At my 8th grade lunch table, we compared hands, budding palm readers, one and all. Marcus Pappas blurted out "Cann's and mine look like old lady hands." He had a point—thin and boney—but it irked me that he said this out loud. Marcus died thirty-five years ago while still good looking, except, I suppose, his … Continue reading Windows to my Soul
Injury
Killing Time at Midway
We found a sanctuary, a person-free oasis in a sea of humanity. Let me describe that humanity: it’s nine o’clock, the early one, still breakfast time. We just got off a plane from Baltimore. In Chicago, they line the bars. The Home Run, R.J. Grunts, and The Hubbard Inn. Bloody Marys, mimosas, beers, low balls, … Continue reading Killing Time at Midway
Gabby, again, still
Gabby Petito, remember her? I read in an article yesterday that her parents just settled an emotional distress lawsuit against the parents of Brian Laundrie, Gabby’s presumed, but never tried killer. It left me wondering: to what end. What do Gabby’s parents hope to gain from this lawsuit? Cash? Punishment for the Laundries, who had already … Continue reading Gabby, again, still
And just like that, the game was over
Mostly, we drank beer together. We sat in my dorm room planted on threadbare Goodwill furniture, feet propped on a scuffed coffee table, Marley playing not-so-soft in the background. My roommate Rob, intense, aggressive, always ready to challenge an opinion, pick at a foible, or poke your proper buttons, brought up the idea. “We should … Continue reading And just like that, the game was over
I don’t love yoga
I love to run. My feet gently tread the roadway or the trail. My relaxed gait allows me to absorb the scenery, focus on breath, and wander my brain. Running, every time, instills a sense of peace. I love to ride my mountain bike, primarily on the road, too many crashes in the woods last … Continue reading I don’t love yoga
The Attack
Saturday afternoon, three o’clock. We still sit, all of us, in our family room, poking at our devices. We’ve done this for hours. All except Eli, he worked this morning. He came home at noon and went straight to bed. Everyone’s a little hungover. Last night was rough. It started with a screech or a … Continue reading The Attack
Surrender
Can’t you show me nothing but surrender? It’s a quote from Patti Smith’s punk poem/anthem Land. I’ve already written all about the song, so I’ll spare you my unabashed praise, I just want to use the quote as my jumping off point for some thoughts about new year resolutions. Surrender: As used in the song, … Continue reading Surrender
Stuck
When I tumbled off my mountain bike two months ago, I knew immediately that I damaged my shoulder. Crumpled on the ground, the sensible side of my brain took over: Get up, get riding. Most people who grew up playing sports know that after a significant muscle strain or joint injury, there is often a … Continue reading Stuck
Fight, fight, fight!
Sometimes there's nothing to feel Sometimes there's nothing to hold Sometimes there's no time to run away Sometimes you just feel so old —Lyrics from Fight by The Cure I realized this last winter: the day after my sixtieth birthday, I would lead a group of teenagers on a mountain bike ride. Me, four … Continue reading Fight, fight, fight!
Walk Away, Baby
The 5th Beatle Walking TallThe Walking DeadWalk on the Wild SideLong Walk to FreedomI Walk the LineThese Boots are made for WalkingWalk this WayWalking on SunshineThe Long WalkDead Man WalkingA Walk in the WoodsHow to Walk Movies, music, books—it permeates our culture. We even know catchy sayings like walk a mile in his shoes, and … Continue reading Walk Away, Baby
Subluxation… Again
Sigh. Another Saturday afternoon on the couch nursing a boo-boo. Someone added a new mountain biking obstacle—a bridge of logs lined up perpendicular to the trail, maybe seven feet long. The bridge doesn’t actually span anything, the only purpose is to have fun. Like a rumble-strip on steroids. In the future, as I ride my … Continue reading Subluxation… Again
Blooms
“Oh no coach, you’re bleeding!” “I’m always bleeding.” I can’t believe I still have this conversation. Honestly, everyone should know by now. Back at the cars after a mountain bike ride, blood streaks my arms. A kid, usually one of the younger ones, approaches me with concern. At some point during the ride, I brush … Continue reading Blooms
Decline
My coworker Bob called them chapter breaks—those steps in our fitness level that we periodically tumble down, never to return. I noticed this first in my thirties. I lined up a string of successes, personal records in a couple of races—a 10K and a ten-mile—a respectable marathon time, twenty-third overall in a thirty-three-story stair climb … Continue reading Decline
The Big Trees
Two-thirty in the morning, awake, paralyzed with pain. I turned on the TV for distraction. Counting the minutes until my next morphine dose. This went badly. Me: Hey it’s been four hours since my last dose, can I have my morphine now? Nurse: I already gave you your morphine. You need to wait four more … Continue reading The Big Trees
Phone Call from the Future
Something's going on, and I'll probably never get it… --- Song lyric from She’s Crafty by the Beastie Boys I amaze myself at how incompetent I can be. If someone asked me what traits I hoped I instilled in my kids, my list would be 1) Politeness, 2) Empathy, and 3) Competence. That’s the order … Continue reading Phone Call from the Future
Proof of Age
Not my kitchen I couldn’t relax, or lie flat, or breathe. Susan googled heart attacks. We thought she should check, maybe, just in case. We carried the microwave—the new one—into the kitchen. It mounts under the cabinets, above the stove, doubles as an oven hood. It’s not too heavy, maybe fifty pounds, awkward, but manageable … Continue reading Proof of Age
I Can Ride That
I stress about what I write. Not the topics, but the word count, the frequency, the quality. I lie—I stress about the topics, too. I joined a writers' group on Facebook—Authors with Tourette Syndrome. “Authors.” Stretching? Aspirational? I'm more comfortable with the generic term writer. Author implies output, something published. That's not me, barely. I … Continue reading I Can Ride That
The Dog Days
I see my vacation in the rearview mirror. A fading memory of a not-so-great week. (Eli’s injury, then illness, then an early return home. <<== Link). Susan scoured VRBO looking to rent a place at the beach for a few days as a family consolation prize. Apparently, a popular idea. No one vacationed last summer. … Continue reading The Dog Days
Postcard from Maine
Eli crashed hard. I assume. I didn’t see it, he speeded ahead when the terrain got dicey. Or really, I slowed down and he didn’t. I rounded a bend and saw him flat on his back in the middle of the path, his bike in the brush. I could tell he was OK. His head … Continue reading Postcard from Maine
Chapter Break
It’s so easy to blame it all on the deep state. Or my doctor; or the universe. Myself? Someone’s to blame dammit. This can’t all be a coincidence. I’ve lived for fifty-eight years. Those have been healthy years, mostly. Yes, lots of surgeries, but those can be explained. The bike crash accounts for three of … Continue reading Chapter Break
The Other Stuff 