Campground Life 101: Unique, Yet Strangely The Same

Campground Life 101: It can get pretty lonely here.

Though there’s no shortage of people here - someone is always around to talk to if you need it - it doesn’t mean it’s a person with whom I’d care to speak.

There is a painfully evident cultural gap between people here no matter the reason they are here, and not all of us are residents.

Many, like Sophie and I, live full-time in an RV. Others come and go in the manner that seasonal summer campers and transient laborers/skilled workers who live in campers do as their economic obligations require.

While these people live in their campers full time, the place they truly call home, “where the heart is,” is someplace else.

Their outlook on the place I and the other full-timers here call home naturally differs, and the reason is simple. Sophie and I are as transient to them as, well, they are to us.

And the fact remains that, among “us,” vast disparities exist. However, this doesn’t imply anything negative by any means.

Granted, some of these cultural differences go beyond traditional social or (fairly) superficial differences, such as liking country music more than rock music.

Or perhaps some might have humorous tendencies that lean more toward Larry the Cable Guy than they do any of the polished,  male-dominated, shirt-and-tie late night network hosts. You get the idea.

For my part, I grew up listening to rock music. However, I can appreciate country music and all music, really, on its merits based on musicians’ technical skill, live performance quality and, yes, song lyrics and relevance to my life.

I also get Larry the Cable Guy’s humor, and humor from all over the spectrum, really, though I really do prefer slightly more sophisticated comics. After George Carlin died, any enjoyment of another comic’s vulgar observations went with him.

But I indulge myself with the above examples in other, probably very different ways than my neighbors.

For example, I prefer listening to jazz music at any time of the day, whether I’m waking up and making coffee or slip-sliding away to La-La Land at one a.m., after writing online content like this.

I also prefer watching video documentaries and, well, writing. I enjoy focusing on my blog and writing elsewhere about subjects of relevance to me.

But that doesn’t mean I haven’t had my share of crazy nights at basement parties where beer comes in kegs, and not cans or bottles.

And where “smoke ‘em if you got ‘em” was a silly phrase we’d shout out about (nicotine-I grew up in Pennsylvania!) cigarettes or, on special nights, cigars.

We played music at ear-splitting levels that, even back then, concerned me that I’d develop long-term hearing damage. I probably did.

The difference is that I got all of that out of my system as a teenager and, (possibly another difference) while as an undergrad.

Those days and nights are filed away in my mind as a fun time, to be occasionally revisited on warm, moonlight nights or when being surprised by an old song that triggers a fond memory.

But just as I knew then that the music was too loud and the cigarettes potentially (okay, probably) harmful to my body, I also knew it served a very important purpose.

“Blowing off steam” is the cutesie term we give it, but you know what I mean. Those parties back then, like the triathlons and the road bike riding and racing I did as an adult served the same purpose, decades later.

But here’s why I don’t find fault in my neighbors who, as parents of grade school kids, still smoke and drink, sometimes a bit too much:

With the exception of things once almost coming to blows here during one late Friday night piss-up, I grew up in a family where cigarettes and beer and sometimes other booze on occasion was not uncommon.

I’m not talking so much about bourbon, whiskey or even rum, but In fact, it was quite accepted, and I believe my parents, who are very simple people saw mixed drinks as a sort of sophisticated idea. “It’s what people who have money do,” they thought, though if the subject arose they’d be quick to state “I can’t stand those rich snobs,” and often worse.

When I was an impressionable kid I saw all of that, and when I was eighteen I even experimented with other, equally curious kids doing the same thing. It was a positive social experience. And, like the partygoer who’s had one too many and barfs on their shoes, or who’s endured their first hangover, we learned what can happen if we push our limits too far.

But I’m not judging anyone on the merits of pushing their limits too far. After all, I nearly died on a busy street one Friday night in my mid-40’s after having been so high and moving so fast I didn’t realize a car pulled out in front of me.

I didn’t have time to stop, and I slammed right into the car. In this case, however, I was enjoying an endorphin high; I was on a road bike training ride following a long day at the end of a long first week at a new job. To be sure, it’s not my lack of judgment that nearly got me killed but that of the motor vehicle driver.

*Note:
It’s not a crime to ride a bicycle or drive a car, for that matter, while under the “influence” of endorphins any more than it would be to drive under the influence of a funny comic’s jokes or a sad audiobook played on the car stereo. Safety is what’s paramount in any case, for everyone out there on the streets.

I was 110% involved in road bicycle racing then and at my mental and physical peak. Never was I stronger or sharper and, on that evening, I’d done some hill climbing intervals I never could believe I was strong enough to perform.

It was a fabulous endorphin high, unlike any before or since. And, given cycling’s innately positive fitness benefits, I’d no reason to believe I was in any danger. After all, I’d done it a million times before, so what could go wrong?

Talk about learning lessons about limits and what can happen if/when we push them too far! No matter what I learned about myself as an impetuous kid, nothing would have prepared me for the decision I had to make out on the road that evening.

In that accident, I lost my arm and nearly my life. Since then, because of my limited ability to train at such a high level I usually just walk in the hills with Sophie for exercise now.

Sometimes I get an abbreviated mountain bike ride in, much to the amazement of some of my neighbors. “I can’t believe you can do that,” they tell me.

But my cycling skills are tenuous at best, for my memory is very state-dependent. Once I throw a leg over the saddle again, I’m transported to that wonderful space my mind and body once occupied there, just before my accident.

Off the bike, I can come across as matter-of-fact about the loss of endurance cycling as the one activity that defined me above all others.

But I believe this nonchalance is a survival mechanism that keeps me from being swept away by the grief that can only come from the loss of this magnitude of importance.

Less cardio training, for me anyways, has led to a dramatic drop in my (epilepsy) seizure threshold and an increase in ccside effects from my medication.

While I have long adapted to my new life-the accident was only five years ago-I’ll always miss the “old me.” How could I not?

But I’m learning that my real challenge is, just as with my teenage party years, to also put all of those marvelous blowing-off-steam moments of my adulthood into a safe space of their own.

Moving forward, I’ve found heroes befitting of my new physical status. As an able-bodied cyclist, I was merely one of a zillion guys my age in peak physical condition, even with all the strength I had then.

The man I am on a bicycle today, even with only half the strength I had back then, will give me more power than I would ever have imagined.

People have approached me simply to tell me how amazing they think it is that I can still ride, and I agree. Disabled athletes in general inspire me, and they always have.

I’m sure that I had my moments as an able-bodied cyclist when I’d see a disabled cyclist (differently-abled, thank you very much) and think “I don’t think I could ever…”

Having been back in the saddle again, despite the emotional and physical confusion that accompanies the sheer joy I can still while riding, I’ve changed my thinking.

When I consider differently-abled cyclists like myself I now think “I know I can…”

Today, I still may shed a tear or two when I see other men out riding; they can remind me of the strong man I once was as an able-bodied rider. Even so, I’m confident in the knowledge that I can feel that again, anytime.
The only thing I have to embrace about it-which has proven to be the most difficult of all-is that, this time, IT’S DIFFERENT.

Given all I’ve shared in this post I think you can understand why I sometimes feel a little lonely here. Not many others can share similar experiences involving endurance sports, or understand the joy it once brought and the grief I can still feel.

Many folks here are retired, and most others are hard-working, salt-of-the-earth types. Almost all of them would help me out with any thing, any time, for they are good people that way. I’d like to think I could do the same for them. It is, in itself, a good feeling I’d never have foreseen ten years ago.

Still, some time, some how, I wish I could have a moment or two over with old friends. To savor the moment of just being on the bike, on a training ride in the middle of nowhere or a race course in downtown Longmont or Louisville or Boulder, etc.

Selfish thinking, to be sure, even more so when I consider how I wish I could discuss these things with my neighbors here. But man, are they good at what they do know and, being largely good people, I’ll always be grateful for their neighborly friendship.

Sometimes Something Just Needs To Be Said.

 Sometimes Something Just Needs To Be Said.

I'm lending my voice to a divisive and destructive situation that involves all of us, Americans and World Citizens alike.

My comments here have been said before by many pundits and writers, in their own style and likely for larger audiences. But I believe in the power of numbers, so I’m saying it again, and my words are no less important.

Firsthand experience has taught me a particularly cruel lesson of the crushing vulnerability and disparaging futility implicit in facing alone self-serving powers greater than myself.

I know that my voice counts, and may even hopefully inspire others. At best, they might find a cathartic comfort in speaking on behalf of what they also believe is just.

At the least, they may grant me the good grace to validate their unspoken feelings and the comfort that accompanies the knowledge they will never be alone in their thoughts.

The door will always be open to them, and the proverbial welcome mat will remain out for those wishing to make their voices heard at some future time.
And so it is.

My thoughts today were inspired by a congressman who expressed his plans to draft the articles of impeachment against the President.

I was struck by his clarity and his candor, and of how much I missed the sound of a well-worded and downright intelligent voice speaking on behalf of my country.

His rationale was sound and one of a handful of similar impeachment plans being pursued by House members. I share their desire for a change, and appreciate their efforts on behalf of all Americans.

As part of the disabled community everywhere, I’m expressing my rationale here. Perhaps it’ll be one voice heard among many that will be a part of the necessary agent for change in the White House.

What kind of country has the US become, I wonder, when the articles of impeachment put forth by Congressional members are far more articulate and detailed than any legislative proposals, spoken or written from the president himself?

Save for misogyny, blatant class and racial biases, attacks on the free press and other negative distractions meant to divert public attention away from tax returns and questionable Russian influence, presidential utterances carry little substance at all.

But his ever-present divisive agenda, sometimes brash and other times lurking at the gates of our subconscious, describes his real objectives and his true nature.

Grand campaign promises that have yet to be kept, not realistic legislative goals have always been what’s fueled his success. But reality has asserted itself on our president, and it’s had a decidedly peculiar way of thwarting his plans. “Someone,” he thinks, “must pay.”

He bullies anyone and anything he sees as “against him” vis a vis childish name-calling and intentional and irresponsible flip-flopping on others’ decisions. In his world, there must always be someone with whom he’s in conflict.

Subject matter counts little to him. It’s the act of saving face, his term for “being a winner” that trumps everything, even common sense.

He is a master at cloaking hateful rhetoric in the American flag and marketing it to certain receptive audiences.

He’s publicly stated “I love uneducated people” and indeed, he does. It’s how he expresses his personal philosophy that “there’s one born every minute.” He’s all-powerful and all-knowing, even in the face of all evidence to the contrary.

In the House and Senate, Trump has proven himself a liability to any agenda, a blustering embarrassment to the country, and to the Free World as a whole.

It's no longer "too bad" that he's incapable of engendering unity at home or exemplifying diplomacy abroad. With Trump, racial and class division has risen to new levels, as it must for him.

For only in a culture of mutual distrust and common fear can an unscrupulous figure like Trump successfully ply his hateful and divisive rhetoric. This applies to everyone, everywhere, not just the US.

Funny thing is, those other world leaders, to whom he regularly condescends, have typically come by their elected office through legitimate means. And they are most certainly “educated people” in their own right.

But Trump’s pointed remarks toward them, which one US senator characterized as befitting “junior high,” is but another attempt to deflect attention away from the questionable origins of his own position.

But, alas, like so much else that emanates from this administration, it is but one in an endless procession of untruths. Falsehoods. Lies.

Please understand that these words aren't borne of spite or vindictiveness. Rather, they are deeply rooted in the knowledge that a demeanor befitting the office of American president carries with it greater grace and influence than the current president will ever know or be capable of displaying.

A man in a suit, accompanied by a woman in heels, en route to the safe periphery of an area that’s been devastated by a hurricane is merely a photo op, not a decisive action. It makes no sense. But, by now, anything that doesn’t defy common sense is questionable, not vice-versa.

So how is this possible? How have things come to this? What Happened?

My conclusion is that we’re witnessing, in Trump, the result of a combined spoiled childhood in which the word “No” was never enforced, if ever used.

It’s also a world out of which he never grew. He remains stuck, in his words and his actions, anywhere between his terrible twos and his defiant adolescence.

His exact temperament cannot be predicted any better than any child’s might be, for no moral compass appears there to guide him. Thus, childish verbal expressions of his child-like worldview dominate his speech.

On Puerto Rico, for example, he slowly described it, albeit correctly, as “an island, surrounded by big water, ocean water,” etc.

Statements like these I’ll never grow used to hearing and, as I said earlier, I miss the sound of articulate and intelligent speech emanating from the White House.

But this may be by design, for the president is clearly not some thoughtful political outsider looking to impress his groundbreaking ideas on the tired Washington establishment.

Rather, it’s the opposite and there’s no delicate way to put it: He cannot dazzle us with brilliance, he’s just baffling us with bullshit.

Since I’m not writing for publication elsewhere, I reserve the right to put it this way, though I do apologize if I’ve offended anyone’s sensibilities.

But it’s true, and I also believe it’s criminal for a grown man to lie as consistently as he does, and for his sophomoric responses when confronted with the truth that belies his claims.

He’s put a lifetime of effort into polishing his “victim” role and, in his seventies has turned it into an art form. “Believe me,” says the consummate liar and, somehow, some do.

Reality hasn’t yet asserted itself on them, and it may never. But the facts remain, as the special prosecutor will eventually point out.

Which brings to mind a popular mantra which Trump can still incite his dwindling base to chant. My version, however, is slightly modified but succinct enough to send his He-can-dish-it-out-but-he-can’t-take-it meter off the charts:
Lock Him Up! Lock Him Up!
Lock Him Up!

But even this is unlikely to deter his childlike worldview. Like the snotty little boy who realizes he’s lost a game of checkers, before the winner can claim their rightful victory, Trump upends the game board, scattering the pieces all over before stomping off in a pique of angry self-pity.

Except that he's a grown man, with access to the nuclear codes. “The most powerful toddler in the world,” late night tv host Steven Colbert recently dubbed him.

But what if the child-Trump perceives himself as slighted by, let’s say, another childlike leader with nuclear codes? Will the world end up as the game board that gets kicked over in a giant mushroom cloud?

Is it possible that Trump can be trusted to not find solace in eating another piece of "the most beautiful chocolate cake" while sending nukes off to North Korea as he did with Tomahawk missiles to Syria?

Let's make this nightmare end, instead of standing by as Mutually Assured Destruction Again becomes the shadow under which we must all exist. How? By finding our voices and making ourselves heard.

So we know who we’re dealing with now in our president, and it almost goes without saying that every bureaucratic culture, like the self-serving culture Trump promotes, flows from the top down.

Even in the best of circumstances we will meet roadblocks to overcome, challenges to circumvent, and crises to resolve.

But these are strengthening experiences, tests of our resolve that will prove us to be stronger with every successful endeavor we undertake.

The reason I discussed Trump in such detail was not just because it needed to be said. Rather, it’s because it already had been said.
Sometimes, some things simply need to be said.

And regarding the efforts of the disabled community, I believe there remains much to be said.

When I can, and where I can, I intend to make my voice heard in the most constructive way in helping make good things happen.

Informed, no nonsense statements, expressed with good judgment, kindness and peace will be my guide.

These qualities do not imply any weakness or vulnerability. They simply provide a solid grounding upon which I can stand in diligently supporting that which I believe without fear of retribution: My rights as a disabled person, and the rights of my disabled community.

Beyond the nuts-and-bolts of advocacy certification, finding my voice and tone in accomplishing a desired objective is one of my goals in participating in this program.

Thanks for the opportunity to learn how to make a positive difference in our lives.