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.
Thursday, 12 April 2012
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.
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