Michael Rossi's Blog, page 4

Get Back On That Bike

Recently, I have taken to long distance bicycle rides… again. The last of my friends to adopt the conveyance, I didn’t even learn to ride a bike until I was nine and received one for Christmas. I taught myself to mount that ten-speed… quickly. I was living at the big house in the middle of nowhere, and my desire to travel longer distances was motivation enough.

I will always love being on a bike of any kind, even the ones with engines. The feeling of freedom you get on a bike is as intoxicating today as it was when I was a kid.  There is just something about being on two wheels. It is a child’s exuberance incarnate.

The reason I am bike-riding, “again” is a much more complicated tale altogether. That being said; all of the following actually occurred…

“Oh my gosh… what happened?”

This question had been posed to me endless times in the weeks since the accident. I would cringe on each and every occasion, not because it conjures horrible memories of the painful mishap, or because I am tired of telling the story; it is out of sheer embarrassment. The reasons for this question were the braces strapped to both of my elbows and wrists, as well as the many scabbing abrasions covering my body. I would cringe from the searing pain every time I picked something up, and I couldn’t even bring my left hand to my mouth.

“I was in a bike accident.” I say sheepishly.

I say it this way because I already know the next question.

“You wrecked a motorcycle?”

“No… a bicycle.”

“Oh… that sucks.” They now say sheepishly.

Apparently, motorcycle accidents happen to sexy dangerous men with mustaches, but bad bicycle accidents only happen to children and pussies. The wreck had actually been quite traumatic; I was sitting up in the seat of my green mountain bike taking a sip of water, when I suddenly lost control. The front wheel turned perpendicular to the trail, sending me sprawling across the asphalt. I was upside-down when my arms hit the path,  and in the process sprained both wrists and extended both elbows, hyper-extended them actually, pushing them back farther than I thought humanly possible. It was the most physically painful experience of my life, but nobody could see that because when a man racing toward forty has a bicycle accident, it’s just sad. The response from nearly everyone that knows me well was even more revealing.

“How drunk were you?”

I would like to think that they jumped to this conclusion because working out drunk is some new trend that I have not yet been made aware of, like cocaine cross-fit, and not an obvious nod to my raging alcoholism. I lied to myself and believed the former. It is a smart man that lies to himself at times like that because there are just so many demons you can face at one time.

I would actually discover the worst of my physical injuries a couple of days after the accident. When my arms had healed enough to allow some movement, I was more than ready to participate in one of my favorite rituals of the last thirty years. All alone in the house, I limped into the office and fired up my computer. The screen opened up to my email, which I immediately ignored, even though hundreds of work emails were already piling up. I opened Explorer instead, and went to my favorite free porn site. Having already doled myself two dime-sized dollops of lotion, I started the magical process as I reviewed the many perverted options on the page. Typically, I would spend a few minutes hovering over the different scenarios, before committing to one for the big dance. Teacher and student, my best friend’s mom, blacks on blondes, rough, seducing aunt… for those of you who don’t know, there more options available on a porn site than a dim-sum menu. I find it likely that years from now, while alien archeologists are searching through the rubble, it will be concluded that the downfall of humanity began when high definition porn involving all manner of perversion became instantly available and free for all.

Having been out of the game for a few days, due only to my injury, I wouldn’t even need to make a choice. The mosaic of unlikely sexual scenarios on the cover screen would be more than enough to get me there. And then…

BAM!

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I began to notice a pressured pain rising in the back of my neck, growing exponentially. The pleasure of completion was instantly gone, replaced in kind by the subtle sensation of someone repeatedly slamming an aluminum baseball bat into the base of my brain .

I stumbled around the house for a few minutes willing to do anything to relieve the pain, swallowing handfuls of Advil with mouthfuls of vodka. In time, the intensity became manageable, and I began wondering what had just happened. Did I have whiplash? Was this permanent? I was freaking out, and with the worst headache of my life. In that time of ultimate fear and crisis, I did what I always do… I Googled it.

I have Googled some pretty weird shit, but I GET A HEADACHE WHEN I CUM, probably tops the list. In a world where we all feel so alone, it is an amazing comfort when you begin to type a fear in the Google search box, and the sentence finishes itself because you are not alone in that fear at all.

It turned out that what I was experiencing is called an Exertion Headache. These headaches mostly happen to body builders when they injure themselves seriously. This ensuing brainstorm is caused by an artery swelling from a rising heartbeat, too close to a nerve. The result is a headache that can go on for days. When I read that these can sometimes go on for years I quickly considered suicide, of course. Worst moment of my life? Maybe.

Thankfully, my headaches would only last for a couple of weeks, but I didn’t wait that long. Necessity is the mother of invention… right? Per the instructions on the internet (for working out with exertion headaches, not feeding the animal), I would drink four big glasses of water to prepare, and then focus on controlling my heartbeat like a dirty little Buddhist monk. It worked, but I hardly think one can describe the experience as pleasant in any way.

Needless to say, I became very depressed over my uselessness following the accident, and while we were discussing current woes, my friend Navin suggested that I finally sit down and write my life’s story. I had always talked about it,  and really had nothing else better to do after all. That sounded like a good idea, and although still sore, my arms healed enough to type.

And so it began; I spent two years committed to telling my true story for once, regardless of how ugly she might be when finished. I am still not sure if Navin should be thanked or slugged for the suggestion.

As I said, I have been riding quite a bit lately, and even rode over fifty miles in the last two days. Long bike rides or runs, when you really push yourself,  all have one moment in common; it is the moment when every single fiber of your being wants to be somewhere else… anywhere else. It’s when water sounds better than gold, and shade more refreshing than hope. In that second you have effectively created what feels like the worst moment of your life, on purpose. The feeling fades quickly, but it reminds me of how arbitrary unhappiness or desire can be. It also makes me realize that many of the moments I consider to be terrible are just as self-created, with the worst parts of those events occurring only in my head. The only conclusion I can draw from this is that the best thing I can do is get back on that bike, do it again, and try not to fall off.

Post Script: My bike accident left me with some ongoing side-effects, but nothing too serious. The Exertion Headaches did flare up again for about a week, a year after the accident. They struck out of the blue, but this time I wasn’t alone. I’d give anything to have a video of that bedroom scene; me jumping up and screaming in pain at the height of intimacy, and then being forced to tell this story.

First Blog Post

So I guess we have to get this over with. Figuring out what to write for my first blog post has had me up nights, as I am not altogether sure where to start. Do I start by explaining who I am, and why I believe my opinion of the world matters? Probably not, because it doesn’t matter, except to me. Possibly, like my book, I should start with a disclaimer?

Disclaimer… Reader Beware… The following items will be discussed openly on this blog:

Writing, living, love, god, sex, ideas, legal drugs, kids, marriage, politics, religion, economics, reading, suicide, consumerism, riding, sports, hookers, education, current events, history, morality, racism, reverse-racism, illegal drugs, television, divorce, movies, global warming, the designated hitter rule and the Loch Ness Monster.

Admittedly, upon review my list looks like the SEO tag words for the Antichrist’s personal website, but I guess I am going to have to own that.

Enjoy!