in the pool or a hot tub with the water jet blowing against the damaged area. Ooooooooo, sooooooooo good! Or use the resistance of the water as I swished the foot through figure eights for comfort and flexibility. Awesomely great!!
With the lower back discs damaged, swimming the breast stroke was the perfect activity to assist with my rehab. My daily exercises already included repetitiously arching my upper body backwards to gently coax the discs back to their original position thereby, over time, allowing the herniation between the discs to retreat. This is the natural position in the water with the breast stoke. So I took the plunge. Every day. For 40 minutes a day. For the next year. And it worked wonders.
Icing, standing, swimming, abdominal strengthening, all added up to a relatively rapid mend. I say relatively 'cause the healing time associated with herniated discs is slow indeed. The trick was to establish a daily routine, set up by my physio team and followed religiously. Which was actually so easy to do. All I had to do was think of the pain to be endured if I didn't.
This happened in the middle of a swimming marathon, where each troop in camp had six days to log as many lengths as possible. The group with the most would be crowned victorious at week's end. I decided that I would wrap the cast in plastic Saran wrap, stuff the foot in plastic shopping bags and the leg in a green garbage bag, seal the works with duct tape and dive in to the lake to do my bit. We placed. And when it came time to accept our award, yours truly got to represent our troop and hobble to centre stage on crutches in front of the entire camp. Guess they had all heard of the nut case with the busted fin swimming for our group --- the applause was special to behold.
Yes, I loved to swim. And the one thing I could still manage, first with the ankle and then the back, was swimming. The absolute perfect solution for gentle, non-weight bearing exercise. In the beginning, I would dangle the ankle in the pool or a hot tub with the water jet blowing against the damaged area. Ooooooooo, sooooooooo good! Or use the resistance of the water as I swished the foot through figure eights for comfort and flexibility. Awesomely great!!
With the lower back discs damaged, swimming the breast stroke was the perfect activity to assist with my rehab. My daily exercises already included repetitiously arching my upper body backwards to gently coax the discs back to their original position thereby, over time, allowing the herniation between the discs to retreat. This is the natural position in the water with the breast stoke. So I took the plunge. Every day. For 40 minutes a day. For the next year. And it worked wonders.
Icing, standing, swimming, abdominal strengthening, all added up to a relatively rapid mend. I say relatively 'cause the healing time associated with herniated discs is slow indeed. The trick was to establish a daily routine, set up by my physio team and followed religiously. Which was actually so easy to do. All I had to do was think of the pain to be endured if I didn't.
Sitting Bull - Post #18
In addition to no running, no jumping, no twisting of ankle, I added to the list no lifting and no bending (at the waist), which implied no sitting and all that goes with that. At least not sitting at a 90-degree right angle. Bending was now done at the knees. Sitting was more of a lying on a couch thing, which was intended to keep my back straight through the lower discs.
Tough changes for a guy who spent most of his working day at a desk. My chair at the office was replaced by a kneeling stool and --- thanks to a close friend in the office furniture business --- a motorized, elevating desk was installed, which allows me to stand rather than sit at the desk. All day. The stool took the weight off when the legs got weary, which, in the early days, happened pretty frequently. I was thinking I should convince the boss that what I really needed was a comfy couch, but it concerned me that the couch would quickly lead to sleeping all day. Not the best for commission sales. Better I stood. At least if I fell asleep that way, hitting the floor should wake me up.
Over time the ice did the job and the disc inflammation was reduced to the point where I could once again say goodbye to the pain killers, which I was very pleased to be rid of. In the thick of it I had a good pal drop by to see how I was doing. I thought I was doing just fine but after about 10 minutes of discussion with him he looks at me and says, "What the hell have they got you on there, laddie? You're not makin' any sense." I knew it was time to wean myself off the Percocets.
And physio took control of my life one more time. The strengthening process became the new regime. After about two years of this I decided to see a neurosurgeon to discuss a possible operation on my discs in the hope that it might allow me more freedom to sit again, for one thing. An appointment was made to the best of the best in the neurology department of the Credit Valley Hospital. The appointment lasted about 10 minutes. He had studied my file, knew all about the ankle and the Big Leap and the ensuing reconstruction. He had reviewed all the glossy X-ray films and MRI reports and asked me, "So, how are you doing"?
Being the eternal optimist that I am, I responded with, "I'm OK but I sure do get weary of all the standing". I told him of the stool and the elevating device and the long days at the office followed by hours in the evening with an ice pack up me arse, lying on a couch. Day after day after day.
He asked me how I got to the appointment. I told him I drove.
He asked how I got from the car to his office. I told him I walked.
Elevator or stairs, he asked.
I really didn't like where this is going but I told him "the lift". He said, and I quote, "You really should use the stairs whenever there's a choice. It's just so much better for you. But I will agree that you are doing OK. In fact, I think you are doing way better than OK, I think you're doing great. You are managing the pain effectively. You walked in here and I'm willing to wager that you are going to walk out. In my field of expertise, that's fantastic".
"Yes but please, doc, I'm so tired of standing most days."
"But you still stand just the same"?
"Yes, but I sure would welcome sitting down now and again."
He smiled. "Sitting is overrated," he said. "Keep doing everything just the way you're doing. It's best in the long run."
At the time I was hugely disappointed. No quick fix. But I know now it was absolutely in my best interest to avoid surgery, given my condition. The only thing that was going to make a difference for me was staying positive and keeping as busy as possible within my new limitations. Time to go for a swim.
Tough changes for a guy who spent most of his working day at a desk. My chair at the office was replaced by a kneeling stool and --- thanks to a close friend in the office furniture business --- a motorized, elevating desk was installed, which allows me to stand rather than sit at the desk. All day. The stool took the weight off when the legs got weary, which, in the early days, happened pretty frequently. I was thinking I should convince the boss that what I really needed was a comfy couch, but it concerned me that the couch would quickly lead to sleeping all day. Not the best for commission sales. Better I stood. At least if I fell asleep that way, hitting the floor should wake me up.
Over time the ice did the job and the disc inflammation was reduced to the point where I could once again say goodbye to the pain killers, which I was very pleased to be rid of. In the thick of it I had a good pal drop by to see how I was doing. I thought I was doing just fine but after about 10 minutes of discussion with him he looks at me and says, "What the hell have they got you on there, laddie? You're not makin' any sense." I knew it was time to wean myself off the Percocets.
And physio took control of my life one more time. The strengthening process became the new regime. After about two years of this I decided to see a neurosurgeon to discuss a possible operation on my discs in the hope that it might allow me more freedom to sit again, for one thing. An appointment was made to the best of the best in the neurology department of the Credit Valley Hospital. The appointment lasted about 10 minutes. He had studied my file, knew all about the ankle and the Big Leap and the ensuing reconstruction. He had reviewed all the glossy X-ray films and MRI reports and asked me, "So, how are you doing"?
Being the eternal optimist that I am, I responded with, "I'm OK but I sure do get weary of all the standing". I told him of the stool and the elevating device and the long days at the office followed by hours in the evening with an ice pack up me arse, lying on a couch. Day after day after day.
He asked me how I got to the appointment. I told him I drove.
He asked how I got from the car to his office. I told him I walked.
Elevator or stairs, he asked.
I really didn't like where this is going but I told him "the lift". He said, and I quote, "You really should use the stairs whenever there's a choice. It's just so much better for you. But I will agree that you are doing OK. In fact, I think you are doing way better than OK, I think you're doing great. You are managing the pain effectively. You walked in here and I'm willing to wager that you are going to walk out. In my field of expertise, that's fantastic".
"Yes but please, doc, I'm so tired of standing most days."
"But you still stand just the same"?
"Yes, but I sure would welcome sitting down now and again."
He smiled. "Sitting is overrated," he said. "Keep doing everything just the way you're doing. It's best in the long run."
At the time I was hugely disappointed. No quick fix. But I know now it was absolutely in my best interest to avoid surgery, given my condition. The only thing that was going to make a difference for me was staying positive and keeping as busy as possible within my new limitations. Time to go for a swim.
Tuesday, 10 April 2012
The Big Sneeze - Post #17
One year, post-surgery, I am stepping out of the shower with the right leg raised and the left leg carrying all my weight when I sneezed. The recoil threw my head backward then forward. At the time, I hadn't yet come to understand that a sneeze is something I must prepare for. Two feet firmly on the ground, back straight, shoulders square. Brace myself and wait for it. That is the way I execute now. But then? Who knew?
The sneeze exploded. The pitch forward immediately caused the most excruciating pain in my lower back and both legs gave out. I hit the floor. And not in a John Travolta kind a way. I am in agony and, once again, I have fallen and I can't get up.
Fortunately, this time, Angel is home. She come's a running to see what all the commotion is about. I am on my hands and knees on the bathroom floor. I can't move. I ease myself down to the floor so I am lying flat on my stomach and roll over to my back. Either position does little to ease the pain and it becomes immediately apparent that the best course of action is to remain immobile. Now normally naked on the bathroom floor with my Angel is something I think about often, but not today. With her encouragement I am back on my front and I crawl out the bathroom, across the hall to the bed room. drag myself on to the bed and lie still.
I am there for a few hours before it is decided that nothing is getting any better. With visions of deja vu, Angel once again loads up the meat into the car and off we go to Emergency. Well, needless to say, about eight hours of dancing with 12 on a pain scale that ends at 10, they run the X-rays and an MRI and determine that I have herniated discs L4 and L5 in my lower back. Likely aggravated from the impact of the fall years earlier. It just took a little longer and the wrenching of the back to set it all off. Jeeezuss.
So what to do about it? First, control the pain. Now that they know what's what, morphine, blessed morphine. And lots of it over the next two days on the ward. The doctors decide there is no need for surgery. My condition can be effectively managed through rest, icing and ultimately more physio to strengthen my core, abdominal muscles to "take the load" of the spine. Over time, this will all settle down and become manageable. Delightful. Tell me about it when I am coherent. More morphine please.
I am ultimately wheeled outta there with boat loads of Percocet and told to see my GP and my physio team to set up icing applications to reduce inflammation and a regimen of exercise routines to strengthen my lower body.
And that is what I did. Big changes once again but absolutely necessary to keep this wolf at bay. Lie flat on your back with an ice pack wrapped in a dish cloth applied directly to the discs for fifteen minutes at a time, six times a day, for a month. Then when I was able to move again, relatively unimpeded, I began the physio to set up the routines that continue to this day.
The sneeze exploded. The pitch forward immediately caused the most excruciating pain in my lower back and both legs gave out. I hit the floor. And not in a John Travolta kind a way. I am in agony and, once again, I have fallen and I can't get up.
Fortunately, this time, Angel is home. She come's a running to see what all the commotion is about. I am on my hands and knees on the bathroom floor. I can't move. I ease myself down to the floor so I am lying flat on my stomach and roll over to my back. Either position does little to ease the pain and it becomes immediately apparent that the best course of action is to remain immobile. Now normally naked on the bathroom floor with my Angel is something I think about often, but not today. With her encouragement I am back on my front and I crawl out the bathroom, across the hall to the bed room. drag myself on to the bed and lie still.
I am there for a few hours before it is decided that nothing is getting any better. With visions of deja vu, Angel once again loads up the meat into the car and off we go to Emergency. Well, needless to say, about eight hours of dancing with 12 on a pain scale that ends at 10, they run the X-rays and an MRI and determine that I have herniated discs L4 and L5 in my lower back. Likely aggravated from the impact of the fall years earlier. It just took a little longer and the wrenching of the back to set it all off. Jeeezuss.
So what to do about it? First, control the pain. Now that they know what's what, morphine, blessed morphine. And lots of it over the next two days on the ward. The doctors decide there is no need for surgery. My condition can be effectively managed through rest, icing and ultimately more physio to strengthen my core, abdominal muscles to "take the load" of the spine. Over time, this will all settle down and become manageable. Delightful. Tell me about it when I am coherent. More morphine please.
I am ultimately wheeled outta there with boat loads of Percocet and told to see my GP and my physio team to set up icing applications to reduce inflammation and a regimen of exercise routines to strengthen my lower body.
And that is what I did. Big changes once again but absolutely necessary to keep this wolf at bay. Lie flat on your back with an ice pack wrapped in a dish cloth applied directly to the discs for fifteen minutes at a time, six times a day, for a month. Then when I was able to move again, relatively unimpeded, I began the physio to set up the routines that continue to this day.
Monday, 26 March 2012
Out With The Old - Post #16
Well needless to say, they got 'er done. The left foot. All reshaped while my Achilles remained intact. It took another year of physio , but the doc delivered on all three of his promises. I would never again have the rotational capability of a healthy ankle but the mobility was increased, the up and down of inclines, stairs and hills was dramatically improved and best of all, the pain associated with simple act of walking was reduced significantly.
The strengthening of the calf muscle in my left leg became the most difficult task. Seems once you lose the mass of a calf muscle that has been built up over a life time, the atrophy resulting from an injury like mine, is almost irreparable. Hours upon hours, days, weeks and months over many years with weights at the gym and still it is not the way it once was.
I even tried, about two years post accident, to make a come back at the dojun. It was not to be. The joint in my ankle no longer had the prerequisite pivot that was necessary for so much in Ti Kwon Do. And the impact of running was not something the doctors encouraged because the cartilage that is the shock absorber between the leg and the heel was no more. Gone. "Gone where"? I inquired. Just compromised such that the intended function could no longer be supported.
The martial arts were at an end. Looking back, it seems all of it was simply so I could lose the weight and get ready for that split second maneuver, that would save my life. Golf too, was over. But if you ever had the pleasure of witnessing my golf game, that was just a blessing for all involved. Hockey. Gone. Skating. Gone. Running. Finished. And all things associated with running. Done.
Now, fifteen years later, I am usually able to walk with out a noticeable limp. I say usually cause, every once in a while, right out of the blue, without any fore warning what so ever, I can wake up on any given morning and the foot is so sore I can't even stand on it let alone walk. It takes about twenty four hours for the pain to ease off. I begin with stretches and massage. Then I very gingerly begin putting weight on the foot, with more stretching and massage and gradually work up to walking with the aid of my upper body taking most of the load by holding on to stationary items and hopping. Over the course of a day the pain dissipates. Completely and totally. And may not return again for months.
I tried journalling my activities over the course of a day, for about eight months. I was hoping to figure out if there was any pattern to my activities that might hint as to what I'm doing to cause the relapses to occur. Nothing ever became evident. So I lived with it and it soon became a distant memory as the next phase of the trial began.
The strengthening of the calf muscle in my left leg became the most difficult task. Seems once you lose the mass of a calf muscle that has been built up over a life time, the atrophy resulting from an injury like mine, is almost irreparable. Hours upon hours, days, weeks and months over many years with weights at the gym and still it is not the way it once was.
I even tried, about two years post accident, to make a come back at the dojun. It was not to be. The joint in my ankle no longer had the prerequisite pivot that was necessary for so much in Ti Kwon Do. And the impact of running was not something the doctors encouraged because the cartilage that is the shock absorber between the leg and the heel was no more. Gone. "Gone where"? I inquired. Just compromised such that the intended function could no longer be supported.
The martial arts were at an end. Looking back, it seems all of it was simply so I could lose the weight and get ready for that split second maneuver, that would save my life. Golf too, was over. But if you ever had the pleasure of witnessing my golf game, that was just a blessing for all involved. Hockey. Gone. Skating. Gone. Running. Finished. And all things associated with running. Done.
Now, fifteen years later, I am usually able to walk with out a noticeable limp. I say usually cause, every once in a while, right out of the blue, without any fore warning what so ever, I can wake up on any given morning and the foot is so sore I can't even stand on it let alone walk. It takes about twenty four hours for the pain to ease off. I begin with stretches and massage. Then I very gingerly begin putting weight on the foot, with more stretching and massage and gradually work up to walking with the aid of my upper body taking most of the load by holding on to stationary items and hopping. Over the course of a day the pain dissipates. Completely and totally. And may not return again for months.
I tried journalling my activities over the course of a day, for about eight months. I was hoping to figure out if there was any pattern to my activities that might hint as to what I'm doing to cause the relapses to occur. Nothing ever became evident. So I lived with it and it soon became a distant memory as the next phase of the trial began.
Left vs Right - Post #15
Nurse number three enters the scene. She is here to transfer me from the sticky bench to the operating arena. The sound of my suctioned butt pulling free from the bench is quite audible in the quiet of the waiting room as I hop to the wheel chair. Just out of curiosity, I ask the nurse, "Tell me, what ankle does your chart indicate is the ankle of concern today"? She grabs the chart, scans it over and replies with "The right one". I respond with the same question poised back at the beginning of all this and she says she must have an older copy of the requisition issued earlier this morning. She assures me that the computer must have been updated by now. Of course I need ask "what is the possibility that the surgeon is working with a less than up-to-date copy of the chart"? She assures me that doesn't happen. I wonder if there is any value in pointing out that it seems to have happened three times now and it's not even ten AM.
I am positioned out side two very large stainless steel doors in a very large cold and bare warehouse like room which, it becomes apparent over the next fifteen minutes of sitting there, that I am in the anti room to the operating theatre. I know this 'cause I can hear very clearly, chains a clanking, buzz saws a buzzing, and grinders a grinding. There's no one else in the place. Just me and the sound effects, all of which serves to up the anxiety level to an amber alert.
Nurse Four wheels in a gurney and approaches me and my chair. She's all smiles an cheery and tells me it's time. I am to transfer to the roll away, begin sedation and the surgery should be underway in about fifteen minutes. I once again ask the required question and once again the chart revels that there is no change to the hospitals understanding of what is really going on here. I begin to freak out. Not only might I have to have my Achilles tendon disconnected, it now seems possible that I might have both disconnected once they figure all this out.
"Mam, I am very reluctant to begin sedation until somebody around here can definitively assure me that the foot requiring our attention today is identified as the proper foot which is, once again, the left foot. Not the incorrect, wrong, right foot. But the left foot. That one right there". I point. "Very confusing I know". Abandoning all equipment, she smiles and says "I'll be right back".
More buzz saws and chains a rattling for the next ten minutes as I try and calm. Sedation sure would be good for us all at this point, but I think you can appreciate my concern. In comes the doctor. My surgeon. All smiles and business like in his scrubs with a mask hanging from his left ear. "Good morning Mr. Dufus, I understand we have some confusion here".
"Well actually Doc, there is no confusion here with me. It seems however, all of the nurses I've seen so far this morning believe you are going after the incorrect, right foot, not the correct, left". He whips out his black magic marker from his pocket and replys "Let's clear all this up, right here, right now. Leaning over he puts a big black 'X' on my left foot and steps back smiling as he admires his solution. I look at the 'X', and then look the doc in the eye and say "I'd sure feel a lot better about all of this if you put a big black arrow on my right with a wee note saying 'See Left Foot'.
I am positioned out side two very large stainless steel doors in a very large cold and bare warehouse like room which, it becomes apparent over the next fifteen minutes of sitting there, that I am in the anti room to the operating theatre. I know this 'cause I can hear very clearly, chains a clanking, buzz saws a buzzing, and grinders a grinding. There's no one else in the place. Just me and the sound effects, all of which serves to up the anxiety level to an amber alert.
Nurse Four wheels in a gurney and approaches me and my chair. She's all smiles an cheery and tells me it's time. I am to transfer to the roll away, begin sedation and the surgery should be underway in about fifteen minutes. I once again ask the required question and once again the chart revels that there is no change to the hospitals understanding of what is really going on here. I begin to freak out. Not only might I have to have my Achilles tendon disconnected, it now seems possible that I might have both disconnected once they figure all this out.
"Mam, I am very reluctant to begin sedation until somebody around here can definitively assure me that the foot requiring our attention today is identified as the proper foot which is, once again, the left foot. Not the incorrect, wrong, right foot. But the left foot. That one right there". I point. "Very confusing I know". Abandoning all equipment, she smiles and says "I'll be right back".
More buzz saws and chains a rattling for the next ten minutes as I try and calm. Sedation sure would be good for us all at this point, but I think you can appreciate my concern. In comes the doctor. My surgeon. All smiles and business like in his scrubs with a mask hanging from his left ear. "Good morning Mr. Dufus, I understand we have some confusion here".
"Well actually Doc, there is no confusion here with me. It seems however, all of the nurses I've seen so far this morning believe you are going after the incorrect, right foot, not the correct, left". He whips out his black magic marker from his pocket and replys "Let's clear all this up, right here, right now. Leaning over he puts a big black 'X' on my left foot and steps back smiling as he admires his solution. I look at the 'X', and then look the doc in the eye and say "I'd sure feel a lot better about all of this if you put a big black arrow on my right with a wee note saying 'See Left Foot'.
Day Surgery - Post #14
I've heard that an Achilles tendon, once severed or pulled, or in this case disconnected, is never the same again. Given the difference between the size of my right and left calf muscles, I am expecting to be undergoing a lot of exercise of my left leg if I am ever to build the muscle up to what it once was. Voluntarily offering up to possibly disconnect makes absolutely no sense to me. But what do I know? I fell off a ladder!
I am convinced by a very convincing doctor that the form must be signed in order to proceed. And he assures me, the likely hood of him proceeding with said procedure is less than twenty percent. Not the best odds, but certainly not the worst. I sign 'em up.
Day surgery. In an out in a matter of hours. I arrive the day of, and, after the prerequisite forms in triplicate and the installation of my new wrist bracelet, I am shuffled off to the telephone booth to dawn the ever famous Dignity Gown. Faded blue. Why they require my butt to be hanging out for all to see in order to get my ankle repaired is beyond me but that seems to be the case regardless of your ailment. I think somebody, somewhere decided that everyones ass need be exposed in order for doctors to optimally function.
I am sitting on the proverbial Group W Bench in the waiting room with me arse stuck to the cold vinyl when the first nurse arrives on the scene. She starts firing questions and jotting down notes on the clip board, one of which kinda grabs my attention from all the rest. "So I understand we are here for surgery on the right calcaneus"? There's that 'we' again. My response, "when you say the 'right' do you really mean 'the correct' or do you mean the 'not left'? Cause I can assure you, the ankle in question is definitely the left". "Oh" says she. "The computer report indicates the right ankle. I'll get that up dated right away". "Yes, please do", says I.
Twenty minutes of uncomfortable shifting of stuck bum on sticky bench when in comes Nurse Two. "Good morning Mr. Dufus. I understand we will be having surgery on the right ankle today. I'll need some blood before we get started". "Uhhhhhhh, I just spoke to a nurse about twenty minutes ago about that right ankle thing. The correct ankle is the left ankle. The left is the ankle that requires the doctors attention I assure you. Not the right ankle. The info in your computer is incorrect. She promised she'd fix that". "No worries" she says. "We'll get that updated right away. Right arm please".
Now I am sitting here without a cast on my left foot. The cast has been off for some time now. Even the swelling and the discoloration that identified the badly broken left from the not-so-badly-broken right has all but disappeared. I start thinking, how are they going to be absolutely and without a doubt sure, and get this right? I mean left. I mean correct. And that means do the left foot. I was told that I'm out cold and won't be around to tell them whats what. Clearly there is some serious confusion surrounding this rather basic issue. You hear disturbing stories coming out of hospitals about amputating the wrong leg etc, and I begin to wonder if this is possible or are they just playing out another standard gag to kinda wind up the already somewhat agitated patient.
I am convinced by a very convincing doctor that the form must be signed in order to proceed. And he assures me, the likely hood of him proceeding with said procedure is less than twenty percent. Not the best odds, but certainly not the worst. I sign 'em up.
Day surgery. In an out in a matter of hours. I arrive the day of, and, after the prerequisite forms in triplicate and the installation of my new wrist bracelet, I am shuffled off to the telephone booth to dawn the ever famous Dignity Gown. Faded blue. Why they require my butt to be hanging out for all to see in order to get my ankle repaired is beyond me but that seems to be the case regardless of your ailment. I think somebody, somewhere decided that everyones ass need be exposed in order for doctors to optimally function.
I am sitting on the proverbial Group W Bench in the waiting room with me arse stuck to the cold vinyl when the first nurse arrives on the scene. She starts firing questions and jotting down notes on the clip board, one of which kinda grabs my attention from all the rest. "So I understand we are here for surgery on the right calcaneus"? There's that 'we' again. My response, "when you say the 'right' do you really mean 'the correct' or do you mean the 'not left'? Cause I can assure you, the ankle in question is definitely the left". "Oh" says she. "The computer report indicates the right ankle. I'll get that up dated right away". "Yes, please do", says I.
Twenty minutes of uncomfortable shifting of stuck bum on sticky bench when in comes Nurse Two. "Good morning Mr. Dufus. I understand we will be having surgery on the right ankle today. I'll need some blood before we get started". "Uhhhhhhh, I just spoke to a nurse about twenty minutes ago about that right ankle thing. The correct ankle is the left ankle. The left is the ankle that requires the doctors attention I assure you. Not the right ankle. The info in your computer is incorrect. She promised she'd fix that". "No worries" she says. "We'll get that updated right away. Right arm please".
Now I am sitting here without a cast on my left foot. The cast has been off for some time now. Even the swelling and the discoloration that identified the badly broken left from the not-so-badly-broken right has all but disappeared. I start thinking, how are they going to be absolutely and without a doubt sure, and get this right? I mean left. I mean correct. And that means do the left foot. I was told that I'm out cold and won't be around to tell them whats what. Clearly there is some serious confusion surrounding this rather basic issue. You hear disturbing stories coming out of hospitals about amputating the wrong leg etc, and I begin to wonder if this is possible or are they just playing out another standard gag to kinda wind up the already somewhat agitated patient.
The Disconnect - Post #13
Physio was a bitch. Not the lady running the place. She was a genius. But the toughest thing I had ever done in my life to that point was, without a doubt, beginning to walk again. It took two very difficult years. To this day, now fifteen years later, my left calf muscle is still two inches in diameter smaller than my right. When I first came out of the brace is was almost four! A twig of a thing. And oh so sore. Every time I moved the ankle, even the slightest amount. No weight bearing for months in the beginning. Just working with a large piece of stretchy rubber to provide some resistance to pushing the foot forwards and back. Over and over and over again. For hours a day. Trying to obtain any circular rotation from the joint was next to impossible.
Eventually I was able to move to muscle building weight machines which helped but the joint just couldn't move as it should and any weight bearing was, well un 'bearing' able.
Close to eighteen months passed, when it became evident surgery was likely warranted as we realized we had achieved all we could under present conditions. The shape of the heal bone had been altered from the shattering and the myriad of micro cracks throughout had filled in pushing the bone out in all directions. This made the heel ever so slightly larger than it was originally and therefore impeded the movement in the joint. A referral was made by my physio therapist to the head of the Toronto Western Hospital Orthopedic department for a consultation.
X-rays revealed that things could be improved. Maybe a lot. I was told that he could provide me with three things.
Better mobility and, ultimately, strength when walking up and down stairs and inclines,
2. An increase in my rotational capability of the left / right movement of the ankle and,
3, Less pain in my day to day movement in the ankle.
"Guaranteed"? I says.
"Guaranteed". He says.
The surgery is booked. What they are going to do, essentially involves, what I envision to be, a Black and Decker grinder. The skin around the ankle is to be pulled back, exposing where the heel bone sits in/under the lower left side of the tibia, and the heel bone will be ground down or reshaped if you will, to a slightly smaller size allowing for a freer, unimpeded movement against the tibia. Eliminating or reducing this 'rub' will go a long way to assisting in all three of the areas above. I'm in.
"What's the downside"? I asks.
"Well I need you to sign a waver giving us permission to disconnect your Achilles tendon from your heel if, when we get in there, we find it necessary.
"Whoa"! Says I.
Eventually I was able to move to muscle building weight machines which helped but the joint just couldn't move as it should and any weight bearing was, well un 'bearing' able.
Close to eighteen months passed, when it became evident surgery was likely warranted as we realized we had achieved all we could under present conditions. The shape of the heal bone had been altered from the shattering and the myriad of micro cracks throughout had filled in pushing the bone out in all directions. This made the heel ever so slightly larger than it was originally and therefore impeded the movement in the joint. A referral was made by my physio therapist to the head of the Toronto Western Hospital Orthopedic department for a consultation.
X-rays revealed that things could be improved. Maybe a lot. I was told that he could provide me with three things.
Better mobility and, ultimately, strength when walking up and down stairs and inclines,
2. An increase in my rotational capability of the left / right movement of the ankle and,
3, Less pain in my day to day movement in the ankle.
"Guaranteed"? I says.
"Guaranteed". He says.
The surgery is booked. What they are going to do, essentially involves, what I envision to be, a Black and Decker grinder. The skin around the ankle is to be pulled back, exposing where the heel bone sits in/under the lower left side of the tibia, and the heel bone will be ground down or reshaped if you will, to a slightly smaller size allowing for a freer, unimpeded movement against the tibia. Eliminating or reducing this 'rub' will go a long way to assisting in all three of the areas above. I'm in.
"What's the downside"? I asks.
"Well I need you to sign a waver giving us permission to disconnect your Achilles tendon from your heel if, when we get in there, we find it necessary.
"Whoa"! Says I.
Tuesday, 20 March 2012
Princess Di - Post #12
The shattering of my left ankle was a turning point in my life. Very suddenly, I am physically limited in my capacity for the first time. The house was revamped to allow me to work from a home office, in bed, and navigate the upstairs only, by crutch and / or wheel chair. Angel put up with me for about two weeks while I kept the legs elevated, hollered for room service and mostly drove her insane. Until she'd had enough. She then contacted my boss, had him swing by the house daily, pick me and the wheel chair up, and cart the whole gong show off to the office. And I can tell you for certain, there wasn't much in the way of room service going on over there.
But I persevered. And if it's all about perspective, then my view of the world from a wheel chair was an eye opener indeed. The house, being a bungalow was easily navigated and I got self sufficient in no time being able to manage all aspects of my daily life where needed. The finished basement of the house was off limits because with two broken feet, crutch transport was a scary venture, and up and down stairs was just out of the question. I suggested Angel carry me once or twice, and that was usually met with her departing to go out with girl friends, leaving me stranded. She had me trained in no time. Dependency is a very scary concept when it comes into your life. But I was blessed to be surrounded by a myriad of good people, all willing to pitch in and help.
I am forced to slow down what was a previously, a very hectic pace of life. And re prioritize. Six weeks of relying on everyone else, where up until now, everyone had pretty much relied on me, was a humbling experience. And I appreciated everything so much more. Now I made time daily to read a book, play with the kids, and spend quality down time with Angel at the end of each day. A forced eye opener. And while I was to recover, and begin to crank up the pace once again, I could never do so like I once did due to the bum ankle.
I remember so clearly the day that Princess Di had her tragic accident. I had not done a thing, other than to and from work, to get out and start living again, when Angel came to me on that fateful day in August 1997. She tells me we're going to the pub. We load the car and head out to meet a group of friends. I can still remember having the best time in a long time, that night, with friends, quaffin' pints and wheeling around the pub.
Then the news bulletin interrupted the broadcast of the soccer game. That pub immediately transformed to deathly quiet as we all took in the graphic detail provided by the very paparazzi on the scene, who were later blamed (somewhat) for the accident in the first place. My first conscious thought, if you will, of my fate, in comparison to another's, with the inevitable conclusion that I am indeed, so lucky to have made it through the way I did.
I was to get out of that chair after the prescribed six weeks and with the help of crutches begin my first foray into the world of physio therapy. And fortunately, that world, provided me with another angel.
But I persevered. And if it's all about perspective, then my view of the world from a wheel chair was an eye opener indeed. The house, being a bungalow was easily navigated and I got self sufficient in no time being able to manage all aspects of my daily life where needed. The finished basement of the house was off limits because with two broken feet, crutch transport was a scary venture, and up and down stairs was just out of the question. I suggested Angel carry me once or twice, and that was usually met with her departing to go out with girl friends, leaving me stranded. She had me trained in no time. Dependency is a very scary concept when it comes into your life. But I was blessed to be surrounded by a myriad of good people, all willing to pitch in and help.
I am forced to slow down what was a previously, a very hectic pace of life. And re prioritize. Six weeks of relying on everyone else, where up until now, everyone had pretty much relied on me, was a humbling experience. And I appreciated everything so much more. Now I made time daily to read a book, play with the kids, and spend quality down time with Angel at the end of each day. A forced eye opener. And while I was to recover, and begin to crank up the pace once again, I could never do so like I once did due to the bum ankle.
I remember so clearly the day that Princess Di had her tragic accident. I had not done a thing, other than to and from work, to get out and start living again, when Angel came to me on that fateful day in August 1997. She tells me we're going to the pub. We load the car and head out to meet a group of friends. I can still remember having the best time in a long time, that night, with friends, quaffin' pints and wheeling around the pub.
Then the news bulletin interrupted the broadcast of the soccer game. That pub immediately transformed to deathly quiet as we all took in the graphic detail provided by the very paparazzi on the scene, who were later blamed (somewhat) for the accident in the first place. My first conscious thought, if you will, of my fate, in comparison to another's, with the inevitable conclusion that I am indeed, so lucky to have made it through the way I did.
I was to get out of that chair after the prescribed six weeks and with the help of crutches begin my first foray into the world of physio therapy. And fortunately, that world, provided me with another angel.
Friday, 16 March 2012
The Bait and Switch - Post #11
Day four and I'm told by the night nurse I'm going home tomorrow. Guess there's high vacancy at the Chateau 'cause they don't seem too concerned about shipping me out. Originally I was told that today would likely be the day.
Somewhere in the haze that was yesterday, the hefty dose of morphine was replaced by oral oxy. Not quite the same quick hit but certainly good for long term relief and sound, uninterrupted sleep. Even on the ward. And now with the change over complete, I am all set up for check out tomorrow morning. The doctor had come and gone telling me to keep both legs elevated, above my heart, more often than not, and I will need to attend weekly fracture clinics here at the hospital, over the next six weeks.
He has not painted a very rosy, long term picture for me and my left foot. He states once again, that the ankle will never be the same and that I have a lot of work with physiotherapy ahead of me. The good news is, and there is always some good news, I have survived this little ordeal extremely well. The Doc informs me that the statistics covering falls from fifteen feet or more, indicate that fifty percent wind up dead or with some form of paralysis or brain damage. Fifty percent! Guess landing right side up was the thing to do. I won't be dancing, but I will be mobile. Under my own steam. In spite of my bad decision. So I have to chalk this one up to being rather fortunate in the grand scheme of things. It's always about perspective.
Shortly after he clears out, I'm sitting there all alone, thinking ok, it's not great. But it could have been so much worse. I'm trying to focus on the I'm-a-pretty-lucky-guy-in-the -grand-scheme-of-things, when in walks this stunning little cutie in the candy striper dress, with the long blond, and curvy this and that, and she comes sliding up to bed side oozing this sultry, playful attitude and she takes my hand and says "Hey there Dufus, so how about that bath today? It's been three days and I'm sure we could use that bath by now, don't you agree"? Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more! SAY NO MORE!!
Now the 'we' in that question needs no pondering and without even thinking about it, I'm in! "Yes mam! What an excellent suggestion. Hot bath? I could really use a hot bath today. Yes my dear! Absolutely, but I'm quite sure I'm gonna need a little help though".
"Not a problem" she replies. And leaves the room.
Two minutes later...............................wait for it............................
in comes a wheel chair................................ manned by the Black and White!!!!!!!!!
"So Mr. Dufus, I understand we have decided to have a bath today. Excellent", she says. "I'll go book the room and be back in a few minutes to get us started".
Three days of drugs were just too much for me to see that coming. Gotta be the oldest trick in the book. In every hospital ever built. And I pitched in with both feet. I should have had pages to write about here. Instead, suffice it to say, I was cleaned up and I was checked out. And I was sent home to six weeks of major adjustment.
Son of a bitch!
Somewhere in the haze that was yesterday, the hefty dose of morphine was replaced by oral oxy. Not quite the same quick hit but certainly good for long term relief and sound, uninterrupted sleep. Even on the ward. And now with the change over complete, I am all set up for check out tomorrow morning. The doctor had come and gone telling me to keep both legs elevated, above my heart, more often than not, and I will need to attend weekly fracture clinics here at the hospital, over the next six weeks.
He has not painted a very rosy, long term picture for me and my left foot. He states once again, that the ankle will never be the same and that I have a lot of work with physiotherapy ahead of me. The good news is, and there is always some good news, I have survived this little ordeal extremely well. The Doc informs me that the statistics covering falls from fifteen feet or more, indicate that fifty percent wind up dead or with some form of paralysis or brain damage. Fifty percent! Guess landing right side up was the thing to do. I won't be dancing, but I will be mobile. Under my own steam. In spite of my bad decision. So I have to chalk this one up to being rather fortunate in the grand scheme of things. It's always about perspective.
Shortly after he clears out, I'm sitting there all alone, thinking ok, it's not great. But it could have been so much worse. I'm trying to focus on the I'm-a-pretty-lucky-guy-in-the -grand-scheme-of-things, when in walks this stunning little cutie in the candy striper dress, with the long blond, and curvy this and that, and she comes sliding up to bed side oozing this sultry, playful attitude and she takes my hand and says "Hey there Dufus, so how about that bath today? It's been three days and I'm sure we could use that bath by now, don't you agree"? Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more! SAY NO MORE!!
Now the 'we' in that question needs no pondering and without even thinking about it, I'm in! "Yes mam! What an excellent suggestion. Hot bath? I could really use a hot bath today. Yes my dear! Absolutely, but I'm quite sure I'm gonna need a little help though".
"Not a problem" she replies. And leaves the room.
Two minutes later...............................wait for it............................
in comes a wheel chair................................ manned by the Black and White!!!!!!!!!
"So Mr. Dufus, I understand we have decided to have a bath today. Excellent", she says. "I'll go book the room and be back in a few minutes to get us started".
Three days of drugs were just too much for me to see that coming. Gotta be the oldest trick in the book. In every hospital ever built. And I pitched in with both feet. I should have had pages to write about here. Instead, suffice it to say, I was cleaned up and I was checked out. And I was sent home to six weeks of major adjustment.
Son of a bitch!
Friday, 9 March 2012
Day Three - Post #10
The third day of my stay begins with a moment of the old deja vu. Somewhat a kin to what Bill Murray experienced in his blockbuster "Ground Hog Day'. I was peacefully floating in a dreamscape above a cumulonimbus cloud when the shutters are thrown back, blades of sunlight stab the room and the larger than life shadow of the black and white hippo that is Mrs. Doubtfire, settles upon me. "Mr. Dufus. Will we be having a bath today"?
Now I had spent a substantial amount of time, during some of my more lucid moments between injections, contemplating yesterdays question as posed. As such, I was prepared. I'm ready, I'm feeling sharp and I got this one. Without out skipping a beat, I reply with a "Not today mam, but thank you just the same". A Medusa like stare. Silence. She departs.
And then the doctor came in. Not stinking of gin. And not proceeding to lie on the table. He say's "Dufus you met your match". I say's "Doc it's only a scratch. And I'll be better, I'll be better Doc, just as soon as I am able". So the doctor tells me the swelling has deflated enough to set the bone. And we will be doing that later today. The 'we' in that statement I understand fully. Exit the doctor to return later today.
The setting of the bone was the simplest I had ever witnessed. He shows up with a techie of some sort who is preceded into the room by a mobile cart he's steering, filled with what appears to be art supplies. While the techie starts unwrapping packages of gauze, cotton mesh and popping tubs of Plaster o' Paris, the doctor is staring at my left foot. When the techie is all set to go, the doctor leans in, and with his extended middle finger on his right hand, he ever so gently touches the underside of my foot and begins to push the foot towards me. I can't feel a thing. Yea morphine! When he has reached the optimal angle he stops pushing and holds. He turns to the techie and says "Go". The tech lays a piece of wet fiber glass stripping along the back side of my calf, down my leg, around the heal and up the underside of my foot. Every one freezes for about five minutes for the fiber to set. And that was essentially that. They had to add a few more layers and wrap it all up followed by your standard, everyday, common type cast to the right foot and I was 'good to go'!
Many years later, I came to understand that the angle he set my foot at that day, was to make a huge difference in my ability to recover and walk somewhat normally once again. The angle he chose, without scopes or diagrams or charts or pictures, (I guess he had already reviewed those prior), was more conducive to walking up an incline, as opposed to walking down. My left foot would never again have the typical rotational characteristics you'd expect from a healthy ankle. That was understood. But the ability to walk up hill or climb stairs, was what he was going for. Down hill would always be aided by gravity and therefore not todays priority. Brilliant in it's simplicity. And given the significant amount of controversy surrounding the possible varied treatments for this injury, I am so grateful to that doctor to this day, that he decided to proceed as he did.
Now I had spent a substantial amount of time, during some of my more lucid moments between injections, contemplating yesterdays question as posed. As such, I was prepared. I'm ready, I'm feeling sharp and I got this one. Without out skipping a beat, I reply with a "Not today mam, but thank you just the same". A Medusa like stare. Silence. She departs.
And then the doctor came in. Not stinking of gin. And not proceeding to lie on the table. He say's "Dufus you met your match". I say's "Doc it's only a scratch. And I'll be better, I'll be better Doc, just as soon as I am able". So the doctor tells me the swelling has deflated enough to set the bone. And we will be doing that later today. The 'we' in that statement I understand fully. Exit the doctor to return later today.
The setting of the bone was the simplest I had ever witnessed. He shows up with a techie of some sort who is preceded into the room by a mobile cart he's steering, filled with what appears to be art supplies. While the techie starts unwrapping packages of gauze, cotton mesh and popping tubs of Plaster o' Paris, the doctor is staring at my left foot. When the techie is all set to go, the doctor leans in, and with his extended middle finger on his right hand, he ever so gently touches the underside of my foot and begins to push the foot towards me. I can't feel a thing. Yea morphine! When he has reached the optimal angle he stops pushing and holds. He turns to the techie and says "Go". The tech lays a piece of wet fiber glass stripping along the back side of my calf, down my leg, around the heal and up the underside of my foot. Every one freezes for about five minutes for the fiber to set. And that was essentially that. They had to add a few more layers and wrap it all up followed by your standard, everyday, common type cast to the right foot and I was 'good to go'!
Many years later, I came to understand that the angle he set my foot at that day, was to make a huge difference in my ability to recover and walk somewhat normally once again. The angle he chose, without scopes or diagrams or charts or pictures, (I guess he had already reviewed those prior), was more conducive to walking up an incline, as opposed to walking down. My left foot would never again have the typical rotational characteristics you'd expect from a healthy ankle. That was understood. But the ability to walk up hill or climb stairs, was what he was going for. Down hill would always be aided by gravity and therefore not todays priority. Brilliant in it's simplicity. And given the significant amount of controversy surrounding the possible varied treatments for this injury, I am so grateful to that doctor to this day, that he decided to proceed as he did.
Diagnosis - Post #9
Day two at Le Chateau opens with what sounds vaguely like a women's voice echoing somewhere off in the distance. "Good morning Mr. Dufus. How are we today"? I open my eyes and, although blurry, not so blurry that I don't quickly realize I have the most beautiful women hovering in the cloud above my bed. Firing on all cylinders I quickly respond with "OMG!! I guess I died in the night 'cause you've got to be an angel"! Heh, heh, heh......
Not the case. My GP was out of town at the time of the accident so she had left her responsibilities with an associate from her practice. She gets to break the news of the damage and informs me that the orthopedic surgeon will be in later today to suggest a course of treatment. Excellent. So long as it involves plenty more o' the morphine that got me so pleasantly through the night.
The surgeon arrives later that morning to inform me that "The right foot is going to be just fine". That's the good news. "The left unfortunately", not his words, "will never be the same" due to the previously explained diagnosis. Further good news indicates that there will be no pins, nor plates, nor rods involved. In fact, no surgery at all.
There are two methods of treatment for shattered calcaneus. Operative and non- operative, depending on the amount of damage. Both are limited in there capacity to actually correct the problem to pre trauma condition. Mine will be the non-operative fix. They simply wait for the swelling to diminish to set the feet, cast 'em, and then I will be on my way. The right need be cast for the same period of time. Immobilized for a period of six weeks. Most excellent. My first experience with life in a wheel chair. But only for six weeks. And I do get to walk away. Sort of. Maybe more like hobble away. I am left to contemplate further on just what I was thinking. Fortunately the drugs have me on my return flight to Never Never Land in no time.
Later that very same morning, I am rather rudely awakened by a very large, very matter-of-fact, Mrs Doubtfire kind of a nurse, who comes bullying into my room, tosses the drapes open, and says "Good morning Mr. Dufus. Will we (?) be having a bath today?"
The sunlight floods the room. "Uhhhhhh pardon me?". I do believe I am in the throws of a drug induced nightmare that involves a talking hippo in a nurses cap. "Hello?? What was that you said? Are you speaking? To me?" Nurse Ratchet repeats, "Will we be having a bath today?"
Tough question to respond to in the state I currently find myself. The part that concerns me most is the reference to "we". Never having been in this incapacitated condition before, I quickly, or as quickly as a drug induced coma can allow, try to assess what exactly she means by 'we'. Seems like five minutes go by as images of me, ridin' the black and white hippo, bare back, in a bath tub, flood my mind. Yikes!!!!
"Uhhhhhh, you know, I really haven't been, uhhhh, doing a lot lately. Just a short flight from a ladder.....And I really wasn't, uhhhhh workin' very hard. Gravity did most of the work. I really feel, uhhhh surprisingly refreshed this morning.... all things considered. I think I'll pass". She exits without further comment.
Not the case. My GP was out of town at the time of the accident so she had left her responsibilities with an associate from her practice. She gets to break the news of the damage and informs me that the orthopedic surgeon will be in later today to suggest a course of treatment. Excellent. So long as it involves plenty more o' the morphine that got me so pleasantly through the night.
The surgeon arrives later that morning to inform me that "The right foot is going to be just fine". That's the good news. "The left unfortunately", not his words, "will never be the same" due to the previously explained diagnosis. Further good news indicates that there will be no pins, nor plates, nor rods involved. In fact, no surgery at all.
There are two methods of treatment for shattered calcaneus. Operative and non- operative, depending on the amount of damage. Both are limited in there capacity to actually correct the problem to pre trauma condition. Mine will be the non-operative fix. They simply wait for the swelling to diminish to set the feet, cast 'em, and then I will be on my way. The right need be cast for the same period of time. Immobilized for a period of six weeks. Most excellent. My first experience with life in a wheel chair. But only for six weeks. And I do get to walk away. Sort of. Maybe more like hobble away. I am left to contemplate further on just what I was thinking. Fortunately the drugs have me on my return flight to Never Never Land in no time.
Later that very same morning, I am rather rudely awakened by a very large, very matter-of-fact, Mrs Doubtfire kind of a nurse, who comes bullying into my room, tosses the drapes open, and says "Good morning Mr. Dufus. Will we (?) be having a bath today?"
The sunlight floods the room. "Uhhhhhh pardon me?". I do believe I am in the throws of a drug induced nightmare that involves a talking hippo in a nurses cap. "Hello?? What was that you said? Are you speaking? To me?" Nurse Ratchet repeats, "Will we be having a bath today?"
Tough question to respond to in the state I currently find myself. The part that concerns me most is the reference to "we". Never having been in this incapacitated condition before, I quickly, or as quickly as a drug induced coma can allow, try to assess what exactly she means by 'we'. Seems like five minutes go by as images of me, ridin' the black and white hippo, bare back, in a bath tub, flood my mind. Yikes!!!!
"Uhhhhhh, you know, I really haven't been, uhhhh, doing a lot lately. Just a short flight from a ladder.....And I really wasn't, uhhhhh workin' very hard. Gravity did most of the work. I really feel, uhhhh surprisingly refreshed this morning.... all things considered. I think I'll pass". She exits without further comment.
Le Chateau Reperation - Post #8
My stay at Chateau la Reparation was four days deep. Day One highlights involved check in, lot's of fancy pictures, a tray of really shitty food and ................drugs! My first taste of morphine brought me the blessed pain relief I so badly needed. It had been about four hours since impact by the time they had decided that 'feet' were the only issue. Not head. Not neck or back and certainly not cut lip. Which had to be explained to every nurse in emergency through out each shift as they arrived. With Angel receiving, what I felt was, an inordinate amount of praise, high fives and 'Go Girl" from most of 'em for Clockin' the Dufus in the manner that she did. But yes, I deserved it.
Rather remarkable stuff, morphine. Little did I know that much later in my life, it would become a staple of my daily diet. But for now, the blessed relief was almost instantaneous following injection. And every muscle that had been straining and screaming and tensed beyond capacity for the last four hours, suddenly released and relaxed and I could lay back and close my eyes.
I was sleeping when they came to transfer me out of emergency to admit me to my own room. The x-rays had indicated that the damage was significant enough that I would need to be admitted for a few days. Primarily so the 'Feet Bags' could deflate which would then allow the doctors to decide how they are going to treat. And what was to treat, was two broken feet. One simple. One not so much. Unbeknownst to me at the time, of course, was the knowledge that the ankle is deemed the most complicated joint in the human body. There is a lot going on in there, not the least of which is it's capacity for weight bearing. Unfortunately, as I was soon to discover, damage to this joint if significant enough, is often irreparable.
The x-rays showed clearly that I had shattered my calcaneus in my left foot.
The heel bone. And I had cracked the bone in my right heel in two pieces. Vertically, almost dead centre. The left had taken most of the initial impact as a result of my grabbing the eves trough with my right hand on the way down. That small tug shifted my descent just enough to cause the left foot to touch down first. And unfortunately, as far as the current state of the art in orthopedic surgery goes, as it pertains to ankle joints anyway, you do not fully recover from a shattered calcaneus. Ever. Or at least until the technology advances and improves.
The right foot wasn't going to be the problem. The shattering of the left heel had compromised the joining of the foot to the ankle where the lower leg bone, the tibia 'socket' sits atop the heel. The heel had flattened pushing the bone outwards horizontally, impeding any future, proper functioning of the joint. I didn't get any of this at the time. I couldn't have cared any less. I was high as the proverbial kite soaring on the breeze. And who needs feet to soar on the breeze? Angel understood the news before I did. It appears in the early stages at least, this little escaped of mine was going to have long lasting repercussions. To see further technical details
Rather remarkable stuff, morphine. Little did I know that much later in my life, it would become a staple of my daily diet. But for now, the blessed relief was almost instantaneous following injection. And every muscle that had been straining and screaming and tensed beyond capacity for the last four hours, suddenly released and relaxed and I could lay back and close my eyes.
I was sleeping when they came to transfer me out of emergency to admit me to my own room. The x-rays had indicated that the damage was significant enough that I would need to be admitted for a few days. Primarily so the 'Feet Bags' could deflate which would then allow the doctors to decide how they are going to treat. And what was to treat, was two broken feet. One simple. One not so much. Unbeknownst to me at the time, of course, was the knowledge that the ankle is deemed the most complicated joint in the human body. There is a lot going on in there, not the least of which is it's capacity for weight bearing. Unfortunately, as I was soon to discover, damage to this joint if significant enough, is often irreparable.
The x-rays showed clearly that I had shattered my calcaneus in my left foot.
The heel bone. And I had cracked the bone in my right heel in two pieces. Vertically, almost dead centre. The left had taken most of the initial impact as a result of my grabbing the eves trough with my right hand on the way down. That small tug shifted my descent just enough to cause the left foot to touch down first. And unfortunately, as far as the current state of the art in orthopedic surgery goes, as it pertains to ankle joints anyway, you do not fully recover from a shattered calcaneus. Ever. Or at least until the technology advances and improves.
The right foot wasn't going to be the problem. The shattering of the left heel had compromised the joining of the foot to the ankle where the lower leg bone, the tibia 'socket' sits atop the heel. The heel had flattened pushing the bone outwards horizontally, impeding any future, proper functioning of the joint. I didn't get any of this at the time. I couldn't have cared any less. I was high as the proverbial kite soaring on the breeze. And who needs feet to soar on the breeze? Angel understood the news before I did. It appears in the early stages at least, this little escaped of mine was going to have long lasting repercussions. To see further technical details
Rescue Two to Three - Post #7
Rescue Two has returned with a blanket and throws it over my shoulders. Good idea. I am shivering furiously as I am now slipping ever so gracefully into shock. She tells me the ambulance is on the way. I ask about the kids and she informs me that they are with Rescue One, having that dinner I couldn't seem to get organized. She is kind enough not to further her earlier line of questioning regarding my thinking or lack there of, the loss of my mind, etc. Instead she concentrates on hugs and keeping me as warm and calm as possible. All the while I have two feet and a lip that continue to inflate like blown off airbags.
Thanks be to Jesus, I can hear a siren coming on strong. Sure enough, shortly there after, enters Rescue Three, stage left. Two blue suited gentlemen with a roll away bed, wheel to my side in the yard. The first kneels, looks at my bleeding lip and says "How's your head"? I stare him back and say " You're not gonna punch me in the mouth are you"? Followed by me s'plaining what just transpired between Rescue Two and myself when she first approached. They all have some what of an uncertain chuckle while looking questioningly at Angel. "S'ok" I add, "Quite appropriate. I absolutely deserved it". Just what the situation needed. A little comic relief. Rescue Three makes a comment on the bloody lip delivered by Rescue Two and suggests that would likely defer some of my attention from the lower end issue. "That's what I said! Please! Hit me again would you"? Thankfully everyone declined.
The actual packing up and carting out the meat was rather anticlimactic, and by that I mean no drugs administered or permitted. Not until after diagnosis. At the hospital. Hopefully. A neck collar is a fixed (not the last time I'll sport one of those!) then the slab is carefully placed on a body board. Straps are fastened to immobilize. The gurney is lowered and the body board lifted then secured to the roll away.
The stretcher is then raised back to standard operating level for transport and the entire rig, with the cargo aboard, is then wheeled to the street and loaded to the truck, all while a crowd of neighbours, who have gathered to see what all the commotion is about, looks on. Angel hopes in with me and while Medic Two is taking vital signs and pumping me with oxygen to try and slow up some of the hyper ventilating, Medic One is behind the wheel and we are off to the hospital. I didn't even warrant the siren on the way in. I guess that was a good thing 'cause it indicated to me that we were not, in the medics minds at least, dealing with an emergency situation here. Just another regular day in the course of life in suburbia.
Thanks be to Jesus, I can hear a siren coming on strong. Sure enough, shortly there after, enters Rescue Three, stage left. Two blue suited gentlemen with a roll away bed, wheel to my side in the yard. The first kneels, looks at my bleeding lip and says "How's your head"? I stare him back and say " You're not gonna punch me in the mouth are you"? Followed by me s'plaining what just transpired between Rescue Two and myself when she first approached. They all have some what of an uncertain chuckle while looking questioningly at Angel. "S'ok" I add, "Quite appropriate. I absolutely deserved it". Just what the situation needed. A little comic relief. Rescue Three makes a comment on the bloody lip delivered by Rescue Two and suggests that would likely defer some of my attention from the lower end issue. "That's what I said! Please! Hit me again would you"? Thankfully everyone declined.
The actual packing up and carting out the meat was rather anticlimactic, and by that I mean no drugs administered or permitted. Not until after diagnosis. At the hospital. Hopefully. A neck collar is a fixed (not the last time I'll sport one of those!) then the slab is carefully placed on a body board. Straps are fastened to immobilize. The gurney is lowered and the body board lifted then secured to the roll away.
The stretcher is then raised back to standard operating level for transport and the entire rig, with the cargo aboard, is then wheeled to the street and loaded to the truck, all while a crowd of neighbours, who have gathered to see what all the commotion is about, looks on. Angel hopes in with me and while Medic Two is taking vital signs and pumping me with oxygen to try and slow up some of the hyper ventilating, Medic One is behind the wheel and we are off to the hospital. I didn't even warrant the siren on the way in. I guess that was a good thing 'cause it indicated to me that we were not, in the medics minds at least, dealing with an emergency situation here. Just another regular day in the course of life in suburbia.
Saturday, 3 March 2012
The Not-So-Fat Cat - Post #6
So what to do now? I had six kids under my care, tomorrows dinner cooking on the back of the stove, laundry under way, tonight's dinner by the Q and I was lying in a busted heap in the back yard. And now I was really having a time with clear thought. But I somehow knew that I didn't want to have the kids make that emergency phone call. I guess I was trying not to have to tell them just how bad this might be. But who was I kidding. Bubba had it all sized up in seconds. Just the same, I preferred that the kids go and get the next door neighbour, we'll call her Rescue One, whom I knew was home at the time, to take charge of the situation. I sent the pack of 'em off on that mission.
Five very tough minutes ticked by. The feet were beginning to take on the appearance of Smurf boots. The swelling had grotesquely attacked the left. The right only slightly better and all the vivid colour was settling in nicely. The kids return shortly with Rescue One or RO for short. No need to 'splain anything to her. She had seen the leap from her kitchen window. What she didn't see was the landing. Always the tricky part in falls like this. It ain't the fall that's the problem. It's the sudden stop at the end that'll git ya every time. The fence had blocked her vision from viewing the big finish. She didn't know what the Hell I was doing, but it didn't seem to her that I was in need, as she watched it unfold. She did tell me later, for what it was worth, the leap was somewhat cat like in it's execution. I really didn't want to land on my back or worse my head and I was falling backwards from the house. I jumped and turned in the air to face forward with feet right side down and, more importantly, smiley side up. Unquestionably, the ability to make that turn saved my life. Sacrificed two feet but, without a doubt, saved my life.
I explained to RO that the hospital would be a good call. We (I) decided that it was worth the attempt to try and get to the house. So with me propped on RO, I began to try to stand. I got as far as my knees with my good foot, the right, planted firmly on the ground ready to execute. Another bad call. I stood. Got most of my weight on my right and put the left down. Unbearable. That was not going to happen. I was back in a heap within seconds. We decide that RO would take all the kids back to her place, make the 911 call and try to contact Angel at the club to let her know just what kind of interesting stuff I have going on at the house. Good thinking. Finally.
As Rescue One was herding the kids out of the yard and over to her place, a car pulls into our driveway. The Sheriff had arrived back in town. RO approaches and informs Angel that hubby was climbing up to the roof when the ladder collapsed and he was now lying, kinda broken, in the back yard. Imagine her disbelief. But Rescue One was not one to joke about such matters. Angel knew that. They quickly agreed to proceed with the plan for the kids as previously proposed. RO will do the kids, Angel will take over with the numb nut in the back yard. Angel could now be referred to as Rescue Two, although unbeknown to me at the moment, Rescue Two would have been better saddled with the moniker Terminator One.
Always calm and cool in a pressure situation, Rescue Two entered the playing field. Cautiously approaching our hero, she knelt down in front of me and very reassuringly asked how I was doing. I responded with "My feet are badly hurt". She says to look at her. By this time I was hyperventilating with the air-in / air-out thing and I was now trying to focus on staying conscious. I looked up at her and focused on her eyes. Her most beautiful eyes. She said "Hows your head? I replied "Head's fine. Didn't hit my head. My feet were the problem". She said "How's your neck"? I said "Necks ok too. The feet. Just the feet". She held up a hand and said 'How many fingers"? I say "All of them there should be!! Not my head. That's ok!! It was my feet!!!! THE FEET!!!!! I THINK I HAVE BROKEN MY FEET"!!!!!!!!! She calmly and most steadfastly continues, "Hows your back"? I was now getting a wee bit anxious and responded firmly with "Everything but my feet were absolutely ok. I have done nothing but completely mess up my feet". Angel straightened a bit, (I though she was going to stand) but instead she hauled off and punches me right square in the mouth. Not hard and not enough to distract from the pain in my feet mind you, but hard enough to split my lip. Yeowzzer!!! Now I'm bleeding from the top end too.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, climbing up on to the roof when you're supposed to be looking after the kids"??????? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?????? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND? Jeezuz H, I leave you alone for a few hours and look what you're doing"!!!!!!!!
All very good, reasonable questions. I got nuthin'. 'Cept a fat bleeding lip to go with the fat bleeding feet. She puts her hand under my chin and lifts my head and looks me in the eye. I'm thinking she's lining me up to deliver an upper cut or the old, one-two. Get set. Instead she leans in and wraps her arms around me and gives me the gentlest of hugs. She quietly whispers in my ear, "Ok. I had to get that out. Everything is going to be ok and let's start the process of getting you fixed. I'm calling an ambulance. STAY STILL. DO NOT try and stand again. I'll be back in a flash.
My gal is tough as nails. That's why I love her. That's why I married her. Smart gal. What she's doing with me is anybody's guess.
Five very tough minutes ticked by. The feet were beginning to take on the appearance of Smurf boots. The swelling had grotesquely attacked the left. The right only slightly better and all the vivid colour was settling in nicely. The kids return shortly with Rescue One or RO for short. No need to 'splain anything to her. She had seen the leap from her kitchen window. What she didn't see was the landing. Always the tricky part in falls like this. It ain't the fall that's the problem. It's the sudden stop at the end that'll git ya every time. The fence had blocked her vision from viewing the big finish. She didn't know what the Hell I was doing, but it didn't seem to her that I was in need, as she watched it unfold. She did tell me later, for what it was worth, the leap was somewhat cat like in it's execution. I really didn't want to land on my back or worse my head and I was falling backwards from the house. I jumped and turned in the air to face forward with feet right side down and, more importantly, smiley side up. Unquestionably, the ability to make that turn saved my life. Sacrificed two feet but, without a doubt, saved my life.
I explained to RO that the hospital would be a good call. We (I) decided that it was worth the attempt to try and get to the house. So with me propped on RO, I began to try to stand. I got as far as my knees with my good foot, the right, planted firmly on the ground ready to execute. Another bad call. I stood. Got most of my weight on my right and put the left down. Unbearable. That was not going to happen. I was back in a heap within seconds. We decide that RO would take all the kids back to her place, make the 911 call and try to contact Angel at the club to let her know just what kind of interesting stuff I have going on at the house. Good thinking. Finally.
As Rescue One was herding the kids out of the yard and over to her place, a car pulls into our driveway. The Sheriff had arrived back in town. RO approaches and informs Angel that hubby was climbing up to the roof when the ladder collapsed and he was now lying, kinda broken, in the back yard. Imagine her disbelief. But Rescue One was not one to joke about such matters. Angel knew that. They quickly agreed to proceed with the plan for the kids as previously proposed. RO will do the kids, Angel will take over with the numb nut in the back yard. Angel could now be referred to as Rescue Two, although unbeknown to me at the moment, Rescue Two would have been better saddled with the moniker Terminator One.
Always calm and cool in a pressure situation, Rescue Two entered the playing field. Cautiously approaching our hero, she knelt down in front of me and very reassuringly asked how I was doing. I responded with "My feet are badly hurt". She says to look at her. By this time I was hyperventilating with the air-in / air-out thing and I was now trying to focus on staying conscious. I looked up at her and focused on her eyes. Her most beautiful eyes. She said "Hows your head? I replied "Head's fine. Didn't hit my head. My feet were the problem". She said "How's your neck"? I said "Necks ok too. The feet. Just the feet". She held up a hand and said 'How many fingers"? I say "All of them there should be!! Not my head. That's ok!! It was my feet!!!! THE FEET!!!!! I THINK I HAVE BROKEN MY FEET"!!!!!!!!! She calmly and most steadfastly continues, "Hows your back"? I was now getting a wee bit anxious and responded firmly with "Everything but my feet were absolutely ok. I have done nothing but completely mess up my feet". Angel straightened a bit, (I though she was going to stand) but instead she hauled off and punches me right square in the mouth. Not hard and not enough to distract from the pain in my feet mind you, but hard enough to split my lip. Yeowzzer!!! Now I'm bleeding from the top end too.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, climbing up on to the roof when you're supposed to be looking after the kids"??????? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?????? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND? Jeezuz H, I leave you alone for a few hours and look what you're doing"!!!!!!!!
All very good, reasonable questions. I got nuthin'. 'Cept a fat bleeding lip to go with the fat bleeding feet. She puts her hand under my chin and lifts my head and looks me in the eye. I'm thinking she's lining me up to deliver an upper cut or the old, one-two. Get set. Instead she leans in and wraps her arms around me and gives me the gentlest of hugs. She quietly whispers in my ear, "Ok. I had to get that out. Everything is going to be ok and let's start the process of getting you fixed. I'm calling an ambulance. STAY STILL. DO NOT try and stand again. I'll be back in a flash.
My gal is tough as nails. That's why I love her. That's why I married her. Smart gal. What she's doing with me is anybody's guess.
The Landing - Post #5
It has been very difficult for me, when looking back on this little escapade, to justify just what the Hell I was thinking. And it really wasn't about the kids at all. The real issue here was the loss of fifty pounds and the feeling of empowerment that came with it. I had been in a gym, six days a week for over a year. And I was feeling somewhat invincible for the first time in my life. I often found myself standing around the house, watching TV or listening to music and I would routinely and effortlessly lift either leg (okay, only one at a time) up over my head, stretch 'em out and back down. Kind of Neo like. From the Matrix. Round house. Slow and methodical. 'Cause I could. That's what katas were all about. And the feeling was fantastic. It had become routine that I would spend most of my time around the house 'without no shoes on' to aid in this behavior, anywhere, anytime.
Yes, heading to the roof when looking after kids is never the right thing to do. But I was in a mindset that anything was possible. The kids were just the catalyst.
I knew immediately that the damage was extremely serious. I had no idea how bad, but the pain was the most excruciating I had ever experienced in my thirty odd years. 'Odd' being the operative word here. I sat in the back yard with my legs flat on the ground in front of me. The kids no where in sight. They were still gathered around the front waiting for my appearance over the roof. The ladder was down. Laying on the ground beside the house, ten feet from me. I was a good fifteen feet from the house, spread over the soft green grass, just off the edge of the hard, concrete landing pad.
I was broken 'real bad'. The pain was isolated in my two feet. Nothing else at the moment. Just the feet. Mind you, the pain was so intense, I really couldn't say if anything else hurt or not. One thing I've learned over the last eighteen months is that pain is a relative thing. If ever you've got a migraine that you just can't manage, smack your thumb with a hammer. You'll forget all about the head ache.
In the first sixty seconds, my ankles were already beginning to show signs of serious internal bleeding and bruising, all the pretty colors of red, purple and blue. Green and yellow took a little longer to arrive. And the swelling had begun that wouldn't stop for three days. Always the eternal optimist I was thinking..... bad sprain. Unfortunately I was pretty sure that wasn't true because I had landed squarely, flat footed, tucked and rolled. As I was trying to fight off waves of nausea, I was sucking in air like an industrial Hoover. In through the nose, out through the mouth. And I was shaking my head vigorously side to side, trying to stay (get) clear headed. Perhaps for the first time today.
I had a vague recollection of a group of kids coming 'round the house, returning to the scene of the crime. They surrounded me. Spiker said " What are you doing sittin' there Dad? C'mon get up. We didn't see you get the beanie. Where's the beanie Dad? C'mon get up. What are you doing Dad"? I was rocking back and forth in silence, a huffin' and a puffin', trying to form words to put together a sentence. Still thinking the best thing to do was to heave my guts out. The rest of the kids look on. Then gentle as a mouse, the youngest of the bunch, the only girl present, MY baby Bubba, quietly strikes her best Marilyn Monroe pose, something she would go on to do a lot of through most of preschool, not because she had ever seen Marilyn or in fact knew anything about such matters, but rather just because instinctively, she had it in her, and she leans in close, through the boys, and quietly whispered "911 Daddy"? That's my girl. I knew I shoulda put her in charge.
Yes, heading to the roof when looking after kids is never the right thing to do. But I was in a mindset that anything was possible. The kids were just the catalyst.
I knew immediately that the damage was extremely serious. I had no idea how bad, but the pain was the most excruciating I had ever experienced in my thirty odd years. 'Odd' being the operative word here. I sat in the back yard with my legs flat on the ground in front of me. The kids no where in sight. They were still gathered around the front waiting for my appearance over the roof. The ladder was down. Laying on the ground beside the house, ten feet from me. I was a good fifteen feet from the house, spread over the soft green grass, just off the edge of the hard, concrete landing pad.
I was broken 'real bad'. The pain was isolated in my two feet. Nothing else at the moment. Just the feet. Mind you, the pain was so intense, I really couldn't say if anything else hurt or not. One thing I've learned over the last eighteen months is that pain is a relative thing. If ever you've got a migraine that you just can't manage, smack your thumb with a hammer. You'll forget all about the head ache.
In the first sixty seconds, my ankles were already beginning to show signs of serious internal bleeding and bruising, all the pretty colors of red, purple and blue. Green and yellow took a little longer to arrive. And the swelling had begun that wouldn't stop for three days. Always the eternal optimist I was thinking..... bad sprain. Unfortunately I was pretty sure that wasn't true because I had landed squarely, flat footed, tucked and rolled. As I was trying to fight off waves of nausea, I was sucking in air like an industrial Hoover. In through the nose, out through the mouth. And I was shaking my head vigorously side to side, trying to stay (get) clear headed. Perhaps for the first time today.
I had a vague recollection of a group of kids coming 'round the house, returning to the scene of the crime. They surrounded me. Spiker said " What are you doing sittin' there Dad? C'mon get up. We didn't see you get the beanie. Where's the beanie Dad? C'mon get up. What are you doing Dad"? I was rocking back and forth in silence, a huffin' and a puffin', trying to form words to put together a sentence. Still thinking the best thing to do was to heave my guts out. The rest of the kids look on. Then gentle as a mouse, the youngest of the bunch, the only girl present, MY baby Bubba, quietly strikes her best Marilyn Monroe pose, something she would go on to do a lot of through most of preschool, not because she had ever seen Marilyn or in fact knew anything about such matters, but rather just because instinctively, she had it in her, and she leans in close, through the boys, and quietly whispered "911 Daddy"? That's my girl. I knew I shoulda put her in charge.
Friday, 24 February 2012
The Big Leap - Post #4
Yes kids can be completely and totally relentless at exercising their will over anything and everything. Not necessarily a bad characteristic provided it is tempered with a little humble humility and a most excellent sense of right and wrong. Even better, once they have survived their teens and moved outta y'er house. It is the last thing you look for in a pack of ravenous six year olds.
To recap, I had found myself, through a series of bad decisions, heavily out numbered and overwhelmed by seven, very young chilluns all running amok in the back yard. They were hungry, wanted the beanie off the roof and continued with a lot of verbal insubordination regarding both issues, aimed directly at me. The entire bunch was on me like a pack of hyenas on a downed gnu. "Yes I'm working on dinner. Yes, hot dogs for everyone. Yes Pat too, even if he did throw the beanie on the roof by A accident". (I was beginning to speak like 'em). And "No! I will NOT be going on the roof to get the beanie. Absolutely not permitted under all rules regarding kid maintenance. No Ifs, Ands or Buts".
Now I don't know a lot about kid sitting and I haven't actually read any rules, but I am quite sure that 'Do Not Climb On Roof" to get a birds eye view of the critters play-by-play, has gotta be in the top twenty of anyones Thou Shall Not List, if not the top five.
I DID HAVE IT RIGHT AT FIRST!!!!! WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED????
Looking back, I can quite comfortably understand that heading to the roof for any reason what so ever, whilst tending kids, is completely unacceptable. And take it from me, should you choose to do so, you will have no defence what so ever, when the Sheriff returns to town.
In the spirit of absolute honesty, when I came up with that whole "Why don't you head on over to the gym" thing, I did have somewhat of a selfish, ulterior motive buried, not so deep in my muddled subconscious. While it is true that I love my Angel dearly, on all levels of our relationship, and I did truly want to assist her with some relaxation time, I was mostly thinking......... it's Friday night. The weekend. If I step up on this, the odds on 'une petit morceau de grand d'amour' later tonight, will be greatly enhanced.
So I had the bucket of Madras smoking on the stove 'cause she hasn't been stirred in some time. The hot dogs and their fixin's as far as the table outside. The Q still remains unlit. The washing machine was honking it's horn calling for soap or softener or some other, God knows what, and the phone just kept on ringing. And ringing. And ringing. A lot. I though I still had all this under control, but the reality couldn't have been further from the truth. I just hadn't recognised it yet.
None of all that was the major concern. The real issue here was I had begun to weaken. And the irrefutable conclusion had by now, settled front and centre. These kids are not going to let this beanie thing go until he/she/it is rescued and back in the game. Yes, yes I tried to decoy 'em with everything I had. Balls of all shapes and sizes. A foamy Nerf, puck like thing and hockey sticks galore. A Frisbee. A back yard full of toys, toys, Toys, TOYS!! And I even tried my best Bait and Switch on 'em cause, after all, I am A SALESMEN GODDAMMIT!! AND A GOOD ONE AT THAT!!! Or so I thought. Nuthin worked. Nada. Zippo. Forget it. Should have just lit that Q and fed 'em.
But kids are relentless. Overwhelming brutal in their assault. Grinding and grating non stop. Wearing you down until all common sense has long since fluttered away and you are reduced to instinctive, primal behaviour, completely bereft of rational, clear thought. As was explained by the pack, ad nausium, the beanie was as much a part of the game as any of the kids. You couldn't have one of the kids not play, so how could you expect the beanie to sit on the bench? I'm sure he/she/it was expected to join 'em for dinner! I guess I'm just not thinking like a kid. Unfortunately though, by this time, I'd all but caved. I'm now behaving like a two year old. Shoulda put Bubba in charge.
I head to the garage for the ladder. Shouda gone in, closed the door, turned on the car and breathed deep. T'wood have been easier.
A week earlier, my neighbour had borrowed my ladder. She's a beaut! The ladder that is. A twenty footer, telescoping, all aluminium. That's what good neighbours do. Lend stuff and bring it all back. And I have always prided myself on excellent relations with neighbours. Now I'll admit, I'm usually on the 'borrowing' side of the equation, 'cause I guess I'm less of a "Tool Guy" and more of a "TOOL". But this time I'm on the lending side. And as it turns out, the pivoty, rubber-foot-pad-thingee, gets bent in the process. Neither of us noticed the damage.
I had lived in this bungalow for seven years. I have been on the roof many times. Often for cleaning the eves but I got to admit, nice view of the hood. Secluded. Not a bad spot for quiet relaxation when trying to avoid all the nonsense goin' in the cheap seats. THAT observation , had nothing to do with my ultimate decision but somehow the ladder went up. Same place the ladder always went up. Back side of the house, left of the door, right of the picnic table. It's the lowest point of access with a good solid surface, for to which, plant said ladder. Concrete patio tile. Solid, And in spite of the beanie resting peacefully on the front side of the house, better the tried and true. Same as always n' cross the house on foot. That's the smart thing to do. Sound, logical planning. What could go wrong?
And would you believe that I was in such a rush to 'git 'er done', I didn't even take the time to put on work boots? Would you believe...............shoes? No? Slippers? The sad truth was, I somehow came to the conclusion that it would be perfectly acceptable to do this 'as is'. Which happened to be with bare feet. Even swim fins would have been better.
I told the kids to go around to the front and wait for me there. I'd be over in a jiff. They raced off. Shoulda gone in the house and locked the door.
The twenty foot ladder rested on the roofs edge fifteen feet up. I gave 'er a couple of good shakes, checked on the angle and scampered right up. I stood, six feet above and just to the side, of the roof. Both feet on the rung and two hands on the top of the ladder. I stepped with my right foot from the rung towards the roof top and things went awry very quickly.
As soon as my weight shifted right of centre from the ladder, the bent footing gave way and the ladder slid quickly left along the roofs edge. I was thrown off balance, backwards and to the right. Away from the house, fifteen feet up, above the concrete. With no shoes. And seven kids.
If there was any good fortune to be found in any of this, it had to be the fact that I had spent the last year in serious training. And through that process, I had lost 50 pounds. I was nimble. Stupid, but nimble. The scene unfolded in what seemed like an eternity. I still have dreams about it fifteen years later. A terrifying sense of helplessness and sheer panic as to how bad this is going to end. In reality it took about two seconds, top to bottom. Not much time to consider what best to do. Granted, had I been thinking at all, I wouldn't be here.
No chance to make the roof and stick. I figured the next best bet was to try a one hundred and eighty degree turn, away from the house. Face forward so as to not land on my head or my back. I twisted in the air and as I passed by the roofs edge, I reached out with my right hand, grabbed the eves and ripped it from the house. Not enough to break the fall but maybe enough to slow things down and mitigate just a little of the damage. Right. I landed square on both feet, bent my knees and rolled forward off the patio and on to the grass. Just like I was taught. Piece of cake. Right.
To recap, I had found myself, through a series of bad decisions, heavily out numbered and overwhelmed by seven, very young chilluns all running amok in the back yard. They were hungry, wanted the beanie off the roof and continued with a lot of verbal insubordination regarding both issues, aimed directly at me. The entire bunch was on me like a pack of hyenas on a downed gnu. "Yes I'm working on dinner. Yes, hot dogs for everyone. Yes Pat too, even if he did throw the beanie on the roof by A accident". (I was beginning to speak like 'em). And "No! I will NOT be going on the roof to get the beanie. Absolutely not permitted under all rules regarding kid maintenance. No Ifs, Ands or Buts".
Now I don't know a lot about kid sitting and I haven't actually read any rules, but I am quite sure that 'Do Not Climb On Roof" to get a birds eye view of the critters play-by-play, has gotta be in the top twenty of anyones Thou Shall Not List, if not the top five.
I DID HAVE IT RIGHT AT FIRST!!!!! WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED????
Looking back, I can quite comfortably understand that heading to the roof for any reason what so ever, whilst tending kids, is completely unacceptable. And take it from me, should you choose to do so, you will have no defence what so ever, when the Sheriff returns to town.
In the spirit of absolute honesty, when I came up with that whole "Why don't you head on over to the gym" thing, I did have somewhat of a selfish, ulterior motive buried, not so deep in my muddled subconscious. While it is true that I love my Angel dearly, on all levels of our relationship, and I did truly want to assist her with some relaxation time, I was mostly thinking......... it's Friday night. The weekend. If I step up on this, the odds on 'une petit morceau de grand d'amour' later tonight, will be greatly enhanced.
So I had the bucket of Madras smoking on the stove 'cause she hasn't been stirred in some time. The hot dogs and their fixin's as far as the table outside. The Q still remains unlit. The washing machine was honking it's horn calling for soap or softener or some other, God knows what, and the phone just kept on ringing. And ringing. And ringing. A lot. I though I still had all this under control, but the reality couldn't have been further from the truth. I just hadn't recognised it yet.
None of all that was the major concern. The real issue here was I had begun to weaken. And the irrefutable conclusion had by now, settled front and centre. These kids are not going to let this beanie thing go until he/she/it is rescued and back in the game. Yes, yes I tried to decoy 'em with everything I had. Balls of all shapes and sizes. A foamy Nerf, puck like thing and hockey sticks galore. A Frisbee. A back yard full of toys, toys, Toys, TOYS!! And I even tried my best Bait and Switch on 'em cause, after all, I am A SALESMEN GODDAMMIT!! AND A GOOD ONE AT THAT!!! Or so I thought. Nuthin worked. Nada. Zippo. Forget it. Should have just lit that Q and fed 'em.
But kids are relentless. Overwhelming brutal in their assault. Grinding and grating non stop. Wearing you down until all common sense has long since fluttered away and you are reduced to instinctive, primal behaviour, completely bereft of rational, clear thought. As was explained by the pack, ad nausium, the beanie was as much a part of the game as any of the kids. You couldn't have one of the kids not play, so how could you expect the beanie to sit on the bench? I'm sure he/she/it was expected to join 'em for dinner! I guess I'm just not thinking like a kid. Unfortunately though, by this time, I'd all but caved. I'm now behaving like a two year old. Shoulda put Bubba in charge.
I head to the garage for the ladder. Shouda gone in, closed the door, turned on the car and breathed deep. T'wood have been easier.
A week earlier, my neighbour had borrowed my ladder. She's a beaut! The ladder that is. A twenty footer, telescoping, all aluminium. That's what good neighbours do. Lend stuff and bring it all back. And I have always prided myself on excellent relations with neighbours. Now I'll admit, I'm usually on the 'borrowing' side of the equation, 'cause I guess I'm less of a "Tool Guy" and more of a "TOOL". But this time I'm on the lending side. And as it turns out, the pivoty, rubber-foot-pad-thingee, gets bent in the process. Neither of us noticed the damage.
I had lived in this bungalow for seven years. I have been on the roof many times. Often for cleaning the eves but I got to admit, nice view of the hood. Secluded. Not a bad spot for quiet relaxation when trying to avoid all the nonsense goin' in the cheap seats. THAT observation , had nothing to do with my ultimate decision but somehow the ladder went up. Same place the ladder always went up. Back side of the house, left of the door, right of the picnic table. It's the lowest point of access with a good solid surface, for to which, plant said ladder. Concrete patio tile. Solid, And in spite of the beanie resting peacefully on the front side of the house, better the tried and true. Same as always n' cross the house on foot. That's the smart thing to do. Sound, logical planning. What could go wrong?
And would you believe that I was in such a rush to 'git 'er done', I didn't even take the time to put on work boots? Would you believe...............shoes? No? Slippers? The sad truth was, I somehow came to the conclusion that it would be perfectly acceptable to do this 'as is'. Which happened to be with bare feet. Even swim fins would have been better.
I told the kids to go around to the front and wait for me there. I'd be over in a jiff. They raced off. Shoulda gone in the house and locked the door.
The twenty foot ladder rested on the roofs edge fifteen feet up. I gave 'er a couple of good shakes, checked on the angle and scampered right up. I stood, six feet above and just to the side, of the roof. Both feet on the rung and two hands on the top of the ladder. I stepped with my right foot from the rung towards the roof top and things went awry very quickly.
As soon as my weight shifted right of centre from the ladder, the bent footing gave way and the ladder slid quickly left along the roofs edge. I was thrown off balance, backwards and to the right. Away from the house, fifteen feet up, above the concrete. With no shoes. And seven kids.
If there was any good fortune to be found in any of this, it had to be the fact that I had spent the last year in serious training. And through that process, I had lost 50 pounds. I was nimble. Stupid, but nimble. The scene unfolded in what seemed like an eternity. I still have dreams about it fifteen years later. A terrifying sense of helplessness and sheer panic as to how bad this is going to end. In reality it took about two seconds, top to bottom. Not much time to consider what best to do. Granted, had I been thinking at all, I wouldn't be here.
No chance to make the roof and stick. I figured the next best bet was to try a one hundred and eighty degree turn, away from the house. Face forward so as to not land on my head or my back. I twisted in the air and as I passed by the roofs edge, I reached out with my right hand, grabbed the eves and ripped it from the house. Not enough to break the fall but maybe enough to slow things down and mitigate just a little of the damage. Right. I landed square on both feet, bent my knees and rolled forward off the patio and on to the grass. Just like I was taught. Piece of cake. Right.
Monday, 13 February 2012
Turning Up The Heat - Post #3
Back in the early days, the wife, we'll call her Angel, not cause that's her name, but just 'cause that's who she is, ran a day care at the house. What do you do when you're at home with two kids under the age of six? Add more kids. They entertain themselves. If one of 'em manages to execute the restful afternoon nap thing, well........maybe you can actually put 'em in charge for a while. Have yourself a nap. You'll likely need it.
All joking aside, it is my humble opinion, looking after kids is one of the toughest jobs anyone could ever take on. Gotta be up there with King Crab fishing in the Bering Sea. Four years of managing just our two was challenging enough. And once you find yourself outnumbered then the going really gets rough. Alas, women seem to operate more effectively under that kind of pressure than men do, at least when it comes to herding kids. So Angel suggests day care. Jeff replies "yes dear" cause I'm a quick learner, and before you know it, our place is lousy with kids.
I continue the dance with Spike, running him to and from the do jun. Fortunately for us all, I signed up and I am now down there on the floor 'gittin' 'er done'. At first it was an unbelievably tough go. 30 Years of good living had caught up in a big way. But I shed pounds. Big time. Over the course of a year I dropped 50 pounds and I was actually ripped for the first time in my life. Hey, I was a musician, not an athlete. Spike and I were having a ball. He and I continued to attend, twice a week, together. And there is nothing quite like a father and son sharing that kind of experience, from both our perspectives. It will always be one of my best memories. The time spent with him training, working out, sparring, practising our Kata's and, the burgers and shakes following, was, as they say, priceless.
Now as it turned out for me, like most things in life, taking that first step was the toughest obstacle in beginning something new. I took to the martial arts with a passion. The adrenalin rush was so addictive.
I soon found myself having to be there six days a week just to keep it flowing. I even began leading the class on Saturday mornings. Unfortunately, I kinda ran off helter skelter with the whole experience, leaving Spike in my wake. He and I continued for probably another year or so together, but he soon found he had other interests and moved on to, in particular, chasing music. Another passion we now both share. But he did get me started, and I loved it. I had become the fittest I had ever been. Good thing too.
Not much later, Angel is doing her thing at the house, herding the cats, late one Friday afternoon. The neighbourhood kids had all gathered at our place and are especially fired up 'cause tonight they're having a sleep over. I had wrapped up the work week a little early and arrived home to feeding time at the zoo. With the day care crowd successfully shipped out and the new shift of street kids all playing in our back yard, I suggested, being the kind, considerate, loving partner that I am, she take a break and go to the gym. I will step up and look after this whole bunch. Piece of cake. Six chill'en. All under the age of eight. The youngest being four. Just. Fortunately she's mine and being female, they mature a lot faster than the gents. After that good nap, she could take charge. Easy. So how tough could it be? Angel's sceptical, but I am a salesman and I can be very reassuring when I want to be. 'Cides she's whipped and could use a break. I can handle this. Honestly. Yes, I'm sure.
It was a beautifully warm and sunny afternoon in suburbia. Angel is, by this time, submerged in the temperate waters of the hot tub at the club. Relaxation eminent.
Me? Not so much. I decided in the middle of looking after six kids that the laundry needed to get done. It's not enough that the kids are haranguing the shit out of me for everything imaginable, I some how figure, I have everything under such control I needed to handicap the situation. So with the kids running around in the back yard, I throw in a load of laundry. I then put the most excellent Lamb Madras, begun the night before, on the back burner of the stove, to finish 'er up 'cause, why wouldn't you? That's dinner for tomorrow night and it's just about completed. A gentle simmer would be just the thing to finish 'er up.
With the smell of curry wafting through the house, I then decide that I'm getting a wee bit peckish. Not unheard of. It's almost dinner time. I took a quick peek out the back door to check on the kids in the yard and everything still appears to be under control. What's a real man to do when faced with cookin' dinner in suburbia? B-B-Q of course. Sunny day. Lot's o kids. Perfect. Nothing fancy mind you, after all, I am looking after a bunch of kids here. Six no less. I know. I counted them. Fortunately the Madras had not quite reached it's peak so was still unfit for consumption. Good thing too or I would likely have concluded that serving 'em all the flame blazing curry was the right idea. Picture that. No, I believed that hot dogs were in order. Another very appropriate, sound decision on my part. I headed to the fridge to get the doggies and the necessary accoutrement.
Upon my return to the front lines, with my mitts full of dogs, buns, relish, mustard, and ketchup, (mustn't forget the ketchup) pop and cups, I found the kids, and yes, I still have six, all fired up and twisted in the back yard and now they were at me, as a collective, to "Get the beanie baby Dad! We can't play the game until you get us the beanie! Pat took the beanie Dad. C'mon Dad, Please help!! What are you doing Dad? We NEEEED the beanie NOW DAD!!!!!"
Dumping the dinner assembly on the picnic table I surveyed the dozen or so of the biggest, roundest, most pleadingest eyeballs staring up at me, that I ever did see. I calmly replied. "First of all, who's Pat? I'm sure we don't have one of those, your mother would have mentioned him at roll call and secondly what exactly did the alleged Pat do with the said beanie.?" A barage of six replies flooded in all at once, from which I hear "Pat's the kid from up the street Dad." All turn and point to the 'new' kid standing yonder, apart from our group meeting, who up to this point, I had not seen. "That's Pat. He threw it on the roof by an accident Dad. The beanie's on the roof. C'mon Dad. Hop to it Dad. The beanies on the roof! Go get 'em Dad. You can do it."
Now I don't know every thing there is to know when it comes to looking after large groups of kids, I just haven't had that much practise. And make no mistake, this was a pile of kids I had here, by any standard. I was out numbered by........well.......lots. But with looking after what I thought was six, turning out to be seven with the addition of Pat, and even if he is eight years old, he's still a male, so that makes him more like six. Maybe. No older than the rest of them.
Now at this point in our story I'd like to point out that I do recognize it may appear to the untrained eye, that there have already been a number of bad decisions made by the adult in charge. Wait for it. You ain't seen nuthin' yet.
And so with the laundry a spinnin', the lamb a simmerin' and dinner well under way, I'm thinking
ix-nay on the bean-nay, and the whole roof ascent thing. Seemed like the right decision at the time. Fortunately I hadn't quite gotten to lighting the BBQ as of yet. Unfortunately kids, as a group, are relentless.
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