Girona

T and T enterprises reunited, in front of our hotel

In 2002, I saw Spanish writer and director Pedro Almodovar's film Talk to Her and was overwhelmed. This was a story, among other things, of two men involved with two women, both in a coma and in the same hospital. It won the Academy award for best screenplay and the Golden Globe award for best foreign film. Talk to Her masterfully deals with the difficulty of male/female communication (sometimes better in coma), of loneliness, and love transcending loss. I recall feeling this movie was so complete, it went beyond the skill of one film maker, and had to be the product of a culture uniquely sensitive, in a very attractive way, to person(s) with a myriad of genuine problems, including neurological disorders. The Spanish, hmmm, I had no idea. They were not even mentioned in the popular book from 1984 The Europeans by Luigi Barzini. Perhaps he felt they were irrelevant compared to the Italians, English, German, and French. But like a beautiful cloud one may marvel at for a few minutes, wonder if anyone else even noticed it, and then forget what it looked like altogether, I had not thought much of Spain since that movie in 2002. By happenstance I am on a plane returning from two wonderful weeks in the northeast section

The Comeback Kid

I discovered cycling in 1969 with my college roommate Todd (See previous entry, The Huffy). We spent many hours together on our entry level 10 speed bikes. Initially our rides were absurd, mostly at night in downtown Atlanta. With no helmets, no reflectors and no lights, we hauled ass, dodging the cars, the muggers and the prostitutes (okay, maybe we slowed a little bit for the night ladies). These night rides were eventually surpassed by the ridiculous 500 mile ride in 5 days, we took through the middle of Florida, in July 1971. Before that tour we probably never rode more than 10 miles in any one day. Once we figured out how to prepare for and manage longer rides, we had a few good trips, including two in Canada. 40 years had passed since we last rode together. Todd  moved to Australia and shortly thereafter gave up cycling altogether. He came out of cycling retirement a year ago and when he did, we discussed a reunion ride for July, 2013.

The original plan was to take on the high Pyrenees in the Southwest of France. But my aging weak legs and Ptosiphobia dampened my enthusiasm for the long 8 % to10 % climbs and descents. So we Google mapped several areas along the Spanish/French border where the Pyrenees begin it's slow decline into the Mediterranean Sea and settled on the city of Girona, a hour's train ride northeast of Barcelona. With an established cycling reputation and several shops renting high end bikes, this was an easy choice. As a bonus, it was not difficult to bring along a mini entourage of other friends and family.

We didn't go to France but Sarah
did get a baguette bag

Girona is a medium-sized city with a small "old town" and river in its center  It is in the foothills of the Pyrenees and about 40-50 km from the Mediterranean. We rented bikes from a great store, which also helped us with  hotel reservations, provided maps and suggested rides. With a year of preparation Todd  was back in his old form. He looks and rides like the five time Tour winner Bernard Hinault. His enthusiasm was palpable and contagious.

The routine was to ride very early every morning to avoid the midday heat, and to get back and spend time with family and friends. Our entourage included the wives, my daughter Sarah and 'other' daughter Jennifer. Our friends Doug and Susan eventually made it over from France and my sister and her daughter, Mary, each stayed with us part of the time. Todd and I averaged riding about 60 miles a day but were usually out for quite some time, having coffee and chocolate croissants, trying to talk to the locals, getting lost of course, and taking advantage of the numerous photo opps. The traffic was very light. The Spanish drivers were unbelievably courteous.

We never had an unpleasant experience while riding. It was as if the area's financial interests depended exclusively on the goodwill of the local and visiting cyclists. The drivers on the winding roads were content to stay behind any rider for a matter of minutes, rather than place either in peril. There was never an impatient car horn or an aggressive attempt to pass us. The contrast between our sometimes hostile locals in Georgia, the maniacal French or to a greater extent, lunatic Italian drivers, was shocking.  No one was in a hurry. If someone from outer space dropped into Italy, after about 2 days, they would conclude, the entire purpose of life was to get from point A to point B faster than anyone else in the country. On one ride we stopped momentarily to look at our maps and several young boys approached to ask what I had on my helmet. When I showed them it was a mirror, they were able to surmise I perceived a need to see the cars behind. When I confirmed their theory, one immediately countered:
              "But why do you need it? The cars will see you."
His innocence was moving. Culture there apparently matters. In Spain, bike riders are respected and admired. If he ever rides in the U.S. he will be shocked by the rudeness of American drivers.

The dwellings in Girona with Cathedral in back round

From the Ride to the Sea

We had 10 rides. Mostly out of town into the hills and small villages, one direction or the other. There were two rides to the sea where we had to go over a Category 1 climb to get there and back. Once we reached the Mediterranean, the road resembled the Pacific Coast Highway, winding along the dramatic rock cliffs hovering above the sea. One day we rode 20 miles out of Girona and then had a 28 km climb to an old town on top of a mountain. We had a bonus of a 20 foot road washout on the long climb, precluding any car traffic. We were joined by Ben, an interesting and likable Colgate Professor we met on the "shop ride" several days before, where several itinerant professionals, locals and visitors all ride together. Many pros still live and train in Girona as Lance did years ago. After a week of stopping for every stop sign and red light, we noted on the shop ride, the locals ran through all of them.

Todd in front of apartment building that
housed Lance and Tyler Hamilton  

Going back to my resurrected feelings on Talk to Her, coupled with a direct experience with the Spanish people on this trip convinced me this was a culture, individually and collectively 'comfortable in their own skin'. I can not overstate how obvious and attractive this appeared to a cycling visitor and to the rest of our entourage. The Spanish ran the world in the 15th and early 16th Century, losing out to the manufacturing English, along with her other European cousins.  Perhaps it takes five centuries of "not being in charge" (or with the French, thinking they are in charge) for this obvious contentment.

The pool came in quite handy for recovery. Here we were
telling Susan how many Spanish pro riders we passed up that day

The food was incredible. We had a kitchen in the hotel. The tomatoes in the small market down the street were as good as our garden tomatoes we cried about leaving behind. We were able to buy whole squid and other good seafood. Naturally we purchased a European Nespresso coffee machine. With 7 to 10 people hitting it hard, it was not that stupid a purchase, until it was time to leave! The restaurants deserve special mention. If you Google the" Top 50" restaurants in the world you will find El Cellar de Can Roca number one. This is in Girona. It is impossible for a restaurant this good to spring out of a vacuum. The day El Cellar officially received the ranking, it had 2 million hits on its web site and in a few days they had to hire three people just to say "no" to hopeful patrons. Needless to say, we did not get in.

The entire experience was life sustaining. The riding, the small towns, the sea, the company, getting to know Mrs. Todd better (Susan, whom we love), breaking bread with family I don't see often enough, old and new friends, the pool side stories, the coffee, the wine, the food. It was a series of pleasures, each stacked on another, and another and another.

How does one capture such an experience in words? The renewal of riding with a lifelong friend after a 40 year interval. The kindness of strangers. The pleasure of  family and friends within the essence of a remarkable culture, brought together in this wonderful city. To borrow "a bit", as my my Australian friends say  from Pat Conroy's  Prince of Tides:  Since I have been home, every day before work as I put on my gear to ride, ".......These words come to me in a whisper, as a prayer, as a regret, and as praise: Girona, Girona, Girona".

The Tuesday-Thursday Ride -Race

With few exceptions every town the size of Macon  has some kind of Tuesday-Thursday Ride-Race. This has been going on since the mid 1980s when Greg Lemond broke out on the international bike racing scene, and won the World Championship one day race in 1983. He later went on to win the Tour de France 3 times. Inspired by Lemond's extraordinary achievement, all the serious US riders metamorphosed to 'racers' overnight, and we were desperate to mix it up with like minded types aficionados. In the early days, however, there were very few sanctioned races. I had to go on four to five hour drives to Ocala Florida, Asheville NC or Murfreesboro Tennesee to get the fifty five minute "rush" of  guys, shoulder to shoulder battling it out in criteriums through the center of town, going  full tilt, at thirty plus MPH, sprint premes, some breaking away, likely caught later in the race, occasionally crashing, and jumping back into the melee on the next lap.

Hometown amateur facsimiles broke out like a 1950's measles epidemic. Simultaneously in every podunk town the size of Macon between Miami and Seattle, a 'Tuesday and Thursday' ride race was born. Seasoned racers, triathletes, new racers, and dreamers showed up to duke it out on sparsely traveled roads or industrial parks cleared out by the afternoon time clock. Though not sanctioned by United States Cycling, with no motorcycles clearing the intersections, and no prize money, these were, and still are, races.

For me the only good things about aging are (1)  functioning well on 6 hours or less sleep per night and (2) not needing to go far to find riders with superior skills. On Tuesday/Thursday, I rush home from work, leaving charts undone, blasting hard rock on the car stereo for transitional inspiration. After a quick change, I am on the bike. A perfect five minute warm up brings me to the start. I have been doing this for 25 years and loving it. Every year it is harder, and every year I  plan to be better, and occasionally I am, but usually I am not. I don't care much when it doesn't go well. The point is, to go out and let the stress fly from inside to outside and off for good, if I do it right..

Being the second oldest of the 40 or so riders who show up, removes any self imposed pressure to win. If I hang in with the lead group of the ten or so "big boys" to the end, I am happy. The effort to do well draws so much adrenaline, it usually takes two beers, a tylanol PM and a Neurology Journal to calm me down enough to even think about sleeping. (No big deal, sleeping being  a total waste of time, limited time, I am sorry to say).

Once a year while participating in this ride, I do something ridiculous. Last year I drove the truck a mile from the start, bike in the back. I hid in the bushes until the pack went by, jumped into the race from behind, and sailed through the whole pack in Superman Drag. I had a long sleeve classic Superman shirt, Superman underwear over my black bike shorts, and three foot bright red cap, flying off my shoulders when I was at full speed.

This year I decided to honor the greatest cycling movie ever made, Breaking Away. The movie came out in 1979, a few years before I bought my hot pink steel De Rosa bike. Several years ago I converted it to a fixed gear bike with one speed, no shifters, and no back brake  The pedal stroke rpm (cadence) is directly proportional to bike speed. On the flats I spin this beauty at a normal 90 to 100 cadance. Down a steep hill I am committed to an rpm as high as 150 and it is difficult to stay upright. The locals in the movie were called "Cutters", (note my jersey) a word indicating they were locals, many of whom worked for a time harvesting stone in nearby quarries, which eventually made it to Indiana University, where much of the film's action occurred. Some of the sound track was from the Barber of Seville. This year my pro motorcycle racing young friends and filmmakers followed me out to a relatively flat part of the route  where I again, jumped in from behind.

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-0UTmdDVYI#action=share


How did the rest of the ride go? Maybe the pack formed a few unsuccessful chases and I soloed home to win easily. Maybe that didn't happen. As Jake said to Brett on the last page of Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises  " Isn't it pretty to think so"

Ptosiphobia

Recently, as if I don't have enough problems, I realized I had to make another psychiatric diagnosis on myself. Like several of my others, this newest one has not yet been described. You may remember that Freud, father of not so modern Psychiatry, was also a Neurologist. In the movie The Cameleon , a character played by Woody Allen, imitates a number of people. At one point, he was in Vienna, early 20th century, and was imitating Sigmund Freud. The character, in classic Woody Allen style states:  "The major difference between Freud and myself, is that Freud felt that 'penis envy' was a condition affecting only women"   The major difference between Freud and yours truly, who both enjoy inventing psychiatric disorders, is that he astutely noted these problems in other people, while I have consistently identified all of these previously unrecognized disorders in myself. Now, you may ask: how can someone with so many psychiatric conditions still function? The answer, I suspect, is some of these disorders may neutralize others, another novel psychiatric theory someone, with more time on their hands, should look into.

The Greeks and their phobias. I was always baffled by how such an advanced culture eventually collapsed. Given the number of phobias attributed to them, I think I figured it out. Googling  'phobias', one discovers there are almost 60 beginning with the letter (A). All are of Greek origin. If you multiply by 26 letters in the alphabet, and then by 50 or 100, likely the minimum number of people needed, to warrant naming the condition, you are approaching  the order of magnitude of a Greek city. Eventually EVERYONE must have been afflicted with an incapacitating phobia- and this I think adequately explains the end of Greek civilization.

For 30 years plus I have regularly dealt with patients who have a problem known as "ptosis". This refers to having a droopy eyelid, partially, sometimes totally, covering the pupil. It can be on one eye or both. It is a problem because it impairs vision, but additionally it is very often is a sign of a more serious disorder, such as an impending cerebral artery aneurysm rupture, or myasthenia gravis, a muscle problem that can affect the breathing muscles in short order, or lung cancer, or dissection (torn) carotid artery, which can imminently occlude and cause a big stroke. There are subtle characteristic differences of the 'ptosis' in each of these conditions and it is my job to figure it out before the catastrophe occurs. For decades I assumed the Greek origin of the word translated to "droopy". Recently I learned the correct translation is "falling". I love this clarification, the eyelid is not "drooping", it is "falling".

Last weekend I made my first return to the mountains. It has been almost a year since 'The Fall' and I was curious to see if I was able to descend the mountains at the usual speeds. I knew I was in adequate condition to do the 6 or so climbs we typically make. In preparation, I have been riding up and down the few nearly one mile descents with greater than 5% grade, we are lucky enough to have in our area. It was during these practice runs I discovered I have 'ptosiphobia', fear of falling, a previously unrecognized condition I believe needs to be added to the Handbook of Psychiatric disorders.

In the last several weeks, whenever I have made these relatively short descents, I have had a massively intense internal butterfly feeling in my gut, the likes of which I have not experienced since I was a kid. The peculiar aspect of this feeling was that it was not altogether unpleasant. While descending on these preparatory rides, I was very concerned the bike, or the rider, would fail. This  'ptosiphobia', as it has now been labeled, is distinctly different than acrophobia, the mundane fear of heights any amateur might experience. But why was this butterfly feeling not unpleasant?

I had this feeling often as a very young person. It may have been on the playground slide or swing, climbing a tree, or jumping out of window in a partially constructed house my friends and I were trespassing upon, before landing on a pile of leaves. It was the same intense abdominal butterfly sensation. I kinda liked it when I was young because I was always sure everything would  turn out OK.  As previously discussed in an earlier entry to the blog (see Purgatory) I did not buy into many of the proclamations in the Baltimore Catechism, (manifesto of Catholic training we were forced to memorize in elementary school) but I did like the concept of Purgatory and also " the Guardian Angel". I was sure I had a guardian angel, given the number of tight spots I had survived in our totally unsupervised play. That butterfly feeling was never associated with a bad consequence, thanks to my angel. Over time these feelings became a pleasurable part of my adventures. Now having rekindled that exact sensation, ptosiphobia, I intermittently feel like a kid again

On the day of the ride, the weather prediction was 0% chance of rain. We lathered up with sunscreen at the base of Blood Mountain (bad name all factors considered) but before we were half way up the 7 1 /2 mile climb it began to rain. My two friends, Andy and Chuck (see future entry on the NYC Century involving these guys) and I, had planned to ride at a slow warm up speed on the first climb. Soon we were wet. Of course we brought NO foul weather gear. Just  before the halfway mark, some guys passed us up. I was feeling great and felt I needed to pick.up the pace to keep warm as well as the other obvious shallow reason: Say you are 30 or so years old and riders pass you on a climb while you are warming up. If you then decide to catch and drop them, you are an asshole. But if you are over 60 and those same competitive juices still flow, with like reaction, it is my view, you're not! I know it seems like a double standard, but that's why we need and indeed have this good standard.

When we made it to the top,(after passing the other guys) we went into the small store for supplies Enough time elapsed to really cool off. When we started down the mountain I did not feel cold. As it turns out this was identical to the situation on the Grand Teton Pass 11 month ago, just prior to 'The Fall'. Major effort up, long wait, cool down, then descent. So what  happened?

I sat up to wind brake as much as possible and reached very conservative descending speeds of less than 40 mph. It did not take long for the ptosiphobia to kick in and this time I did not care for it. At just over 3 miles down, the same distance as on the Teton Pass incident, the bike started to wobble. I had recently convinced myself  the original  high speed death wobble before the Fall was a technical problem, something to do with the new bike fork or the front wheel slightly out of true. Last weekend I was on different bike. Luckily I had started to slow for the hard left turn to Wolf Pen Gap and I was able to pull off the road. Only when I was off the bike did I realize there was nothing wrong with the machine. The bike was wobbling on the descent because I was shivering, with no other sensation of feeling cold.

The physiological explanation for this is complicated but the short version is, when one is working hard climbing a mountain for 45 minutes, there is a tremendous amount of heat production in the body, dealt with by dilating the skin blood vessels, which releases heat. You have likely heard of marathon runners experiencing hypothermia a short time after their race. During the race, their core body temperature is 105 degrees ( As a med student, I did an experiment with Dr Robert Cade, inventor of Gator Aid, on marathon runners and this was discovered). After the race, the hormones and neurotransmitters responsible for the vasodilation are still circulating and the runner continues to lose heat. Since he/she is no longer creating heat, hypothermia ensues. The runner never feels cold, because coldness is sensed by the skin, which remains warm. Similarly, when one has an adult beverage or 3, and sits on a bench in Central Park in the middle of winter, the alcohol dilates the skin vessels and there is a nice sensation of warmth, occasionally accompanied by hypothermia and death!

The rest of the day went well, though I was never able to shake my fear of falling. A bike rider who fears speed is like a gourmand who fears truffles. This a problem that needs to be solved. My instinct is to hit it hard pharmocolgically with extra espressos. Drugs are the modern day solution to all pysch problems and may only be a weak patch. This time I might stick with my buddy Freud and look into psychotherapy. In the meantime at least I learned a skinny guy needs to immediately descend, once the mountain has been conquered

My First Time

         

     
It was warm December night, typical for Miami Florida, 1967. I had finished my first quarter at Georgia Tech and was home for a couple of weeks, just before starting on my not so illustrious career at Pan American World Airways. The quarter had been a success from an academic standpoint but a disaster socially and culturally. I had no car, little extra money and was at an all boys school. I had not thought out the social angle myself, and what were my parents thinking, sending me, in the prime of my hormone rage, into a situation with such little opportunity to meet any women?

I was a nerd to boot, which did not help. I studied all week and on the weekends as well. Many of my classmates were valedictorians of their respective high schools and I was insecure about my abilty to keep up. Later I learned many had attended very small schools with inadequate prep for a place like Ga Tech. Despite living in downtown Atlanta, I had limited assess to movies and other cultural venues

At home I had my parents car to use. Ecstatic as they were about my acceptable GPA, more than me as I recall, they threw a few dollars my way in an effort to ease my tenuous financial situation. Adding to this good fortune, I was able to reunite with my high school girlfriend, who was also home from college. Without cell phones or even a regular phone in the dorm room, and no car to travel on the weekends, long distance relationships were almost impossible, and rarely did anyone, especially a nerd, even attempt to continue one.

My girlfriend was good looking. She had beautiful very white skin that stunningly contrasted with her jet black hair, excellent facial features and hazel eyes. She was diminutive but curvaceous in all the appropriate places. Her name was Marilyn which greatly added to her mystique from my perspective, having never fully recovered from Marilyn Monroe's death 3 years earlier. When I picked her up early that evening in the 1964 Buick Wildcat, I had no idea the night would evolve into one I would never forget.

In addition to being a nerd, I was also a philistine. I labored through assigned literature readings with little joy and less wonderment. I had never been to art museum, and  rarely to a concert. I did occasionally go to movies but never thought about them beyond the credits. That all changed in one night.

We decided to go see a new release at The Gables theater on Miracle Mile in affluent Coral Gables Florida, just a few miles from her house. The movie was called The Graduate, the lead played by Dustin Hoffman, someone we knew nothing about. We had not spoken to anyone who had seen it, and had zero expectations.

I remember watching the movie in a novel way, viewing it with an absorbing keen interest. I don't think I missed a single line but never had a clue what any character was going to say or what would next happen. I was first puzzled and eventually bewildered. I doubt I laughed at the funny parts, uncertain if the director meant it to be funny. When the credits ended, I was not able to get out of the seat. I was truly stunned.

We eventually made it to the traditional "parking" place behind some hospital and tried to figure out what it meant. We talked about it for quite some time, and BTW, nothing else "happened", sorry to disappoint those of you with prurient interests. My mind, For The First Time, was like a hornet's nest, disturbed, all parts buzzing with high energy. For more than a week I could not get the movie out of my head. I did not need to see it again. I was able to go over it scene by scene from memory, gradually coming to the realization I had  witnessed an iconic piece of work.

From that point on, I felt every movie, play, novel, piece of music or even a painting or building was potentially mind altering. That someone in our time, not necessarily a Shakespeare or a Mozart, would be able to create a piece of work that could tickle my soul, gave me an overriding optimism and a power to endure anything. All was good. Movies became my passion and shortly thereafter, The Ainsley Park Theater opened in Atlanta, showing first run Indies and Foreign Films. I practically lived there my last 2 years of college

So what happened to Marilyn? I used to worry about that one. Besides being a nerd and a philistine, I was a pretty poor excuse for a boyfriend. Had I scarred her for life and put her in a convent? I did not go back to Miami much and lost track for a long while. Several years ago, her good friend Kathy had a birthday party in North Georgia on a weekend I was riding my bike in the mountains. I got wind of the gathering through Kathy, with whom I had been in touch, regarding a family member of hers with a neurological problem. I managed to more or less invite myself. Marilyn was there with her husband, whom she had married right after college. She was fine, great actually. Her husband and I had a few similarities. He was a doc and bike rider. He appeared to be a fine product of thoughtful WASP breeding, not like moi, the somewhat disturbed product of two conflicting neurotic immigrant cultures, Irish and Sicilian. I immediately liked him a lot. He was bright, easy going and very nice to her.

Perhaps it was hubris, but I somehow felt I had been a positive influence on her choice. The 3 hour drive back to Macon, ordinarily a penance, was a delight

New York City

                                                     
There are a number of experiences which can be transformative. While I have never swallowed the concept " What you eat you are", I am convinced we have all been molded, for better or for worse, by our crossroad encounters. Having reinvented myself on a number of occasions, the results are usually intertwined with concurrent people, places or events. We all become a blend of seminal occurrences beyond any control, with contrivances of hopefully positive consequence. At age 19, I traveled to New York City with a definite plan to become a different person. Failing to do so seemed dangerous .

Paul Simon followed Bob Dylan who followed Woody Guthrie who likely followed someone else to New York City. Generations of painters, novelists, and dancers  have done the same. For many "The City" represented  recognition, fame and fortune. I enjoyed anonymity and had my own agenda. I was suffocating.

After World War II, the returning veterans, including my father, finished their training and education, married, had children and moved to the suburbs. Life in America became a classic fifties TV script. In my high school years, it was classes during the day, ball practice in the late afternoon, dinner with the family, one TV program, homework and bed. The weekends were generally filled with extracurricular functions directed through the high school. This was fine with me. I had a nice family and even an attractive girlfriend. Rarely did my mind wander. In college, there were slightly different rhythms. It was still a "script" however, which was no longer acceptable.

I attended Georgia Tech which had the largest cooperative educational program of any school in the country. "Co-op" students attended school for a quarter, worked for a quarter and returned to school over 3 calendar years, finishing the last 2 years conventionally. The job opportunities were protean, the locations, for the most part, stifling. Everyone appeared excited about career enhancement through the co-op experience. They signed on at the likes of a nuclear power plant, far away from any meaningful civilization. The thought of a permanent job in such isolated environs never crossed my mind. I needed New York City and enough money to live.

I was hired by Pan-American World Airways which was the only NYC job I found. There was no homework or brutal Georgia Tech type tests to worry about, so every night and every weekend was completely free. Living in Queens, a waste land of unattractive apartment buildings, I was within walking distance of the subway. As mentioned in an earlier entry, I was one the worst Pan Am employees on record, likely contributing to the Airline's downfall. Unconcerned, I was just happy to be finally living in New York and for 20 cents, within easy reach of the Imperial Borough of Manhattan.

I knew nothing about "culture" and suddenly it was everywhere. I was joined by a few like minded fellow travelers. My winter clothes, purchased by my mom in our home town of Miami, were predictably inadequate. Apparently naive to the concept of a clothing store or perhaps so out of it not to notice the locals' different attire, I nearly froze on our first nightly excursions. I solved this problem by always carrying a half pint of cheap scotch in my back pocket, taking a nip just before shivering. For $2.50 we could stand at the back of the Orchestra for all the great Broadway plays. There was free Shakespeare in Central Park, the Met, and  MOMA. I loved the small gallery photography exhibits, Andy Warhol films and acts such as Randy Newman playing  in a small mid town bar. Mentally energized, I was able to read a novel a week. It was here, not at Georgia Tech, where "education" became sacred. Incidentally, I haven't had a scotch since.

Five years earlier, sitting in a friend's room and listening to the radio, I heard the Beatles for the first time. I was astounded. The minute the song ended I told him "This will change everything.".  For me the change was suspended for awhile, but in New York City, it finally bloomed. Cultural education gave way to a general hunger for knowledge. Knowledge provided some confidence in making career decisions. It was there in New York City, I decided to go to medical school, initially more attracted by wealth of information I knew I would obtain, than the idea of actually being a doctor.

After 4 years of medical school in Gainesville, Florida  I had an opportunity for a one-year " return voyage" to New York. I had signed on for a 3 year neurology residency in Gainesville, but before this started, I could go anywhere for a mandatory one year of internal medicine training. I was passionate about contemporary music and had been reading about a nascent "underground" sound in New York City- Punk Rock/New Wave, rooted in performers such as Lou Reed, Iggy Pop and the New York Dolls, all of whom I loved. Most of my friends were into James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, Crosby, Stills and Nash, who to me were just OK. To see this first hand in its infancy was a huge draw. I signed up for a university program on Long Island, concerned about leaving Charlotte alone in the big city while I was on duty all night every third or fourth day. At CBGBs and Max's Kansas City, I was able to see almost all of those performers and to accurately predict who would really make it: Talking Heads, Patti Smith, The Ramones and the Clash (from London) had a better chance for success than Nick Detroit and the Void Oids, Television, and Neon Leon, though the latter groups did have cooler names.

However exciting and energizing the locale and the music, it wasn't enough to carry me through the year. My  first months as a "doctor" were a disaster. I sucked as a intern. I had incorrectly assumed the book knowledge, which I felt confident about, along with a little supervision, would translate to great success. One, or the other, or both, fell way short. In those days your contact with the resident, the immediate superior, was to him or her saying:
                           "Call if you need me, but don't call me."
 I was lucky if I spoke to an attending physician 10 minutes a month.

Overwhelmed by the patients suffering, and in the spirit of camaraderie, I had my first total meltdown. Staying up all night on call, blended into being unable to sleep on off nights. With no sleep, my marginal physician's skills gave way to near total incompetency. I wasn't even able to drive, and  had to have Charlotte take me to the hospital every day. I never looked out of the car window on the way in, for fear of seeing buzzards flying along side, so obvious were my shortcomings. While awake in the wee hours, I tried to read up on cases I was bungling, but I could not concentrate well enough to make any gains. If there was anything comical about this nightmare, no one seemed to notice. Puzzled by this dichotomy, I initially hoped I was being overly self critical. I eventually concluded no one up the chain of command gave a shit.

In a complete free fall I was giving up all hope of landing. I started looking around for those Queens type buildings from which to jump. Late one evening my mother called to say my brother's close friend Bobby had killed himself. Bobby was the most talented person I had ever known. He scored the highest grade on the entrance exam to our somewhat elite high school. He was the fastest runner, the most agile football player, and was chosen as the best lead guitar in all of South Florida by a well known area radio DJ, putting together the ultimate garage band. He was handsome and funny. After college he reminded me of Tom Buchanan in The Great Gatsby, previously a football star at Yale, and, despite still a young man, surmises "everything afterwards savors anticlimax". Likely this realization was more than Bobby could handle.

I am certain I had not shed a tear for greater than a decade. I dropped the phone and I sobbed uncontrollably for hours. I then fell into a deep sleep. When I woke the next morning, I felt perfectly normal. The anxiety which had tormented me for months seemed to have been wiped away as easily as raindrops on a car windshield. I immediately went to work reading and analyzing everything I could find relative to my patient responsibilities. " Never again", as Scarlet O'Hara vowed in Gone with the Wind, referring to being hungry, would I, referring to being ignorant, let this happen.

The connection of the physical, the sobbing, to the mental, was noted. There is something in my DNA, I learned, requiring intense physical activity to function adequately with this brand of stress, the likes of which, would  never cease, as long as I stayed in medicine. The trick was to address this need BEFORE the next crisis. I then dusted off my Atala , the beautiful white Italian steel bike now hanging over my desk at work, and I was on it every spare moment. Over the remainder of that year I became a pretty good intern, though, as before, no one seemed to give a shit.

I do not want to trivialize the tragedy of Bobby's death. It was a seminal event, likely more so, for many others as well. I have always had the unsettling feeling, that in a mysterious way, he died for my sins. I look forward to seeing him on the other side.

Ground Zero

Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter

Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here

Here comes the sun

Here comes the sun, and I say ....... *  

IT'S NOT ALL RIGHT. In fact it has been pretty freakin far from all right. 

Greetings. Sorry for the sabbatical.
It has been a tough Winter and, like several others in the past, I am lucky to have survived it. The recovery from The Fall was unnecessarily prolonged by unscientific suggestions introduced by an iconic Orthopedic professor circa 1970. He declared it was forbidden to walk or stand on the leg closest to this type pelvic fracture for a full three months. His view has gone unchallenged by the next two generations of Orthopedic surgeons, and reminds me of the medieval  'bleed the patient for any infection' position. It took 500 years for someone to notice 'bleeding' was not helpful.

I was told putting weight on the leg, transfers a force to your pelvis, through your femur and hip joint, precluding proper healing. This translated to the use of crutches without any weight bearing on my right side, and, needless to say, no bike riding either. The 'Theory' makes no medical sense. First of all the pelvic fracture was bolted together with two long screws and then internally belted by a large piece of titanium. It would have taken a jack hammer to move anything. Secondly, the force through the leg while standing is identical to the force your ischial tuberosity (butt bone) delivers to the pelvis when sitting. Hell, no one told me to sit with one cheek in the air as if passing gas, a skill, incidentally, I acquired long ago. While I'll concede walking could possibly deliver an extra force with each step if one bounces when moving, it is my contention, that if necessary, I can float while walking. There was no compelling reason for me to use crutches for 3 months

.
While the short lived physical pain from the injury was annoying, the resulting lack of physical activity took an emotional toll far more disturbing - mental pain being my Achilles heel. While I was able to return to work fairly quickly, it was hard to be inconspicuous, walking around the Hospital on crutches. There were the predictable queries of concern and it didn't take long for me to tire of telling the true story which was not just unflattering, but in reality, totally humiliating.

"You just fell off your bike without hitting anything or being clipped by car? Say it ain't so."
"I'm afraid it is kid"
"You just went down on your own???"
"Well....Yes."
Then, mercifully, people would shake their heads and walk away, no doubt muttering to themselves "The guy is a moron", quite the opposite image a consultant wishes to convey.

Within days I abandoned the truth and went creative:

 "I was jumped by a group of angry Neurosurgeons in the parking lot and had the shit kicked out of  me."

Each successive recount inspired more detail, along with a better explanation on what provoked them to do so. (I later noticed others doctors were steering wide to avoid the Neurosurgeons in the hallways.) The patients, burdened with their own challenges, could have cared less, if they noticed at all.

Unable to ride even a stationary bike, I had to find something physical to do. Swimming was recommended but I could not do so because of two torn rotator cuffs I was to have had repaired earlier last year, but for reasons too embarrassing to discuss, I bailed on just before the surgery. Seeking relief, I mentally scrolled back through all my previous physical passions, and eventually hit on an old friend of mine of whom I had never soured: Dirt.

Georgia Dirt Angel

I have always loved Dirt, and have messed with it in a variety of creative ways. I began manically digging  in the back yard when I was a toddler. Before the age of 5, my brother and I tried to go straight to China through the earth's center. Our parents brought that saga to a close when they decided  we were ruining the yard. I remember being far more upset by this unfair restriction than my brother, who clearly had a more keen sense of order. When under performing in Elementary school I was chided by my parents  I likely would turn out to be a "ditch digger" which, to me, seemed to be an ideal vocation

I never lost my love of the earth. Early in Med School I took up gardening and eventually completed a 3 month course to become a 'Master gardener'. I was introduced the science of dirt composition and how to best amend it. 'Dirt' became passe, the proper term being 'soil'. I know the difference but still prefer to call it 'dirt', no matter how alive it has become.

As a cripple I was able to hobble around the yard and work in my gardens, focusing on bringing the dirt to life. First I  constructed two huge worm reservoirs adding everything necessary to have them teeming with worms in short order. Charlotte gave me a small bench I could slide around on, and I spent hours removing EVERY weed in each bed. 'Compost' was delivered by the truck load and it was not much of an athletic maneuver to get on my tractor, which has both a front end loader and a large tiller off the back. Slowly I began to find my physical rhythm: Weeding, tilling, then adding  the worms and compost, working both in by hand. This was just enough activity over a long period in a beautiful setting to prevent total mental collapse.

In early Winter I was cleared to walk and even permitted to ride the bike, with the worrisome instructions not to fall off for 2 years?? I started on a pitiful recumbent stationary bike, then the rollers and eventually the real bike. With such a long hiatus, it has not gone well, note earlier allusion. Many body parts seem to have stiffened and it has been difficult to stay on the bike long enough to make significant gains. Being a permanent "geezer" seems a real threat. Perhaps I have placed too great an importance on physical conditioning, but it has always provided me with a type of grace, now gone. Once a very fit, legitimate rider, flying high and heading across the USA, I am now older and slower; literally and figuratively, back to ground zero. Spring is here and that will change.

* George Harrison  Abbey Road Inn

Dancing Feet

To the left and to the right with Nina Simone record

Recently found magic moccasins

For the past four weeks, I have been doing a lot of sitting, likely more than I have done in the last four years.  I fear my butt looks like a seat cushion turned inside out. I am forbidden to bear weight on the right leg or do any movement that rocks the pelvis. This includes driving, swimming, stationery bicycle, upper extremity cycling motion in the OT gym, beating the wife or that other thing I shouldn't mention. I am allowed to tap my feet while sitting and listening to music. I am advancing nicely with this new discipline and have spent a lot of time in front of my sound system.

Brother James was down from Atlanta last week and we set up my turntable. Apparently it is top of the line, a gift from Charlotte last Christmas. Mr. Mitch, an audio guy, among other accolades, let me know I needed a 'preamp' to get it working. The preamp had come from Amazon just before my brother arrived. Since our  collective electronic skills remain on a fourth grade level, we ended up calling Mr. Mitch twice for guidance before we were able to finally get the system working.  Then we had to look all over the house to find any vinyl records and we were only able to come up with a few. Charlotte claims I gave the rest away, but I know I am not that generous. Nice to find a number of Kinks albums in their peak, which was not the early Kinks. I forgot how good they were and I enjoy a pleasant deja vu feeling when listening to them and tapping my feet.

Sun shines on brother James doing a Dwayne Allman imitation from the cover of Live at the Fillmore East. The
photo on the album cover was taken in front of this brick wall across form the Capricorn Studio in downtown Macon 

As far as the newer stuff, I extend thanks to Callie and Claire for Mumford and Sons, and to Gabe and Callie for The Civil Wars - optimistic lyrics with those sad melodies really striking a nice chord with my current moods. They remind me of the Cowboy Junkies. Thanks also to Emily for Blitzen Trapper's Furr, Charlie for Radiohead (not new), Chesley for The Shins and Sarah for Sharon Van Etten. All this music has helped me negotiate my 'couch potato' stage.

I have advanced through Physical Therapy to high tech crutches, which has given me more freedom to move forward with near normal walking speed and little discomfort. For sideways moves over short spaces, I'll need to dig deep into my bag of potential tricks, having 'foot tapping' down to a fine science.

It is a good idea to pay attention to the moves and the shoes of performing artists. The most unique and radical one I recall was that of Elvis the Pelvis. Despite a tremendous amount of movement, quite provocative at the time, he generally remained on the same spot. Michael Jackson's moonwalk was somewhat difficult to master but enjoyable to watch and try to mimic. About 15 years ago, Charlotte, Sarah and I flew to Washington D.C. to see the traveling Johannes Vermeer exhibit. As you probably know, he was a 17th century Dutch Golden Age Baroque painter, felt by many to have been the greatest ever, even though there are only 25 or so surviving paintings. At that time someone put most of them together for a two city show. For weeks they were on display in Amsterdam and then to Washington D.C. for an equivalent period of time. It was supposedly easy to see the exhibit. All you had to do was show up on any day the museum was open, wait in a small line and receive a free ticket with a specific time. We waited until the last week to fly to D.C.. Unfortunately for us, Time and Newsweek magazines featured the show on their respective covers a week or so before our scheduled trip. Suddenly this was THE show to see. When we arrived, the line for tickets was backed up to Baltimore, and within an hour we were told, no more tickets.

We went into the museum to check it out and see what we could do. With so few paintings in the show, a makeshift gallery was constructed within a much larger space. We had come a long way and were not going to take "no" for an answer lying down. Charlotte and Sarah sat on a bench just in front of the exhibit entrance, and commenced sobbing. This is always an effective chick move. Though I was similarly disappointed, I was not quite able to display that degree of emotion. Soon my distraught Vermeer lovers scored two tickets from a sympathetic type having extra tickets for unclear reasons. I had to rely on my own wits rather than feigned hysteria.


Needless to say, security was tight. The museum did not want anyone walking away with these multi- million  dollar masterpieces, some less than12 inches by 12 inches. There was no way to get through the entrance where armed guards hovered over the vigilant ticket takers. I was able to fully circle the walled off show, noting no side entrances and a fairly wide exit where the viewers were spilling out two or three abreast. This was my only hope. I meditated over the price of my airline ticket. It has been said of Sicilians (I am half Sicilian) "They would  eat their children rather than lose money, and they love their children."

There were many guards around the exit but they were mostly chatting and in good spirits. Despite their overtly displayed fire power, I surmised they were not likely to open fire on someone in a tight crowd, merely sneaking into the show. If they had any motivation or mission, it was to stop someone running out of the exhibit who had pulled down a painting, an action certain to have set off an alarm. No alarm, no attention. I had the joint cased in ten minutes. I then needed a plan.

Dancing feet, do not forget the dancing feet. Luckily I was wearing a pair of black leather moccasins purchased from a Santa Fe Native American several years earlier. He claimed the shoes had magical powers.
            " What kind of magic" I queried
            " You will see" he replied
I'll add he asked a preposterous price only an idiot would have agreed to pay based on the workmanship alone. The shoes however have been good to me. I occasionally wear them to work when I am on call for emergencies and too tired to take any new consults. Mysteriously, I always receive very few calls while wearing this foot attire. One of my partners, having noted the unconventional footwear, once asked:   
                  "Who would possibly call on you wearing those ridiculous shoes?"
So there may be another explanation, but I have concluded that I am somewhat invisible while wearing these moccasins.

So the plan was to play Michael Jackson's Thriller in my head and moonwalk with my "magic shoes," relatively invisible, into the show at the exit, as the ticket holders were leaving. I would be pointing in the same direction as everyone else, hopefully attracting no attention. I started the record as I walked calmly to the exit. Staring straight ahead, I made no eye contact, a skill perfected years ago while living in New York City. I commenced the moon-walk after one very subtle pivot, thus blending into the exiting body mass. The ruse worked perfectly and I do not think a patron, much less a guard, noted anything awry. The painting were fabulous and I was able to join my tear stained family on the inside.

Again I am in need of some extra movement. Occasionally I am in too tight a space for a walker or crutches and need to go sideways. Becoming invisible with the magic shoes will not help. Who moved this way? The answer, James Brown.  Just a matter of finding the one leg James Brown sideways shuffle on U Tube. It will take a few days to get it down. I sense another minor victory soon. I'll need many more in the next two months to remain sane and some magic too. Where are those shoes?