Dog Is My Copilot I

To illustrate the seriously needy state of my poor memory, consider that I have entrusted more than some of my mental energies to Sophie, my four-year-old Belgian Malinois. While I love Sophie, I am not a doting dog owner who must write in fawning terms about his beloved pet, for that’s not the kind of relationship we have. It is much deeper than that, and it’s worth mentioning  because I spend more time with Sophie than with almost any other being. 

Sophie is a working dog who, when not taking a nap, thrives on having something to do. For her, that something on her to-do list is me. I love Sophie and I love that she loves being my helper. It’s the best of both worlds for us; Sophie is a registered service dog who can go anywhere with me and, in exchange, Sophie also gets to be with me. 

 

A highly intelligent dog, Sophie is has both intuitive and visceral qualities, which she only acts upon shrewdly. She and I communicate well, as only a dog and person can. Think of Steinbeck’s Travels With Charlie for examples. 

On one hand, Sophie she is a foil to my cerebral side, listening tirelessly to me as I massage my memory by speaking of memories I would likely be unable to make otherwise. And, of course, I rely heavily upon her intuitive side as well. She can always tell if anything within me is out of sync, usually by raising or lowering her ears. Just as I am sure to heed the sound of Sophie’s bark, I am equally mindful of the motion of her ears, for they almost always foretell of something within me I might not have recognized yet. 

It’s not a coincidence that Sophie – a dog – plays this important role in my life, for her intuition is sufficient enough to serve us both, which is the only way it can be for us to work together so well. 

Sophie may have a lot going on inside her head, but make no mistake - she’s no pushover. She looks fierce and she has a mean bark that says “Don’t push your luck; you’ve had your warning, now what’s it going to be?” She is a visual deterrent to anyone - human or otherwise – who may have even the slightest iota of wrongdoing in mind, and she is dead serious about her role as protector of both Kami and me. 

Joys of Indoor Training Part II - Riding Is My Ritalin

Disjointed thoughts, whether it’s shouting to no one in particular in an empty room or imagining thirsty kids becoming adult alcoholics - are not unusual when I’m on the trainer. It seems contradictory I know, but these insane thoughts keep me sane. Just as Sophie has chased many rabbits not knowing she’d never catch them, I don’t know why I ride a trainer. The effort is too hard on my mind and body and, besides, the trainer always wins. 

In Sophie’s case, the rabbit always wins. These days Sophie has learned to ignore the rabbit rather than chase it futilely. As exciting as it is and rewarding as it could be, not chasing rabbits – or cats or prairie dogs, makes more sense and minimizes the risk of humiliation as well. 

Everyone risks humiliation every day, right? For me it’s humiliating to be at home all day while your spouse – and what feels like everyone else – is out working. Work carries its own sort of humiliations, different from those of feeling stuck at home. 

For me, getting a job is my strong point. Like the trainer, it is an exercise in persistence to me: Will I stick with it long enough to reach my goal? So far I always have. My real job, I believe, is getting the job. It’s my way of feeling wanted, I suppose. But once I’ve got the job, its novelty wanes and so does my interest. It usually does not return except in the form of another new job.

I have always done my best when I’ve worked alone, something I learned as a kid. Then, I mowed neighbor’s lawns, making twenty bucks here and there. It was good money then. After that I had a gig for a few years delivering the morning paper on my bike. It was still repetitive work, but I remained the one in charge. It shaped my work preferences into what they are today.

As a newspaper carrier, the rewards were great. I had spending money and nobody telling me what to do. So did my best friend. While other kids depended on handouts from their parents, we were both autonomous and happy. These things were rewards unto themselves, and they still are. 

Today, my poor memory has ended that autonomy and the happiness it once carried with it. I rely on someone else now to handle the budget, as I don’t remember the details. I do not recall the details on the spreadsheet, either. Overall, I feel almost no control over it.

Frustrating? You bet. What else can I do? Will that ever change? I don’t know, nor do I count on it happening. It almost makes the indoor trainer seem doable by comparison.

Joys of Indoor Training

Joys of Indoor Training

Yesterday, it was rainy again, not our usual July weather. I decided to spin on an indoor trainer.

The central building in this apartment plan is called the community center, though there are never more than a couple people there. That’s where the “cardio-fitness center” is. Not having been on an indoor trainer for many years, I merely planned to get a little resistance training. I don’t much care for flashing diodes, beeping tones, and flashing symbols trainers usually have these days. 

One indicator I can’t figure out is marked “Distance.” Yesterday, for example, the trainer told me I rode a distance of nearly 50 miles. How this happened I’ll never know, as I’m sure I never left that room.  Exercise is enough of a mind job anyway without the machine trying to convince me that I’ve actually gone somewhere when I know I hadn’t.

Anyway, outdoor cycling is far easier than riding a trainer. Cycling outdoors is fun. Indoor trainer workouts, however, are masochism. They create pain from beginning to end, enough to make me see things that aren’t really there (such as a flashing light marked “Distance”). Why? Trainer workouts always have resistance – there’s no escaping it.

Without making it sound too gloomy, please know that trainer workouts can be pleasant, as long as it involves watching someone else on the trainer. Knowing my time will eventually come, I smile in denial, knowing it will be my hell soon enough.

Yesterday morning’s workout was typical. The machine was easily adjustable, and the machine’s heart rate monitor was surprisingly accurate. Over the years since I’ve been on a trainer, it’s evidently become easier to get people started on the path to self-abuse.

Like riding outdoors on a crappy day, I simply couldn’t figure out why I chose to leave a warm, dry house for the sake of this torture. But the real mind challenge of indoor training is overcoming the first few minutes. If you survive that, you’ve got a chance of finishing your workout.

Except for the car I collided with back on June 21^st, I am determined to never be outdone by a machine. But I can handle a trainer. One hour is the maximum programmable time limit, presumably because others may be waiting to use it. But after reaching the one hour limit yesterday, there was (still) nobody else in the room.

So, just for fun, I shouted “Anyone waiting for this machine?” as my voice echo in the empty room.

By the second hour, though, one or two other people came in. The first was a group of little kids who were evidently getting a “field trip” style tour of the community center. They stopped by the water cooler and I heard an adult voice say “Okay, who’s ready for something to drink?” I heard a murmur among the kids who, for lack of anything else to do, wanted a drink. Precursors for some of them, I am sure, who will become alcoholics due to drinking out of boredom.

Exercise itself is not so different than a chemical dependency. There are natural painkillers the body only creates after a certain level of exertion, making one oblivious to pain. And, like beer back in college, I’m unable to walk a straight line until I go home and sleep it off. There is a narcotic effect to it as well. After a while I develop disjointed, even insane thoughts that actually make the meaning of life more clear. 

One thing I’ve learned from training indoors is that there is much more to life than that. So I went home to a nice, warm shower.

Accident Recovery Is More Than Just Physical

Accident Recovery Is More Than Just Physical

Last night was the first time I got back on a bike trainer since my accident 16 days ago. My most important goal was to find out more about what may have happened then. I’ve been suspicious that fatigue was the reason why.

Unlike riding on the road the trainer never lets up resistance. On the road there’s always a little coasting and soft pedaling to recover from particularly hard efforts.

Workouts after a layoff are tough; the bike feels foreign at first. Last night, after only about 45 minutes I felt the fatigue of the workout. It wasn’t a surprise. The physical stress of the workout confirmed my suspicions that my vision had somehow been affected. My balance was not affected, but I saw tiny spots when I turned my head to look over my shoulder as I had before the accident. Something about that motion caused those spots to become more widespread, enough to keep from turning my head any longer than necessary.

Keep in mind all this happened within a split second. Just before the accident, I looked at only one spot on the road, the intersection of McCaslin Road and Hwy 128, nothing more. It never occurred to me that there might be traffic behind me because I wasn’t able to focus upon it. I couldn’t see it, though it was right there in my line of sight.

Witnesses reported that I had not looked before turning. That’s untrue. I had looked for traffic seconds earlier, and I saw no danger. As always, I trusted what I saw. After decades of cycling, I’m confident of my actions. Nobody – myself included - would knowingly do such a thing.

As a road cyclist, I’ve only had but a few close calls with other vehicles. Anyone on the road; cars, motorcycles, bikes, and so on can expect that. Being on the open road is serious business whether other vehicles are present or not. Now, I must rebuild my confidence, however long it takes, and not always believe what I see at first. As the saying goes “Looking twice and Save A Life.” It’s true.

A Little About Me...

I was born in December, 1965 in southwest Pennsylvania. In grade school, my teachers reported that I was a smart kid, but I had trouble paying attention. I often strayed from the subject at hand and my grades suffered for it. Yet, though I may not have been a good student, I never questioned my intelligence.

In the mid-70’s, I was diagnosed with epilepsy. Suddenly, all the prior talk of my wandering attention now made sense, and virtually every adverse experience I’d had up until then – from bad grades to not excelling at sports – could now be explained by “my seizures.” It was about that time that things at home began to change dramatically as well.

Though I’ve an uncle with epilepsy, both parents seemed surprised at my diagnosis. Partly because of denial, partly because of ignorance, my medical condition was not a welcome subject around the house. Soon, I realized those closest to me defined me by my epilepsy, and I soon came to feel like a pariah – and alone in a small home with two parents and three younger siblings. Worse yet, my seizures were terrifying experiences out of my control.

An unhappy father regularly ridiculed me about my seizures, as well as my bad grades. To him, no nickname for me was too critical, or too hurtful. A mother unwilling to stop this cutting behavior led him to continue unimpeded. Today, over 35 years later, those names still hurt, and my turbulent relationship history – both personal and professional – has suffered greatly. Deep down, I’m aware these things are best left behind. But in reality, all associated problems that arose at home from my epilepsy – though banished from the forefront of my mind – still remain. Over time, though, I’ve largely learned to ignore them.

During my mid-20’s I sustained a brain injury during a mountain bike crash. Everything seemed fine at first, but serious problems quickly arose. Extreme mood swings, and an inability to remember anything now existed. Worse, however, was that my epilepsy symptoms – and my terrified feelings about them – returned. Now, incontinence and tongue biting made me feel less in control than ever, and were again a regular part of my life.

Since I could no longer make new memories, my old memories became my life’s experience. Happily, enough of those memories were positive enough to carry with me forever, which is good; they are all are calming, and many are even entertaining. Anyway, they are all I have left.

Today, my past memory loss and continued memory impairment are the crux of both the challenges and frustrations I face every day. For nearly 20 years, my memory loss has yet to be a positive thing, and may culminate in any one of a vast range of emotional ups and downs.

Over time, that has changed, as I’ve been adapting to my life ever since the accident. Improvements have come slowly, but steadily and, more importantly, ever more positive. Through this blog, my goal is to accelerate this positivity. While it serves as an outlet for the frustrations of memory impairment, it’s also the perfect place to celebrate and to share its positive aspects.

Today's the Big Hill Climb race day. I've decided, however, against doing it. After being hit by a car last Thursday I'm decidedly reserved - and rightfully so - about getting back out on the road. It's actually been a very handy excuse not to do an especially strenuous event like today's Big Hill Climb. For the record, though, I wouldn't recommend it for regular use; getting hit by a car can be somewhat tricky.

Despite the general stupidity required to be hit by a car in broad daylight (as I did), I learned that I apparently have eyes in the back of my head. It seems I carefully chose this car - my very first - because it was a subcompact convertible. I suppose I felt it was a good idea (if that can be said about being run over) to start small and work up to bigger cars from there. While I'm not sure I'll ever want to be hit by a car again, I think I'll try my hand at more such smaller cars, just for the practice. They're perfect for purposes of "A Good Excuse That Doesn't Involve Death; Not Even That Much Pain, Either."

Since I'm categorizing here, I suppose a few other useful categories could be "Short Term Agony That Maxes Out Your Medical Deductible," and "Long or Short Term Crippling Injury With or Without Pain." Be forewarned; there's a very fine line between the two, so this one should be left to cyclists with more experience at being run over.

The final major category, of course, is "Certain Death, Hopefully Quick and Painless As Possible." Anybody, I think, can do this one, though keep in mind that if you choose this category you will never get to build up experience from the ground up as I am doing. Nobody will think less of you, it's just that you (probably) won't be around to hear everyone's sympathy by your passing.

Please note: For the sake of brevity, I didn't precede the above categories with the term "A Good Excuse;" that's a given when being hit by any car, even if you happen to be in another car with your bike mounted on your roof rack. 

For now, my elbows are still bruised and a few small cuts on my hands still healing. My head doesn't even hurt anymore, though my helmet is ruined. I don't recall much from the event, hence my irreverent tone here. See? It's not always a bad thing to be memory impaired. I'm already well on my way to being my old, forgetful self once again.