The Shape Of A Heart

I am nursing some pretty painful injuries. My hip still hurts from a crash in June at Santos. I bent my ring finger back on my left hand and had to bribe a guy in Lowe's to cut off my wedding band, with bolt cutters. My ring is at the jewellers being Steve Austined and my finger feels like a Bradfordville link sausage, left on the grill too long, by a cheerleaders fund raising Mom. My ring finger on my right hand, was jammed in a crash in February. It refuses to return to normal and remains stiff after many months. It was the crash, that rang in the great string of crashes, I suffered this year. Today I put my pointer finger in between my big ring and my chain, while lubing up before a ride. I went from three to twelve o clock, before I realized I was about to lop off the end of a digit, with french revolutionist professionalism.

Oh yeah! I had a stroke, and I am the proud owner of a heart defect, which by the way will be added to my career as a Artist Manager, my life as a musician, and my neck issues, as things that my friends and blog devotees will not tolerate in conversations or in this generic google layout. *Yes, I was trying to break my own record for longest run on sentence.*

I have a headache and can't take the meds that will fix it. I am waiting to get scheduled for heart surgery. I am taking rat poison to stop clotting and have been ordered to cut back on my one and only vice: Tea consumption.

I know what you are thinking: He complains, therefore he is back to normal. You would be wrong on level that would make the fabricators of the bible recoil in abject horror. I am a happy dude. I got a pass from my heart Doc, to ride today. My friend Big Jim set up an impromptu ride with some folks that I was pretty sure didn't dig me. They seemed happy to see me back in a Lycra shell. They laughed. They were patient with my long answers to easy questions. They were relaxed and rode behind me. They turned around and headed back with me, when they really wanted to continue on at a pace they were used to. Not one warm gesture or expression was lost on me. I noticed every subtle act of kindness and tried with all my being to deserve it.

I have been showered with support and good wishes. I have had people from the local cycling community, familiar faces that I thought had no idea who I was, inquire for news from my beloved crew. I have had people from my past seek me out, that I have not spoken to in thirty years after hearing about my "event". My close friends and crew all went above and beyond, as I rambled through my emotional storm. Believe me when I say, I view myself as a general nuisance that no one would shed a tear over. So these kind thoughts, prayer circle's, Madonna candles, text messages, signed cards, and emails, not only caught me by surprise but literally would not let me be anything but positive and hopeful. It was simply too much good mojo to fight. I can't take any credit for getting better and/or lucky with the recent hurdle. I was willed over by friends, family, and most of all my wife.

My hands will heal. My hip will loosen up. My heart will be patched by a surgical magician. All these things will pass, but I promise you I will never forget what has happened. Not the stroke, but all the cool people that reached out to me, and held my sorry ass up when I wavered.

Thank you, I am undeserving, but grateful.

Now lets talk about something amazing and basic: I rode my bike at Fern, Tom Brown, and Cadillac today. It was grand. The pace was slow and the woods were filled with conversation about light wheels, 29'ers and future endurance events. I jammed the same finger that I got stuck in the chain, into a tree. It is a throbbing balloon animal of pain.....I couldn't be happier.

W.B.Z.N.

Heartbreaker or Stroke Me (you pick I'm tired)

I had just come off the hardest week off exercise I had ever done. Ten thousand yards in the pool, and a little over a hundred miles on my mountain bike, all in five days. I felt great. I was down twelve pounds in eight weeks. For the first time in years, I felt like I was on a mission.

Saturday morning was great. I had slept in for the first time that week. It was awesome not to be up at five A.M. I needed twenty miles and a couple hours on the bike to make my goal. I struggled through the big east loop and eased up the last two hills to my house. I needed to take my car to Darien, so he could check out my front end, so I just got under the hose, toweled off and threw some clothes on to get out the door as soon as possible. My wife and I have been shopping for a new car for her and had pretty much decided on a new Subaru Forrester. The IMBA discount made the deal really good and we just needed to see if they could get her a car with the options she wanted. I raced across town, to meet her at the dealership. We drove a car, made a deal and I was going to take LWB to the music store, to get some drum stuff for school.

I was hot, hungry and really thirsty. I was thinking I should get a Gator Aid, as I opened the car to get in. My phone rang and it was my brother Chris. Our entire gaggle of siblings was coming to town to celebrate the opening of his new restaurant downtown called "The Avenue". As we were talking my tongue began to feel like it was on Novocaine and then my lip felt funny. I told my son something was wrong and that my lip felt swollen. He thought I was having an allergic reaction, so he started looking for my inhaler. As I looked down at my console, my right arm checked out and my hand dropped the phone. My face began to droop and as I told my son to "call Momma" the words came out all garbled. Luckily Michelle had not made it out of the dealership parking lot due to traffic, and was there within seconds. When she arrived and looked in the car, I told her I was having a stroke and to call an ambulance. I can't explain it, but I just knew it was a stroke. I figured it was triggered by dehydration, but I knew it was a stroke.

The fire truck and ambulance came and I was getting really embarrassed. A couple of the Subaru guys are cyclists and all I could think about was that everyone would find out. The EMT's tested my reflexes and my concerns became focused on my son, who now looked a little frantic. They were asking him questions about what happened and I could hear him, my wife and the EMT all talking in a swirl of words and confusion. I was really afraid that when I got out of the car, I would fall down and I couldn't bear the thought of my son seeing that, so I grabbed the EMT's arm and whispered to him:

"Please, no matter what happens, don't let me fall in front of my boy."

I guess I had that intensity (that people accuse me of) because for some reason the guy looked a little scared and said:

"Okay, okay, don't worry we'll get ya."

They loaded me up into the meat wagon and started the EKG and an IV, and did some more reflex tests.

You can always tell when you are in deep shit at the emergency room, because they take you right in. They wheeled me in to an ER nurse, and with in a couple seconds a doctor appeared and ordered a CT scan. The next few hours were a blur of tests: MRI, sonograms of my carotid arteries, another MRI, of my neck and head, sonogram of my femoral arteries, and numerous visits from nurses, doctors and something called a "Hospitalist" which near as I can figure, is a man or woman that has an Indian accent so thick, they aren't aloud to do real doctoring, and to prove they are incapable, they don't really seem to be familiar with your case. They just stop by like a retail sales manager to make sure your "Stroke Experience" was all you hoped it would be. I fully expected one of them to give me a survey card. It never happened.

The first night they put some inflatable stockings on me to keep me from having another stroke, but I was pretty sure they just didn't want me walking around and asking questions any more. I also had a portable vital signs thing that I had to carry around. All this makes sleeping a real endurance sport. That's what the Xanax is for I guess, that's good stuff.

All my tests were negative, my cholesterol was 147, and all my other blood chemistry was perfect. My arteries, heart, and pulmonary system were all fine. Everyone was baffled. When my Neurologist found the stroke damage on my MRI, I was really disappointed. I was really hoping that another disc in my neck was screwed up. No suck luck.

Sunday, they did a procedure where they numb your throat, give you some happy juice and stick some echo thing down your gullet. I gotta say; of all the thrill rides I went on this weekend this one, had the highest pucker factor. It turns out that I have a heart defect called: Patent Foramen Ovale Defect. When I was born the two sides of my heart did not heal, so blood sometimes leaks into the wrong side of my heart. This allowed a small clot (that normally would have been filtered by my lungs) to get past security and go straight to my brain. The little BASTARD! then did damage in three separate areas before it went (Deity of choice) knows where. They are going to go up though my thigh and repair the defect (much like they do to install stints). That little joy ride will happen soon.

I had another CT with a dye solution (I don't recommend it) to make sure my lungs weren't showing any signs of clotting and then we waited for the neurologist to read them for a few hours. He came in to see us (on his day off) and got in my face a little, because he didn't feel like I had a realistic grasp on my situation. He sort of backed up the hearse and let me smell the roses until he was sure I would do what he told me, and then at 9:30 they let me come home.

I have some issues with my middle, ring, and pinkie finger on my right hand. They work but feel like the messages are getting delayed from my brain. My right arm works but has some delay issues as well. No one seems to notice it but me, but my speech takes a little more concentration than before. It is usually worse when I first wake up or when I am tired. The experts tell me both are normal.

Good stuff: I never lost consciousness or any memory. I didn't lose any vision. I have way more movement in my hands than most after a stroke. I can play drums a little (this was a big worry). I can hold handlebars and work shifters and brakes. I can also do a wheelie (though I will NEVER admit how I found this out).

I am determined not to take myself and my family to that dark place I went after my neck issues. I am hopeful and positive about recovery, even if it does not go the way I want it to. For now I just want to make it through my heart procedure with out complications and do what the Doc's tell me (within reason). The staff at TCH was very good to me as well as the Fire rescue guys (if anyone knows the guys in the pics please let me know who they are). The guys at the Subaru dealership could not have been better. If you know any of them, please thank them for me. I am very thankful to be alive and alert. Everything else will reveal itself in the future. My wife was an absolute rock through this whole ordeal as was my boy LWB (for calling Mom and alerting the Subaru guys). My oldest boy, future hopeful med student, diagnosed me well before the doctors. He watches "House" and "Mystery Diagnosis" and he was never worried. Smart like his Mom that one.

Thanks to all, for the love and positive thoughts. I promise I will be pissing you all off again in no time.

Love,

W.B.Z.N.

C'mon C'mon

I am always a little amused when people make declarations of love. Some people need to "declare" love for spouses and children, or to proclaim their need to "spend time" with a spouse, or family member. I find the behavior odd, like saying you need to breath or eat. It always seemed to me that it was a given and the people that made the least of these declarations, had the most stable lives and relationships. I find it equally odd when people pretend that their families or friends don't annoy them, or that they don't need breaks from said folks. My point is, relationships are weird. We love people that drive us nuts. We need to be around our family and sometimes it is healthy for us to be alone.

I have been riding with my son quite a bit over the last few months. It is a little tougher being a bike Dad. It is twice as hard to get ready. There are twice as many mechanical issues, it is twice as expensive. Instead of only having to motivate yourself, you must now be a host to a little person that (most of the time) doesn't know what he is feeling, why he is feeling it, or how to deal with all the residual energy those feelings cause. Like most things I have been passionate about, the perfect days are few, but they occur just enough to keep you to keep you on the hook. When they do happen, there is nothing better.

The downside to this is; I don't get to ride with my friends as much. It wasn't bad in the beginning because LWB could only ride a couple days week, and most days, those rides were short. I could do an easy ride with him, then set out on my own, or catch the group ride later. LWB is getting pretty fit and he has grown (literally) a lot this year. He has become a stronger more experienced rider and he is able to do longer tougher rides than ever before. This has stretched the time between crew rides more and more. It was always the goal for him to be a rider capable of being on the crew rides. When he rides with us, I feel bad inflicting my language and subject filters on the crew. They did not decide to have a kid and it is not their fault he isn't old enough to talk about the various attributes of female runners body parts, or how drunk someone got the night before, or any other adult, politically incorrect subjects that make rides with the boys such great escapes from real life. I live in constant fear that they will recount some tale of my past exploits that my boy is not ready to process. When you factor in that the crew is filled with mythical people he has been hearing stories about for years, and that he so badly wants to be around the riders he idolizes, the balancing act is delicate.

The rare rides I get to be on with (adult only) crew have created another weird side affect: I am way too stoked and I want all those rides to be perfect. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and completely unrealistic. Given enough time (and Irish heritage) allows me to completely edit out all the bad footage and only run the highlight reel, over and over. I show up on adult only rides thinking they are all going to be technically great, super funny and that everyone is as stoked as me. This usually leads to disappointment. I forget that they ride together all the time, they are in bad moods, and that they don't want to recant every detail from all the time since we last rode together. I am also slower, from adjusting my riding style for the grommet and the large number of beginner/junior rides we attend. So on top of getting my feelings hurt, I usually get a good ass kicking to go with my reality check.

When I ride with my son a little part of me is pissed I am not riding harder or with the crew. When I ride with the crew, I miss my boy and I am reminded of slow I am. All in all, I am a lucky dude. I am lucky to have friends. I am lucky to have a kid that rides well. I have even enjoyed riding with some new folks I have met on the Mingo group rides. As with all things, these issues will stabilize without any input from me. Change is hard, and constant.

I'll see you on the trails (eventually).

W.B.Z.N.

Different Strings

I suppose it is the ungrateful of me to expect great times to last forever. People and times change. It is the only thing you can depend on remaining constant. Eventually agendas diverge and everyone must do what is right for them. I must do the same for myself. I must forgive those on paths different than mine and I must not be so naive to expect forgiveness in return.

There are a lot of trails out there. After a great trip with my son last week, I had a revelation: Monotony is something you do not have to accept. Adventure and diversity is just a car ride and a few hours away. There is more to life than trying to make the same old shit seem interesting. I am tired of being on everyone else's ride. I want to be on MY ride for a change.

This much I know: nothing bicycle related brings me more joy than watching my son ride. Even when I am gripped with fear, watching him roll into and out of lines I am afraid to ride. I have waited forever to get to this point with him. I will not be denied that pleasure by anyone or anything. It is a fleeting chapter, and in a blink he will be faster than me, off at college, riding with his friends, or off the bike and onto something else. I can't apologize for enjoying what I deserve. I have missed too much in the past, and I would like to have this one thing I managed not to mess up.

So if I seem distant, or uncooperative, please give me a pass. I don't mean to offend anyone. I am just doing the right thing and it makes me happy.

W.B.Z.N.

The Weary Kind

The chair was old as was the rug his feet rested on. They were nestled in warm frayed socks and separated from the floor by slippers. He was surrounded by old things, books and wood. A study was a fixture in his life as it was in his father's before him. He grew up knowing that men had studies. Places to go and think and read and retreat. All his life he had fussed over it, cleaned it, and arranged the mementos of his life. The things he was most proud of were placed in areas of prestige to catch the eyes of those that entered. But no one really ever picked up on the smoke signals he sent. The things that were to hard to say. The hidden codes in all he did, hoping someone would decipher and understand the struggles, hopes and sins.

He regarded his own hand resting motionless on the chair arm. It sat as if waiting for a command that would never come. If the eyes are the window to the soul, his hands were the journal of his life. A map of everything he had done, all his sweetest and bitter moments were carved into those hands. They began aching in his twenties he was fond of saying he was a living barometer. No cold front or rain storm could catch him unaware, for the ache in his hands announced their intent long before they arrived. He thought it was peculiar how the fingers curled upward and as if they had been molded around an invisible tool. Was it a stick, a handlebar, the rail of a surfboard, or the body of a pen? They were bent by a life of effort, futile and productive. He sent all those notes out into the world. He hit the drums a million times on stage and in the dark quiet of practice. Did any of the arrows hit a target? Had anyone heard? He had written secretly his entire life. Journals of all the places he had played. There were boxes of lyrics, stories, and love letters. Desperate poetry and pleading testimonials to the ones who turned away or were pushed out of sight by fate. He wished he had sent them. Those fears seemed so silly now. If nothing was meant to come from the failures of love, he would have been comforted by the knowledge they knew how he felt, in their time. He closed his fingers and opened them again just to make sure he could. He thought of all that delicate skin, covered in chill bumps that rose to meet his fingers. He closed his eyes. The whispers and moans, and the kaleidoscope of faces, each one marking a period of growth and a loss that would never be understood. Each was frozen in his mind. Some were girls, some were young ladies, and then there was the woman. She had watched over his hands for years rubbing the pains out. She had bandaged them, and lifted them in and out of slings. She put a ring on one and placed two boys in them. She stood by as they hit walls, the faces of real and imagined foes and as they were wrung together in the dark hours.

There were photos on the shelves, ancient outdated things printed on paper. The boys were in his hands and then their shoulders were under them and their hands became the hands of men. They were shaken as partners, friends and equals. Then they waved goodbye, opened doors for short visits and patted the heads of their little ones. Now his hands waited for something, whatever was next. He panned the room he once longed to spend relaxing time in alone. All those years he spent busy and rushing from one thing to the next, trying to make a mark, betrayed him now. He had always just wanted to have a few quiet moments, and now they were closing in to swallow him. All that time gone forever like water through his beaten hands.

He dreamed of propelling his young body through the water of his youth. That turbulent hissing brew that scared and compelled him. The foaming soup that he was as comfortable in as his own bed. His mind failed in menial details of his life, bills to pay, pills to take, but he remembered with gleaming clarity, certain days with his brothers and friends. The green rolling countryside of the Laniakea, and the vibrating translucent water. The rolling foil that passed over head as he ducked to escape the power. A turtle swimming beside him. The comfort of the jetty and his home break. He reached out as if he could touch them, those precious lucid scenes that rolled out before him. He enacted a primal motor response to the visions of the past. He opened his eyes to the room and the amber light that awaited his return to the present, with the patience of a jailer.

There was a picture of his friends and him, standing on an old trail, long gone and forgotten. It was just a day and a ride like countless others they had. They ripped through them like scrap paper and tap water never knowing that with each passing day they were running out. What was a mundane event, was now a rare jewel, priceless and sold cheap, before the real value was known. He held the wood frame. The crew was there. His boy was there, as was his friend. He wished he could go back and tell them how fleeting the special rides were. His mouth lifted at the corners and he tapped the frame. He lifted it back to the shelf.

The things he remembered most were the little things. The light hitting his wife's face, the boys attacking him in the hall. That great Thanksgiving swell. His sons getting their first waves. His friends yelling in the woods. Night rides and dancing beams of light in front and behind. The things that had no photos to mark their occurrence, were all the most vivid and played out in the wooden room like a movie on the walls of his eyes.

Those hands had served him well. The aches and scars were monuments to all the adventures brilliant and ill conceived, both looked back on now with equal reverence. He wouldn't change a line or a wound. He twisted the blanket around his arms and hands to fight the cold ache. He nodded off to visit those magic flecks of light. Those liquid drops of days, that trickled between his fingers and flowed away, down to the streams and rivers into the ocean, never to be seen again. He twitched in his sleep as he rose to catch waves again, tried to take a dirt corner too fast, or to reach for the woman and the children in that mirage. In these rare dreams he was the man he once was. The cold couldn't touch him and the darkness lost it's grip. He was playing. He was a singing. He was a riding. He was with his friends and family. It was all as it should be, and he slept forever in the warmth of his loves and life.
W.B.Z.N.

Help

Caught in the grip of obsession and indecision.


W.B.Z.N.

Putting On The Ritz

It's funny when deprived of something, how you can convince yourself you hate it. I have used this technique to recover from disbanded bands, one sided romances and jobs I've been asked to leave. Since Shimano is never going to make a Dura Ace C1-7 neck gruppo and my stock parts are getting squeaky, I decided road riding sucked. It was a little easier to take the denial route. Oh sure, I made a half hearted effort to run a higher stem with drops. The bike handled like a Yugo with a V-8. Then Big Worm took the bike to the lab, and Frankensteined that biotch. He gave it back to me with flat bars, rapid fire shifters and bar ends. The results looked cool, but the bike got real scary over twenty mph. It danced like Peter Boyle and people moved away from me like I was an escaped mental patient.

I gave up. After my extended recliner engagement a few years ago, I made deals with (Deity of Choice) faster than a Hummer salesman. Could I just ride a recumbent a few times a week? Could I maybe ride my MTB on the side walk? People heal and forget all those desperate hours, but I never will. I figured (Deity of choice) took my road bike, for the same reason he closed The Mill, took Northern Exposure of the air, and ended my tenure as a bush league manager of a one hit wonder; because he/she/it/wave/particle couldn't let mortals have it all. You can either bitch and moan or push the rock up the hill. The blood of my beloved Raleigh was dripping off the alter and the Mayans where playing soccer with its head. I had to ride the MTB and move on.

A funny thing kept happening: I would try friends road bikes and I noticed the longer ones (even with low stems) felt good. As a last ditch effort (and to make the rig sellable if all failed) The Large Segmented Night Crawler, put a longer stem on the Blue Bomber. I have done two Joe's rides with an acceptable amount of discomfort. It happened just in the nick too. Even though our trails are getting better by the minute, it was a wee bit monotonous doing the MTB thing. You can only pretend you are "Ricky the Cabana Boy" so many times before the novelty wears off. Eventually you are the same dweeb you've been for years, wearing some stupid white shorts. When that happens, the smell of cocoa butter is not so sweet. Every so often the venue must change, or the gig starts to stink like old fish.

The two Joe's rides I have done where the best rides of the year. You couldn't pry the smirk off my face with a crow bar. I will never be a smart rider in the peloton (my panicked stint at the front last night is proof). If I ever do anything cool on a road bike it is purely motivated by fear and nerves. I am the biggest dork that ever rode Joe's. I promise you I am cutting up, sprinting for yellow signs, and having more fun than anyone out there, and that makes me the winner.

Here's hoping (Deity of choice) doesn't send a group of Transylvanian rednecks up the hill with torches.

W.B.Z.N.