Symphony of pain, scored for clavicle

March 24, 2009November 16, 2010 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 8 Comments

The Mighty Dog, circa 1990, riding for the Sangre de Cristo Cycling Club in Santa Fe, NM. — The Mighty Dog, circa 1990, riding for the Sangre de Cristos Cycling Club in Santa Fe, NM.

Lance Armstrong and I have something in common, in addition to brains, good looks and wealth — we both waited until our 30s to break a collarbone.

I was 35 and getting set to start my first real season as a bicycle racer when I laid it down on March 7, 1989, on the road to the Puye Cliff Dwellings on Santa Clara Pueblo near Española, N.M. I don’t remember the crash because in addition to snapping my left clavicle I coldcocked myself, totaling my beer-cooler helmet. I decided afterward that I’d probably let my Look cleats wear down a bit too far and unclipped while sprinting up a short rise, going over the bars and then landing on same. I took note of the calamity in my training diary:

“Tore off a hunk of scalp, raspberried both knees and elbows and picked up a Technicolor bruise from left thigh to waist. Doc says I can’t ride the road for a month but can do the trainer if I can stand the pain.”

I could and did, getting on the trainer for a 20-minute spin two days later. Oh, Lord, did that hurt. My heart rate was in six figures, and simply getting out of bed was an exercise in pain management; I had a water bed, and the one quick situp required to get out of the sonofabitch was no fun at all.

But I was religious about a daily trainer workout, and finally got outdoors for a road ride — on a mountain bike — three weeks later. Two months from the crash I rode the Santa Fe Century in under five hours, and on Memorial Day weekend I raced the Iron Horse Bicycle Classic, albeit without distinction.

So I wouldn’t bet against Armstrong being able to bounce back in time for the Tour. It isn’t exactly the Iron Horse, true, but a guy needs a goal, no matter how modest.

Late update: The Armstrong kerfuffle sent me to rooting through the cerebral attic, trying to find a tantalizing bit of data I’d misplaced, when all of a sudden it came to me: In 1995, at age 32, Rebecca Twigg won a sixth world title and set a world record for the individual pursuit despite breaking a collarbone less than two weeks earlier. Oh, yeah — she had a cold, too.

Happy motoring

February 8, 2009November 16, 2010 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 8 Comments

Here’s a happy story: An apparently drug-addled woman suffering from dementia who is suspected of striking and killing a pedestrian with her automobile triggers a discussion of the “right” to drive. There is no such thing. Driving is a privilege one earns by passing written and driving tests, and retains through periodic re-examination as deemed necessary by the State or clued-in kinfolk concerned that Grampa Leroy may be getting a tad too daffy to slide behind the wheel of his beloved F-350.

I have some small, bitter experience in this field. My family and I were not especially close. After Dad died in 1980, Mom was pretty much on her own here in Bibleburg while I rambled around the West, burning down newspapers, and my sister worked for social services in Fort Collins.

momatwedding — A snap of our wedding. From left, me, Herself, her mom, my mom, and my sis. On the back of the snap is scribbled, "If this is fun, we're havin' it."

Mom had a business partner, friends and activities — she helped manage a few jointly owned rental properties, played bridge, went golfing and bowling, you name it — and the three of us would generally get together on at least one officially sanctioned national holiday per annum for a short, stiff reunion. We weren’t exactly ringing each other up once a week to dish the dirt the way Herself does with her mom and sisters, is what I’m saying.

One day I got a call from Mom’s business partner, who said she had lost her car and asked for his help buying a new one. Mom had been called to jury duty, which meant a trip downtown — a place she rarely visited — and apparently was so confused by the journey and the judiciary that she forgot where she had parked and walked the seven-odd miles home.

I drove up from Santa Fe and went car-hunting, finally locating Mom’s Mazda 626 in a parking lot not far from the courthouse. My sis came down from Fort Collins and we had a chat with Mom, who was by turns distracted, confused and indignant. Finally, exasperated, I rattled her keychain, a gag item bearing the legend, “I’ve found the keys, now where the hell’s the car?”, and said, “Mom, this isn’t funny. You lost your goddamn car!”

It was Alzheimer’s, of course, and a very long story that is. Here’s the Reader’s Digest version: My sister and I had to assume a parental role over our sole surviving parent — taking her to a series of doctors to eliminate all other medical probabilities, then hauling her into court to prove that she was no longer capable of handling her own affairs. We seized control of her finances, her house — and, yes, her vehicle — and eventually committed her to an excellent nursing home. Herself and I quit our jobs in Santa Fe and moved in with her for a while, trying but failing to play the caregivers’ role, postponing the inevitable. I was able to be there with Mom as she died, peacefully, in the Namaste Alzheimer Center.

Mom didn’t take anyone else with her. But she very well could have, and it wouldn’t have been her fault — it would have been ours.

I don’t know a thing about Mary Jo Anne Thomas’ family, and I’m not inclined to throw stones at them from my nifty glass bungalow. But I’ll say this to the rest of you: Ring Mom and Dad up now and again. Pop by for a visit, take ’em out to lunch. It’s not only the right thing to do, it’s the smart thing to do. While bringing a little sunshine into your parents’ twilight years, you might just save some stranger’s life.

Addendum: Someone should run a brain scan on state Sen. Rollie Heath, D-Boulder, who told the Boulder Daily Camera: “If you say nobody with dementia can drive, that won’t go over well. I think you’d be laughed out of the Statehouse.” I ain’t laughin’, motherfucker. And neither is John Breaux, Mary Jo Anne Thomas, or anyone who knew either of them when they were still with us.

Four wheels warm, two wheels cold

December 22, 2008November 16, 2010 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments

I'm melting, melting ... what a world, what a world.

My Subaru has a thing for thermostat gaskets (it doesn’t like them), and this morning I had to drop it off at Heuberger for the annual replacement of same. Herself was rocketing about the house, getting ready for work, so I chucked the Voodoo in the car, cranked up the heater and the seat warmer, and rolled off to Motor City. Fifteen degrees, said the dashboard thermometer. O, goody.

The mechanics all looked at me like I was from another world; Pluto, or maybe Goofy. And it’s true, I did not look as though I had just stepped from the pages of Bicycling magazine. In point of fact, I may be the worst advertisement ever for fashionable cycling.

My winter kit is a motley collection of premillennial gear, most of it so old I can’t remember where or when I got it (though most of it was made in the USA, which is something of a tip-off). From top to bottom, today’s ensemble went like this: Columbia tuque; Patagonia ski mask; Smith glasses; Cannondale jacket; Patagonia turtleneck; Pearl Izumi gloves, bibs and heavy-duty tights; SmartWool socks; Hi-Tec GT Euro shoes. Only the gloves, glasses and shoes came from overseas. And I know for a fact that the socks are the only item purchased in this millennium, from Colorado Running Company.

The Sammy Safetys among you will notice that this list does not include a helmet. So sue me. I wear a 7 5/8 hat. Try stuffing that fat bastard into a helmet without a pry bar and some Vaseline.

Late update: The Subaru remains unfixed (shorthanded at the shop), and the ’83 Toyota 4WD won’t start (a battery that even my charger won’t reboot). O, bugger. And me with an incomplete holiday grocery list, too. Off to the auto-parts store for a heavy-duty battery.

Do you like my new car?

December 12, 2008November 16, 2010 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 12 Comments

The mighty Dogmobile, a 1983 Toyota 4WD longbed pickup. It gets out about as often as Charlie Manson.

It’s early days yet, but it seems Americans may finally be getting it as regards the whole unhappy-motoring thing. According to The Associated Press, Americans logged 9 billion fewer miles on the nation’s roads in October despite a stunning drop in gasoline prices (to less than $1.50 per gallon here in Bibleburg):

Federal Highway Administration data released Friday show the number of miles driven dropped 3.5 percent in October compared with the same month a year ago. Between November 2007, when the driving decline began, and October, Americans drove 100 billion fewer miles. That’s the largest continuous decline in driving the nation has experienced.

While driving declined, subways, buses, commuter rail and light-rail systems have reported record increases in ridership. Amtrak, the nation’s intercity passenger railroad, said it carried the highest number of passengers and brought in the most revenue in fiscal 2008 in its 37-year history.

”The fact that the trend persists even as gas prices are dropping confirms that America’s travel habits are fundamentally changing,” Transportation Secretary Mary Peters said in a statement.

No word about how bicycling may have contributed to the lower auto mileage, alas. But still, fewer cars on the road means more room for us, no? That’s what I call some good news.

Speaking of fewer cars, it appears that the White House is considering other options after the Repuglitards in the Senate croaked the Big 3 bailout based largely on their hatred for the United Auto Workers. Being appallingly ignorant in matters financial, I don’t feel qualified to comment on whether the rescue plan is as crucial as the automakers and their allies suggest. But the shit is already rolling downhill, and many smaller companies that supply the Big 3 are living in the valley.