Jhciacb

Groundhog Night…

Groundhog Night…

Yesterday was Groundhog Day. Most of us learn about that in early elementary school. From there, we advance to the adult world, spending most of our lives unable to remember if we get an early spring or longer winter if the groundhog sees his shadow. Fortunately, there’s always somebody the water-cooler to set us straight.

Today though, Groundhog Day is most associated with the movie by the same name, starring Bill Murray and Andie MacDowell. Groundhog Day, the movie, is about being trapped in time, and reliving the same day over and over again. On a visceral level, most of us feel that way each day of our lives, myself included. Here we go again.

These days, at the end of all my Groundhog Days, I also get to live Groundhog Nights — as I attempt to write these musings.

Somewhere around 8:15 each evening, I suggest to my mom that she prepare for bed. As she does, I settle into the sofa and begin grasping for fragments of thoughts from my rolling meditations, to turn into stories. That’s when Groundhog Night sets in.

My mom gets up, takes two soft peppermints from the candy dish, and retires to her bedroom.

A few minutes later she returns to say goodnight to me and the dog, takes a couple more peppermints, and heads to her bedroom once again.

Shortly after that, she returns — to hand me her Life Alert pendant, says goodnight to me and the dog, takes a couple more peppermints, and goes back to her room.

Maybe 15 or 20 minutes later, she emerges to check the kitchen appliances — to make sure they’re unplugged. She takes a couple more peppermints, says goodnight to me and the dog, and returns to her room.

As I survive these interruptions and develop a rhythm to my writing, I hear her bedroom door crack open yet again.

Shit.

She steps out, lets me know that there are no lights on at the house next door and that I shouldn’t go outside. She thinks they may be up to no good. She takes two more peppermints, says goodnight to me and the dog, and goes back to bed.

God, strike me with lightning if I’m exaggerating…

Well past an hour from the first time she retired to her bedroom, she returns once again — this time to go to the bathroom. From there, she takes a couple peppermints, says goodnight to me and the dog, reminds me that it’s “dark as pitch“ at the neighbor’s house and not to go outside. She goes back to bed.

Somehow I manage to find my way back into a writing rhythm, when I hear her door crack open again.

‘Motherfucker’, I mutter to myself.

She proceeds to the kitchen where she takes a Little Debbie Zebra Cake from a box in the cabinet, grabs two more peppermints, says goodnight to me and the dog, tells me she’s going to turn the light out, and returns to her room.

Some combination of these things takes place each night for a duration no less than 60 to 90 minutes from the first time she says goodnight. All the while, I attempt to attach my mind to a memory from the day’s ride and turn it into a story worth sharing.

After the Zebra Cake, I tuck her in, turn out her light, and close her door. If the gods are with me, I can return to writing uninterrupted — nearly 2 hours after she began going to bed.

If you’re counting, that’s approximately 14 soft peppermints. The good news is, at almost 91 years old, we consider those a vegetable.

This is what I think about when it ride… Jhciacb

Yesterday’s Ride…

Bike: Eleventeen Cupcake
28 miles
1,300’ climbing
16.0 mph avg
1,700 calories
Yesterday’s earworm: Pulling Mussels, by Squeeze

Jhciacb

The Fall Of Beauty…

A client was talking to me the other day about the beauty of Fall — the trees, the leaves changing color, the autumn breezes and so-on. I think she was surprised when I flipped her thoughts around. That’s not the beauty of Fall, I said, that’s the fall of beauty, but not necessarily the end of it.

Huh…?

I chewed on that heavily during my ride later that evening — on my appreciation of things that are often seen as past their prime by a culture obsessed with material goods and the newness of everything. 

I like older things, weathered things, and things with stories and histories behind them. 

I like bare trees beside piles of leaves on the ground, rusty metal fences, and human faces with wrinkles that tell their stories.

I like long gray ponytails, old hand-written letters with coffee stains on the edges, and record sleeves with faded large circles imbedded in them permanently. 

I like raspy voices, tarnished jewelry, and wooden furniture that’s lost portions of its stain.

I like cars with dents, black-and-white movies that flicker, and songs played on vinyl with audible scratches. 

There’s just a dignity I appreciate in the aging of nearly anything, except for lettuce, milk, and bad ideas. 

I like a dog with a frosted face, a copper bell that’s mostly green, and the faded Cross pen & pencil set my dad gave me for my bar mitzvah. 

Material things, just like people, have a wisdom about them when they’re older — when they’ve survived the scratches, bumps, and abrasions that come with time. 

The wooden spoon in my kitchen, that I’ve known since childhood, tells a story that a brand new one cannot, but only if I’m listening. 

That’s not to suggest I don’t like new things too — younger people with fresh ideas, a new coat of paint on the walls around me, or a new knife set with clean handles and sharp edges.

It’s just that given the choice between older and newer, very often, I prefer the older. 

I’ve worn the same tank-top for most every workout since before my daughter was born — she’s now 30. If I ever have the money, I’ll find that ‘74 Chevy Vega once again and it will be my everyday car.  M*A*S*H vs Breaking Bad…?   I’ll take M*A*S*H every time. 

I appreciate Courtney Barnett, Modest Mouse, and Stone Horses, but I always come home Traffic, The Allmans, and Herb Alpert. 

And the hand I trust the most…? It’s the one that’s the most weathered, most wrinkled, and has the most spots, of course.

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb

This week by the numbers…

Bikes Ridden: 6

Miles: 184

Climbing: 7,100’

Mph Avg: 15.3

Calories: 10,500

Seat Time: 12 hours 03 minutes

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 here’s a nice little corona theme song from The Living End. Enjoy…

Jhciacb

Let ‘Em Eat Cake…

My father’s been gone for nearly eight years. He spent his last years in assisted-living in Las Vegas. He was mostly bed-bound or wheelchair-bound during that time due to complications from Parkinson’s disease. Near the end, he was taking 19 different medications. When a person is on 19 medications, having a complementary diet is important. That’s what the doctors, nurses, and caregivers of his facility claimed.

On some level I know that’s true. Additives, preservatives, and chemicals in foods can have interactions with medications that cause them to fail, conflict with other medications, or conflict with organ function. With that in mind, my father’s diet while in assisted-living was bland and offered limited options.

For elderly in long-term care facilities, meals are often the most important part of the experience. For my father, eating was just another routine obligation — an unexciting dose of calories to be chased with a glass of water, just like his blood pressure medication. The joy of eating had been lost.

During that time, I visited my father as often as my schedule and my finances allowed. One ritual I practiced when visiting him, was to stop at Taco Bell or for Chinese takeout on my way, and surprise him with food he might not otherwise enjoy. His eyes lit up if he saw me walk into his room with little white boxes of Kung Pao Chicken or a bag full of burritos. He was so starved for exciting food that watching him eat these surprise meals wasn’t a sight for kids.

I have a clear memory, on one of our final visits, of watching him take the final bite of a Chinese takeout meal. When I thought about how much sodium and other chemicals were in that meal, and on consideration of his 19 medications, I was genuinely afraid I might have just killed him — that’s not a joke. It would be a good two hours before I became confident there wouldn’t be any negative interactions between the foods keeping him happy and the medications keeping him alive.

And this is where it gets blurry…

If my father had died, I later wondered, from eating General Tso’s chicken and an egg roll soaked in sweet & sour sauce while staring out the window at a parking lot full of scooters and golf carts, would it have been any worse than if he died later that evening from pneumonia while watching Family Feud…?

I’m taking care of my mother now — she’s 90-year-old. To put it bluntly, my mom eats like shit. Since I am largely responsible for her shopping, food choices, and meal preparation, I might someday be culpable in her premature demise resulting from lesser eating choices. She only takes a couple of medications, one for blood pressure and the other for her thyroid, but food quality and quantity can impact each of them.

Most of my mother’s meals are premade from the local grocery store. I occasionally attempt to cook or assemble something from our kitchen, but regardless of the source, she takes in very little at mealtime. If she eats 1/3rd of what I serve with each meal, I consider it a victory. Generally, she eats less.

In-between meals, like many seniors do, mom craves sweets. Moon Pies, Snickers Bites, soft peppermints, and 8-ounce glasses of Coke are her fix. Though she is more mobile than my father was, and is able to get out each day, I’m certain the best part of each of her days is tasting a bit of sugar on her tongue.

I have a hard time drawing a line between what’s right and what’s wrong when it comes to the elderly and eating. I know if I fed my mother a diet of plant-based foods, limited sugars, and forced her to adhere to it, it would serve her health better and possibly extend her life.

Is it my place though, to force a 90-year-old woman to eat things she doesn’t want, or to deprive her of the things she does…? I could end up with a shiv between my shoulder blades, and when I least expect it.

Mom came up through the depression, watched a world at war, served in the military, and after all of that, had a 45-year career as a nurse. Notwithstanding, that she raised two strong-willed sons and had a husband who was good at making life difficult. At this point, if she wants to consider soft peppermints a vegetable, who am I to argue…?

I eat better than most, I think. When he was my age, so did my father. When my mother was my age, she included a vegetable at every meal, including breakfast. My mother and father were both active well into their 70s. At some point, our bodies slow down — our lives slow down. Tastes change. Priorities change. The things that bring meaning to our lives become simpler.

It might be that we could all live longer lives and with a better quality, by eating more sensibly. The only question I have is, how long does somebody want to stare out the window all day at a parking lot full of scooters…? How many episodes of Dr. Phil mark a complete life…?

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb

This Week By The Numbers…

Bikes Ridden: 6
179 miles
7,200′ climbing
15.8 mph avg
9,700 calories
10 hours 43 minutes seat time

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 Al Kooper and John Mayall. Enjoy…