It’s been a busy few days and it wasn’t until this morning I decided to make some notes I’d planned to write since last February’s ordeal. If nothing else I thought doing so might be healing, for that’s how things tend to go when I commit my thoughts to writing.
I also thought it’d be interesting to review my thoughts on the upcoming conclusion of the unusually-named “supervised release,”* a vestige of the weird legal side of last February’s experience.
It’s felt like a nagging discomfort, on the level one might feel when stepping into a puddle with only one foot. One shoe remains dry and fine. But the wet shoe, with foot firmly ensconced within its wet and clammy sarcophagus feels very different. And, though you know your sock and shoe will eventually dry, chances are that, unless you squeak when you walk no one will know about it but you.
It’s an idiotic metaphor to be sure but it’s after midnight and I’m low on ideas. A snowy stormfront rolled in this afternoon to redefine my notion of “excruciating” and, though my body only slightly smarts now my brain is burnished (see what I mean?). Anyway what metaphor would be appropriate then? Living with only one arm? That’d be fine I’m sure, but what the hell would I know about that?
2017 brought little of anything new into my and Sophie’s lives together.** In the absence of something highly memorable, past years seem little different from each other.
What I’m realizing though is that I’ve been working through so much past trauma that my emotional recovery from last February blends right in with everything else. Inwardly it’s been great, though outwardly things seem largely uneventful. Still waters run deep, right?
Overall, 2017 was a humdrum, unremarkable year punctuated by the usual bouts of nerve pain, comfort food binges and spectacular doggie walks.
Here at Horsetooth, Sophie and I have lived by necessity, not by design. Still, it’s not an accident that we’re in Ft Collins. We like this town and we even have some history here together. I first lived here in 1993, and Sophie and I visited in 2016. Her memory of the reservoir sold her on making this place our new home in January, 2017, while we were still in Mexico.
My thoughts here aren’t intended to demean the process of contrition that “supervised release”* is meant to engender, nor to demean the “probation lady” who, I think largely considers me to be just one person on her fairly heavy caseload. All things considered, she’s a pleasant enough person and, though I usually like to be thought of as special, in this case I can live without that distinction.
In general, very little has changed. As usual, Sophie and I have made many friends here in the hills surrounding our new home. We’ve enjoyed our stay here in this beautiful, quiet area and each day has brought us something new to smile about.
Sunrises and sunsets, deer, foxes, horses, snakes, bald eagles, mountain bikers and so many other wild animals are found here. No bears or badgers yet and thankfully only one close encounter of the third kind with a skunk.
It’s fair to say that the great Colorado outdoors is what’s inspired me most in 2017, and that’s been true for the two-plus decades I’ve lived here. But 2017 was special in one major way:
For the first time in over six years I got to know the passage of the seasons from the vantage point of a bike saddle.
I embraced mountain biking again, out on the open trails, where I felt the rush of adrenaline and the sheer joy of being on a bicycle again for the first time in years.
Back at home Sophie would lie on the cement pad in the sunshine out front of the RV until I returned. One hour, two hours, whatever. She never seemed to have moved a muscle from the last moment I saw her until the moment I returned.
And often, out on the trail, I thought back to years past when she’d be out there, running beside me as I rode that very bike. We were both in the physical prime of our lives and it felt spectacular.
Those rides from 2017 are something I’ll always remember but, sadly, most days were different.
Sophie and I endured living elbow-to-elbow with neighbors in a campground community. Under the best of such circumstances I believe the potential for conflict can always exist.
But in a hard-drinking environment, relatively far from the watchful eye of the Big Brother city police and with no on-site management, things could-and did-escalate between neighbors from time to time. The natives often got restless. And it was an education for me.
I’d never seen a battered woman before, let alone known where she lived and who likely beat her. Her face was barely recognizable, but what struck me most was how willing she was to offer excuses for what happened-though all I said to her was “Hi.” What could I say to someone like that?
Late one night I heard a pair of drunk grown men come to blows over some petty difference they’d been bandying about all night. It was a still night and I could hear them clearly though they were down the hill from our spot. I heard it all and waited for it to erupt. Then it nearly happened a second time; one of the actors sounded familiar; it was my neighbor from just up the hill. His wife or girlfriend or whatever dragged his drunken carcass home.
I also regularly heard, er, I couldn’t not hear language so laced with profanity that it felt as if English was the Second Language. But it was the native tongue.
And, the pièce de resistance, the night our next-door neighbor cussed out his live-at-home 21 year old daughter who’d come to live with him only a few months before. She promptly shot out the front door, sobbing like a little girl who just had her first teenage breakup.
It happened after midnight (of course) and the puppy they recently brought home became a ready target for the man’s cussing.
Given our proximity I’m not surprised we saw and heard this weird menagerie in action. But my love of animals-and disdain for people who hurt them or otherwise interfere with their well-being left me with little respect for him.
I’d been a good, supportive neighbor but I also had to be the bigger person too many times. It became best to just avoid him. But I never felt good about it.
At such times, and so many others I’d apologize to Sophie for bringing her into a place that could definitely show some of the best of the worst behavior people are capable of perpetrating on each other.
Sophie’s a beautiful and ladylike doggie who may also be tough as nails. But she’s more than earned a peaceful life in a peaceable community surrounded by people who can’t help but love on her.
None of our former neighbors, despite their apparent respect for our service dog/handler relationship were capable of seeing Sophie for the beautiful being she is. But Sophie accepted them all the same.
Perhaps it’s because Sophie’s both so much better behaved and stable, strong yet nonviolent, and exactly the energy that they need for themselves but can’t have because Sophie’s my family.
While some of them have kids and all of them have each other, it isn’t enough compared to what Sophie and I have, as if a comparison could be made. On perhaps the most basic level I don’t believe I could ever understand some of them.
If they’d have been nice, they could have had us as part of their lives. Some of my neighbors did get to know us, and these were very nice folks. But things were always polarized there, not many shades of gray in sight.
Now Sophie and I have moved on, and I must continue to work on the deeper things I cannot pack up and drive away from. For example:
Lying in bed, late at night I may still wince at the occasional memory of the sight of Sophie being pepper sprayed.
The same is true at the thought of somebody hurting Sophie while I lie drugged at an Arizona campground in the middle of nowhere.
Sick people are out there and some are creative enough and motivated enough to perpetrate their hurtful behavior. It gives meaning to their lives, I guess.
Despite all this I’ve never once stood staring up at the sky in anger, fist raised and wild-eyed, screaming about the injustice of it all and how bloody angry and frustrated I am.
Though I’m only human, I don’t think nor act out of anger. I don’t have it inside of me to just go crazy-mad; it requires more energy than what I’ve got.
Keep in mind that my brain and my body are grounded in the endless pursuit of athletic perfection, “playing” on a grown-up’s version of what many consider a hyper-expensive, totally tricked-out child’s toy: a bicycle.
Considering what I’ve accomplished on a bicycle: The events I’ve done on one, the friendships I’ve made through riding one, and the multitude of utterly joyful rides that have tempered my thinking. It’s what made me who and what I was, my identity.
Then, in the blink of an eye I lost it all to an inattentive driver who pulled out in front of me-and suddenly stopped-at the bottom of a hill I’d ridden a thousand times. I nearly died in the ensuing crash and, to be honest sometimes the physical pain afterward made me wish I had.
That was five years ago last August, and I haven’t known the feeling of being one with the road on a bicycle since. But if you look into my eyes closely enough at any given moment you will see that spark that once dominated my face and lightened my oad. That passion will live on within me forever.
Riding was my anger management, my attitude adjustment, my sheer joy and profound contemplation all wrapped up in one.
Bicycling has been a part of my life since forever and, though my definition of riding has lately changed, inside my mind and inside my chest will beat the heart of a lifelong cyclist.
All that in mind, I come from a place that’s much different than your average angry-person-cum-violent-criminal. For all their faults, my family and extended family were virtuous enough. Not a pickpocket or pedophile among them, not even a priest.
So it was mere chance that such a definition could ever be hung on me, an unbelievable turn of events. I admitted to something I didn’t do - I lied - about having assaulted someone. But I didn’t.
The mere fact that I’ve followed to the letter “their” prescribed motions and “their” preordained path to contrition and “their” idea of what is socially acceptable and what I “should” be doing to “rejoin the fold and get with the program” is evidence enough that I’m not that bad person.
Rather, I’m a good person who, in my willingness to rejoin my beloved friend after having been violently and unwillingly separated from her was willing to forever be vilified by society and labeled a “bad guy,” a “violent offender.” So be it; I’m comfortable enough in my own skin.
If life were meant to have broken me down into a screaming lunatic I believe it would have happened long ago.
But all I’m capable of seeing is the smile in my beautiful friend’s face as she buries her snoot in the snow. And I’m grateful for having the patience and diligence to repair whatever mechanical problems arise in my RV.
Perhaps I’m misguided but I’m not afraid to take things apart, for I realize that it’s the first step in fixing anything. Though I’m not always confident I know what I’m doing I am always willing to learn.
Happiness, gratitude and patience are virtues I don’t equate with the sort of philosophy that a bad person, a criminally-minded person would have.
I can’t now and never have been able to get my head around the idea that I’ve had a working relationship with someone who identifies herself as a “probation officer.”
Still, even in the wake of the violent experiences of December 2016 and February 2017, I’ve managed to be true to my Self.
I don’t have the same great memory I once did when my brain was regularly flushed with freshly oxygenated blood after a bike ride. But I’ll never forget to treat others as I wish to be treated myself.
My mind remains open to what next comes our way. Considering all of the trials and tribulations Sophie and I have met and overcome I believe we deserve some true peace in our lives.
I don’t know what form it will take, but I’ve faith in our ability to continue to thrive regardless. Though perhaps I should be angry at all that I’ve lost, I cannot help but imagine all I’ve yet to gain.
Given the greatness of what I’ve had, the unfortunate reality of what I’ve lost, and the realization that I still have so much potential to rebuild - and even surpass- the past greatness I’m neither afraid nor angry.
And as I’m fond of saying, that’s an extremely good thing. To Sophie I say that I love you, and I promise to always strive to create for us the peaceful world we deserve.
Editor’s Note:
The author of this piece is a good friend of mine. He’s a model citizen, an ambassador of goodwill and a model of social comportment. And a jokester at heart.
But I tell you this for a reason: He was concerned that his somber mood in writing the final draft of this post would prove contagious.
That’s him- always thinking of others and wanting the best for everyone. Empathetic to a fault, he is.
He understandably didn’t want the heavy nature of this subject to ruin the reader’s day. So he asked me to lighten things up a little with a witty wittle endnote in the form of a clarification on the many answers to that often-asked question “What, exactly is Supervised Release?” So, here you are:
*Supervised Release is also known on the mean streets as Probation Lite, Probation 2.0, Beta Probation, Probation for Sissies, and for those from families with a long line of criminal behavior: An Important First Step,
Young wannabe felons may also know it as After Prom But Before Community College, or On The Job Training. Those who willfully violate their Supervised Release and effectively up their games to include felony convictions with long-term sentences simply call it Good Family Planning.
** 2018 is barely underway and already two memorable things have happened, three if you include this sentence. Not until today do I ever recall beginning a sentence with a number. Yet here I’ve gone and done so twice. Interesting that the numbers happen to be 2017 and 2018, the answer to a future trivia question, I’m sure.
The other memorable experience was actually in December but, since 2017 was so slow I’m going to backdate the awful meeting with a skunk that poor Sophie endured. Sophie is prey-driven, to be sure. But I still feel guilty because, though we both heard the skunk about the same time (without knowing what it was, of course) it was me who took the excited tone I always use when “we” are out “hunting” and I said “Where is it? Go see!” It was an innocent mistake for us both though only Sophie got skunked. And the skunk stink stopped quick- it didn’t stick thick or smell sick (he he!).
To her credit, Sophie still loves me and I, as always adore her. She’s an angel, all right, whether she’s just barfed or been skunked, she comes out looking and smelling her same wonderful self. It’s what any real lady would naturally do.
And on the animal level in which she responds to my neuro rhythms, I trust her implicitly with my safety. A loving lifesaver, that’s my Sophie!
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