January 2023 – The Spoke And Word™

January 21, 2023January 22, 2023 Jhciacb

The Facebook Prison Blues…

Facebook Prison changes a man. The moment that silicon door slammed behind me, a shudder ran up my spine — it came straight from the devil. When I heard that key slowly turn to close the cyber lock, my soul became void of love and emotion. Facebook prison is colder than a pimp’s heart.

I’d been there before — accused, tried, and convicted of so-called crimes I felt were innocent acts of simple amusement, misunderstood by the algorithms. There’s no judicial process in social media though, just an invisible kangaroo court that tilt the scales of justice toward the billionaires.

My first prison sentence was in June of 2021. I’d suggested in a Facebook comment thread that we should still burn witches. I received a six-day sentence. In hindsight, I see the foolishness of that remark. If I’d only suggested we drown witches, I probably could’ve gotten away with it. At the very least, if I’d used drowning instead of burning, I could’ve built a strong defense on my behalf.

In August of 2022, I got sent before the algorithms for the second time. I posted a GIF of the television character, Al Bundy, pretending to hang himself. That the GIF was available on Facebook to begin with, was never taken into consideration. I should’ve known better though — on social media, talking about anything violent, is as good as doing it. It’s like the algorithms are Catholic or something. Another six-day sentence.

Last week, someone posted a picture of a cat with a transparent cone on its head, showing its teeth in anger. I captioned the meme…

“I’m a martini, and I’ll kill you…“

I should have written…

“I’m a martini, and I’ll beat you up real real bad…“

Would’ve made all the difference.

On my first day in Facebook prison, my only meal was a meatball, with no sauce, just like Cosby got on his first day. I slept on a cold bed of stainless steel — with no blanket. My cell-mate was a deaf, mute with a nervous tick. He used his spork to carve the following sentence onto the cell wall…

“I’m in for using a potty word…“

All through my first night, I heard other prisoners coughing, crying, and lashing out — it was like in asylum in the third world. I just lay in my bed, shaking and wishing it were all a bad dream. The following morning I was issued me my first blanket — it was made of straw. Breakfast was a cucumber. I was shown to my job at the prison laundry, but given no instructions. I just sat all day, and huffed laundry soap.

On the fifth day, the algorithms contacted me via email — bad news. A seventh day had been added to my six-day sentence. I’d been caught attempting to create a false Facebook profile, as a way around my initial sentence. I was told that any further attempt, and I’d be given a life sentence. I thought of my brother, Mark, now in the third year of his life sentence, and the anguish my mother felt the day they closed the door behind him.

I’ve accepted my sentence and will serve it quietly. I’ll do my best to rehabilitate myself, and to resist the temptation to post questionable memes, use potty words, and make threats against witches. With good behavior I’ll be out Monday evening at 5:45 PST.

To those who’ve stuck with me, and believed in my innocence, I thank you. To everyone who’s reached out; your support in this lonely time has been invaluable. I’ll do my best to honor the trust you’ve shown me, by not putting myself in this position again. Ah, who am I kidding…? I’ll be back — I am a recidivist, repeat offender.

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb

This week by the numbers :

Bikes Ridden: 4

Miles: 146

Climbing: 6,500’

MPH AVG: 15.0

Calorie: 8,200

Seat Time: 9h 45m

Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from The Chesterfield Kings. Enjoy…

January 15, 2023 Jhciacb

The Quiet Session…

Mondays are busy days. When they’re over, I hit the road and attempt to decompress from the conversations of the day. Conversations go with the gig, but talking with different personalities all day, on a variety of topics, can scramble my brain.

My last Monday client though, well, he doesn’t talk much. He’s apprehensive to speak — because he’s unsure of everything. He lives with Alzheimer’s. He’s the only client who doesn’t come to my studio. I go to his house, because he’s unable to drive.

Despite that I see him twice a week, he doesn’t remember my name. He recognizes my face though, when we meet at the front door. He smiles as we shake hands, and he shows me to his home gym like an old friend. The moment we make eye contact, I sense he’s comfortable with me, even if a little confused. On a visceral level, he recognizes routine, and senses safety.

I ask him if he’s ready to exercise. Without saying a word, he nods in the affirmative. I explain the first exercise to him as though he’s never done it before. I then demonstrate it, because that dials him in. And so it goes for the next 55-minutes. I explain the exercise, demonstrate the exercise, and he subsequently performs them — perfectly.

Part of my approach in putting clients at ease, is by making conversation in-between exercises. Sometimes it’s light, other times we try and solve the problems of the world. With this client though, every question is a surprise that he has no answer for. So in-between exercises, the only thing we talk about is the exercise itself. Small talk isn’t an option.

And the thing is, despite that he can’t name the exercises, or even the trainer, he’s committed and works out hard. He lets me push him, and he enjoys it. The familiarity of being pushed, and the routine of it is a portal away from his dementia, if only for an hour. I often think if he had the stamina and I had the time, he’d exercise with me all day long. Throughout the workouts, the only words he speaks are to ask me if he’s doing the exercises properly. I reassure him, and do so with sincerity. Did I mention he’s in his 80s…?

And that’s the extent of it. I show up, we make eye contact, he works hard for an hour, and I leave. And though other clients might read this, I have no problem saying, my workouts with this man are often my best Monday sessions. Two people connect for a common cause, and both benefit. I have a client whose express purpose is to exercise properly. And he has a companion he feels safe with. Win/win.

This is what I think about when I ride…. Jhciacb

This week by the numbers…

Bikes Ridden: 5

Miles: 116

Climbing: 5,900’

Mph Avg: 15.4

Calories: 6,600

Seat Time: 7 hours 34 minutes

January 8, 2023 Jhciacb

Fighting Sadness With Gratitude…

Some things I think about when ride, I just can’t write about. Some good friends are currently dealing with unimaginable adversity in their lives. Their pain is not my pain though, and their story isn’t my story to share. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about them — and feeling secondhand pain, which quickly turns into sadness.

When I think about my gratitude, for all I have and all I am, it’s often rooted in the adversity of others. It comes from the pain, trauma, and turmoil that life throws at people, who in all cases, aren’t deserving of it. As tragedy has struck my friends recently, it was a reminder that tragedy could knock on my door any day, unannounced, and dressed in black.

It constantly bubbles in the depths of my thinking — the whole idea that I’m just one phone call away from a really bad day, and a life changed forever. Some friends have received such phone calls lately, and my heart breaks for them, daily. It also reminds me how fortunate I am. I’m not sure where this comes from, or if it’s even normal, but when I see others facing trauma, I find comfort in my gratitudes.

Gratitude for my family, my pets, my home, and my livelihood. I have gratitude that I’m still able to dream and live to pursue those dreams, while others who’ve been struck by tragedy, find their dreams stifled, distant, and obscured by grief. Most days, I feel I have more than I deserve. I wish I could give that gratitude to my friends in need, but gratitude isn’t a form of currency.

I understand when tragedy hits somebody head-on, they’re not thinking in terms of gratitude, they shouldn’t be, and that’s not what I’m suggesting. What I am suggesting, is when somebody close to me experiences tragedy or trauma, and I’m tempted to glean their pain, I fight that temptation by embracing my gratitudes.