How I Spent My Summer VacationBy Rich G.
Lucky dog that I am, I live within minutes of the crest of the Blue Ridge and far enough away from any major population center. The weather, the locale, and a new bike that was just about to crack 1500 miles. Smoothly broken-in. Perfect. In spite of the hours at the office I managed to put over an additional two thousand miles on it before the Spring. Then the bottom fell out. The corporate entity that I was employed by ran head-on into rough financial times. This was compounded by a slow economy generally and the aftermath of the hideous attacks on New York and Virginia (where, as we all know, the Pentagon is actually located.) The red ink flowed as our new CEO tried to straighten out an inherited mess. There were monstrous layoffs, plant closings, and all manner of downsizing. We were told that an unknown number of our retail outlets would not survive the next few years and that it would be approximately 2005 before there was a return to profitability. Competitors, naturally, leaned heavy. One day at the end of January I opened the office as I normally would. The news that morning was that the three employees in the "hands-on" section had been furloughed and that I was to close the office and turn in all equipment and the company car. The reasoning was an inability to afford the expense of our section. This was certainly not the best news to bring home, but I figured we'd weather it like any other crisis. My wife is comfortably situated as a software analyst that telecommutes from her office in our residence. (She gets a kick out of complaining about the killer morning commute.) And weather it we did. Other positions were offered, and I took an offer from a local firm. Then things took an unexpected turn. Years before I had injured the rotator cuff in my right shoulder. Thinking it was merely a slight tear I put off doing anything to correct it. Until the new employer ran for cover from the Liability Boogie Man. They wanted the old injury repaired and seemed perfectly squeamish about my pre-existing condition. I thought they were overreacting, but I agreed to immediately consult the family doctor and report back ready for work shortly thereafter. Boy, was I in for a reality check. A long road lead away from the local doctor.
Not being a critical case one is fit into the rest of the world's scheduling when and as they are able. After going back and forth with insurance companies, various surgeons and their staffs I ended up in the very capable hands of an orthopedic surgeon that specialized in sports medicine. I reckoned there was no one better to handle rotator cuffs.
Things dragged on at a snail's pace and by now it was April. They scheduled surgery and the waiting consumed another month. During the interim I promised my ten year old son that we'd go fishing. The day we planned to go something popped in my shoulder and I crumpled. Not wanting to break a promise to a child I pushed myself. I could barely work the shifter in my F150. (An ordinary, boring, plain dusty pickup with NASCAR stickers all over it. Leather nothing. Power nothing. A pickup the way God intended and not a $40k espresso maker.) We went fishing, but it killed me. A week or so later the pain eased up a bit, so I scooted off on the bike when my wife wasn't looking. I might be almost fifty, but sometimes these behaviors are called for. As luck would have it that turned out to be the one day out of a million I was nearly run down by a small car with opaque windows and a zillion Watt sound system. That was the first time ever I was in a jam I was unable to get out of and came down on my right shoulder. Ouch. Double ouch after my wife found out. My baby got put away until 2003. Or so I thought; my wife is capable of a surprise or two. We'll get to that later. May 8th. They didn't tell me the drippy thing that was stuck in my arm contained the knockout stuff. And out I went. Darth Surgeon could well have used an air driven jackhammer for all I knew. I barely remember much from that day, as the medications were potent. I found myself wrapped in a restraining device and had extreme difficulty moving about. After arriving home I recall doing what my small son refers to as "hurling," then I passed out still under the influence of pain killers. They weren't kidding about the pain. I had been warned to expect extreme pain in spite of the prescriptions administered. They were right. The next level up was morphine and we weren't going down that road, so I existed with less than completely stopping the terrible sensations. For about three weeks I cat napped siting up whenever I could. I was constantly exhausted. And I sat looking out the windows as Spring turned into Summer and I wasn't riding. I wasn't doing anything. There were standing orders to not so much as use a keyboard until cleared by the medical folks. It was nearly the end of July before the restraining device was removed. It was apparent the injury had been corrected and I was better off for having it done, but a return to my old self was a long way off. Therapy began and that was (and still is) no bowl of cherries. The therapist is convinced, and correctly, too, that I would sneak off on the bike if given the chance. If not but for the half mile dirt road leading down to the house. That's the only time my ride ever sees a trailer, when it's toted up to the hard surface road. I won't ride it up the dirt road. After that, however, it doesn't know what a trailer is. It was meant to ride, not be hauled to Myrtle Beach and parked for a week before trailering home. But since there was no way I could hook up the bike/trailer to the pickup for the trip up the hill, there was no riding. Hot days set in, and the continuing drought. I remained indoors going out of my mind. There's only so many books to read and so much Internet to explore before you go nuts. I think I've seen every game the Braves have played, and know how John Smoltz must have felt. I tell people I've got his autograph then pull up my shirtsleeve to expose the scars on my shoulder. I may have "Smoltz" embroidered on the back of my Braves uniform shirt. The days of one hundred degree temperatures made the Summer drag on endlessly. I started my first baby steps back on the road to recovery. By August I was allowed to operate a car, but only around town. Any long trips meant I had to fly. Doctor's orders. I managed to put the bike battery on a trickle charge then get her cranked up for awhile. My son had to help with the throttle - I could not raise my right arm out far enough to work it. Photography took up a lot of my time and has been a life saver. It was an old friend come back to me. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed it, now to be appreciated even more with the use of computers and graphics software. Pam, my wife, posed for a number of pictures. They were good enough to have been selected as featured photos for the month of July on a statewide biker net. Wow. My amateur work for all the world to see. And for her own part, she's tickled to be forty and able to get away with it.
As the Summer draws to a close and the new school year is about to start I find my wife glued to the "extreme" sports (sic) olympics. She's enjoying a spectacle of dirt bikes flying a mile high in the air. I should have seen it coming. A few months back we took our little one to see indoor moto-cross in Roanoke. Pam went in flared jeans, Harley shirt and fringed leather vest! Then there were the pictures going to the biker net. At the Brooks & Dunn concert in Charlotte she wore the flared jeans, Harley boots and a low cut Easyriders top, crowned with a quarter horse hat. And now the comments about riding made over the last year fall into place. Although she, too, is a member of the Marauder-Intruder Group, riding hadn't meant operating a motorcycle. It does now. She's on her way to attend the MSF course!
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The
Winter of 2001/2002 was a blast for me. Sure there were cold snaps of
a few days duration, and there was a dusting of snow at the end of December
just in time for the holidays, but it was a blast for the most part. I
was riding in beautiful weather from the Fall right through the Winter.
Eighty degree days in January. Brilliant sunshine. Virtually no humidity
to bother anyone. 
I
had taken my lumps in the past. Having been a police officer in an urban
setting for the fifteen years leading up to 1990, I had been knocked out,
shot at, bit, been outnumbered during the escalation of a civil disturbance,
gone 'round and 'round with a some serious rednecks at closing time, and
thought I could handle just about anything. But this shoulder business
was the most mind numbingly painful thing I've ever experienced. I don't
recommend it for your short list of fun things to do in your spare time.
What
began to unfold was a picture of a serious injury, well beyond my initial
calculations. In viewing the MRI they couldn't even find the rotator cuff
muscle as it had nearly been severed. And I had to have something done
called a "decompression," meaning they filed away at the top
of the shoulder to allow it to move about and stop those interesting crunchy
noises. Plus a piece of the collarbone had to be removed. It had been
broken in 1971 and in not healing correctly it made a further mess of
things. In short, the shoulder was a mess and it would be a big deal.
Serious surgery and a lengthy recovery. And no bike until 2003. I saw
the Summer of 2002 evaporate in an instant. Poof! No bike till 2003. No
bike till 2003.
By
the end of August I'm lifting close to ten pounds with the right arm and
its new shoulder. It will be next year before I return to throwing hay
bales around, or cutting trees down. But there's no going back to day
long strenuous activity ever. I henceforth and forever after will have
to pace myself. I can return to some type of employment that involves
administrative or office functions. Haven't figured out just what yet.
It's a problem if you live in a Mayberryesque place. There's nothing there
to do. 
Well,
it is a step forward from her hanging out with computer geeks that know
the dialogue from every episode of every Star Trek ever broadcast. And
as we get into next Spring, 2003, maybe, just maybe, she'll take the 800
and I'll step up to something a little bigger and off we'll go. I reckon
a guy could do worse.