Savoring sugary staleness

 

 

One characteristic that separates myself from my son can be seen with any snack put in front of either of us. G will eat a cookie or two, a handful of pretzels or whatever then stop. I on the other hand will eat whatever is in front of me until it is gone. Then I get sick, gassy and generally remind myself that I'm an idiot.

The last three years we have stumbled into the tradition of building gingerbread houses at Christmas. Standing in the candy aisle at the grocery store with a cart full of every shape of confection with a 5 year old and asking him, Is there anything else we might need? is guaranteed to get some odd looks of judgment from passers by. That might be my favorite part.

The tradition is good. We sat as a family and buttered up graham crackers with cake filling as mortar and used candy canes as trusses while discussing what a summer tree house project might need to include. Stories and plans for coming adventures continued each night after Christmas when G was allowed to dismantle a particular section of his candied structure to eat. This went on like clockwork after dinner not just through the week till New Years' eve, but another week as well. He tediously ate away at sections of wall, roof and window framing as if he were taking the pieces of dried, stiff, stale licorice, pruned gummy bears and slightly melted Skittles to a candy land rebuilding center to recycle for a gingerbread house remodel next year. He savored every stale bite.

Near the end of the deconstruction I decided to tell G of a gingerbread house I made when I was in kindergarten. It was a basic cabin type structure built similarly with graham crackers and based on a piece of cardboard. It was a class project early in the week before the holiday break. It had candy corn shingles and black licorice for siding. It was a work of art and I was excited to take it home to show off. The trouble was that I walked home from school and I had to hold it with both hands in front of me roughly 1500 ft past the park, through the alley and across another two blocks to my house. (I'm fairly certain of the distance as I just checked on Google maps.)

I'll be honest,  I made it across the schoolyard, past the park and through the alley to Lassen Park Circle, a mere 2/3rds of the trip, before it occurred to me that I was carrying an empty piece of cardboard with some frosting stains. In the distance of roughly 3 soccer fields I had eaten my entire gingerbread house. That last block toward home was an emotional journey as my pride of handiwork became a fear of consequence due to my jaw work.

As an adult looking back at this memory from nearly 40 years ago, I still recall the feeling of shock of realizing I ate the whole thing. It started with just a nibble, just this side of the roof...just the whole roof but not the walls...just the back wall...then the wall that fell down...then....well...I better just get it over with!

Likewise etched in my mind is of how angry my mom was. She was pissed. The next morning she pinned a note to the back of my jacket, firmly instructing me to not remove it but sternly to walk up to my teacher and have her unpin it from my coat. The note explained my indulgence the day before and requested that I stay after school to make another. I was to wait in the school office after finishing for my mother who would pick me up and drive me home so I would be supervised and not engage in the eating of my gingerbread house again.

G was a little disgusted with me as I told him the story. We sat at the kitchen table nibbling away at a wall. As the story progressed he pulled the plate a little further from me, closer to himself. His eyes stayed fixed on me, occasionally scanning to my hands as I broke a bit of frosting off the wall.  You can have one more bite before I have to go to bed, but don't eat anymore without my permission.

Road Trip

Scott needed to go to Canada for a wedding. He was home from U.C. Berkeley the same summer I was figuring out what to do with myself at all. The previous autumn I returned from Belgium and found myself in Portland reconsidering my life's ambition. By the following spring I had been through Mono, Pneumonia, a failed attempt to get fit for the coming Cycling season, a broken foot, simultaneous day and night shift warehouse jobs, and an asleep-at-the-wheel collision in my mom's car. Emphatically finalizing the destruction of all my morale and financially wiping me out completely.

So I returned to friends and the familiar comfort of free-couch-surfing, inland of California's Central Coast. Scott's option of being in a wedding was his most vexing immediate decision. His dilemma was that he had no car. When I offered mine and the scenerio of dropping me off in Portland to meet up with a girl I met the previous winter, amid my failed attempt of residency; he committed.

The girl and I dated a couple of times before I dismissed the northwest and returned to the bird farm of San Juan Bautista to keep it a-float while the Bird Man took his family on a cross country vacation. Bird farming had in the past, been an ideal flexible, part time job for an aspiring bike racer. Feeding, cleaning, shoveling and whole-sale delivering of birds was less my forte than Cycling and Cycling had broken me. The bird business made sense as a part of the whole equation, but was hugely depressing as a stand alone reality. I was free falling in a void of ambition and being a bird farmer was not helping me fly out of my dispair. A do-over in Oregon, even for a few days might be what I needed to reset my clock. I hoped.

The details were decided that we would need nearly as many cigars as gallons of gas. And a third contributor to bring the total cost down to something two penniless twenty-somethings could afford. I opted for hitch-hikers but was over ruled. My Honda Civic, purchased from the original owner, a large, single, Samoan women, had low miles considering the wear. Given my palmares and lack of SAT scores, the car was a shining asset and often 2nd home. The driver's seat was beat down and torn apart like a bike racer who had given up. The rest of the interior was mint condition 1982 blue-vinyl. The car needed suspension replaced on the driver side and a new carburetor. The body was in good shape but the paint, well, the paint was blue oxidized crap.

Customization's I made included a melted, improvised ashtray on the driver's side view mirror fairing from extinguishing cigars and a Candle Box cassette stuck in the tape player. This was 1995. Besides the car, I owned one pair of shoes, 3 shirts, 2 pair of shorts and one pair of Gap Khaki pants (for formal events), a sleeping bag and the complete REM catalog to date on CD but no CD player. I owned 3 books; On The Road, The Subterraneans and The Bible. As well as two suitcases stuffed full of cycling clothing for any season or weather condition. I had zero continuity.

Stu was happy for me to go, mostly because it got my free-loading apathy out of his house for a week. The twist was him choosing on the fly to go with us. Perhaps for bonus marital credits as it gave Doreen some serious solitude. Stu, 12 years my senior had been (and still is) a mentor and sounding board since I was 17. He was a Butcher by trade and as good if not better than any old, cigarillo chewing drunk Belgian at motor-pacing bike racers as well. For the trip, Stu would be let off in Tacoma where his brother would pick him up. A week later he would fly home. Scott would connect again with me in Portland after witnessing the nuptials.

During the drive up, I don't remember much other than Stu naming each song on the radio within the first three chords, and Scott reciting literature and grinding into me with each quote that I needed to get myself together and go to college. The Civic had no A/C so the oven hot wind pounded through the car as we each yelled whatever needed to be said. I'm not even sure how much I drove.

Portland was the briefest of rest stops for my companions as I quickly stranded myself so as to guilt my brother into let me into his house. The plea of, "I have no where to go and no way to get there" was enough to squat in his basement for a few days. My plan was to shower, call the girl and hope for the best.

Unfortunately Scott and Stu drove off with my shoes still in the car. Knowing that without shoes I would likely hang around the house longer, my brother hurried me into his car and chased down my friends at the Chevron station on Powell Blvd, half way between I-205 and the Ross Island Bridge.

The week passed quickly. The girl kept me entertained with a trip to the coast, walks in Forrest Park, a Toad The Wet Sprocket concert in Washington park and dinner with her parents one evening. The blunt questioning of her father from across the dinner table, surmising my sub-standard state, "So, you work on a bird farm?" confirmed my suspicion that I was likely the lowliest rescue his daughter had ever brought home. At the very least, I could not disappoint.

Four days on, I sat on my parents porch on a Monday, watching cars drive past on the wooded, rural highway. I don't recall if it was under the guise of wanting to visit them or if I had maximized my welcome at my brothers house prematurely as to why I was there. Regardless, by the time Scott drove up the gravel driveway, I was well into the 3rd Cuban Cigar of the dozen I brought home from Europe and stashed for special occasions. His tardiness didn't bother me so much as the fear I would still be sitting on the porch when my parents returned from their days work.

Scott had been held up at the border. Apparently when you are 22, a resident of California but driving a car registered in Oregon to your "friend" and there is no registration document in the vehicle, you don't profile well and your mother country isn't convinced they want you back. Fortunately for me, the 6 hour drive once he was released, to where he picked me up, allowed him to process and see the experience as a valuable life lesson and not want to choke me to death. But I still sensed some tension.

Nothing calms the nerves like a good Cuban and we were back on the road before dinner. Again, much of the drive is long lost from memory, but what is still vivid is the re-kindled motivation that comes with a goal. The optimistic, youthful conversations of a future you know nothing about, the glowing red light behind the ash of a cigar mid-drag, and the almost cooling night air in August on I-5 at 75 mph sometime after midnight.

Last Weekend's Race Report

photo courtesy of Athletespath.com


A few years back I was re-hab'ing after getting run over by Cadillac Jack and did the weekly Mt. Tabor series in the 3's. I had some really good days and some really bad days. I was wildly inconsistent. Midway through the series was the weekend version of the race. The Saturday race is much longer but the course has always suited me and the added laps more so as well. I was optimistic but as mentioned earlier, I was wildly inconsistent day to day.

Midway through the race I was comfortably near the front and never stressed up the hill. The sprint over the top, through the hair-pin was just an exercise in getting out of the saddle to stay loose. I was optimistic. I'm not often a real positive thinker in bike races. Bike racing is cruel and rarely just.

Some friends stopped warming up for their race as they watched. They were happy that I was back on the bike after taking such a licking from American Steel. They cheered for me and motivated me. But about that time, as the lap board counted down the legs failed me. I had nothing left and in frustration dropped out, pulling off the course with 2 or 3 laps to go.

I retrieved my jacket, leg warmers and a fresh bottle then turned away from the park to ride easy and contemplate my failure having lost complete sight of the bigger picture. The fact that I was racing again after having been run down by an old man in an El Dorado in a hurry to get his lawn mower blade sharpened.

Waiting for me at the course exit point were a handful of friends. They rode with me and reminded me that the race itself is less important than the time spent with one's friends.

Fast forward 5 years to another rehab, another first road race in a long while and I find myself off the back of a Masters 40+ race over the first big climb of the course. Fifteen miles in to a 60-mile race. I get over the top and watch a group of other not-so-fit-old-guys start to work together in an effort to chase back on to the group. My heart is in my mouth and I'm content to sit on the back, not contributing until I was sure I wouldn't barf. While sitting there I notice the numbers on each riders jersey and the ribbon differentiating the 50+ guys from the 40-49 year olds. I figure I am the youngest guy in the group and I'm barely hanging on!

A few miles pass and I start to take my turns on the front. Our group is working fairly well together and we catch another couple of riders who got popped out of the main bunch. By the end of the next lap most of this laughing group has decided to peel off and head back to their cars. I made the decision to stay in and keep chasing nothing as by this time the race is far out of sight. With me is one guy who says it's his 50th birthday and he just wanted to get a good day in because all he does otherwise is commute the same route to work and home each day.

So we soldiered on. Another 20-miles catching guys left behind by the race proper. This guy Joe and I doing the bulk of the pace making while others sat in to recover before eventually taking their turns. As we approached the finish hill, guys in the group started sizing each other up as if we were the leaders racing for the win. We were at best going to be sprinting for 50th place in the combined age-group field, likely 20-minutes behind the winner. I stood up as the sprint started, both legs cramped and I sat back down and watched grown men race each other for absolutely nothing.

Joe "won" the bunch sprint. He said the big guy in Orange almost had him but faded as the line approached. He rode back to the parking lot with me and said how great it was to "win" the sprint on his birthday.

I took 2nd by a tire in a 3 up sprint in a criterium on my 21st birthday. That was bitter-sweet. My mom got a picture of it. Go figure. But I can't imagine being so stoked to ultimately get 17th out of 20 in a race where the common thread of discussion is retirement. Regardless, Joe had a good day. Should I decide to do another road race in the near future, I look forward to getting dropped with my new friend Joe.

As for my placement? I was misplaced as 8th in the cat 3's until that was sorted and corrected. At which point the officials simply deleted me. At least I didn't DNF.

Poor assimilation

During the spring of 1994 I was able to race bigger one-day events and stage races in France, Holland and Germany. But come summer, The team director bumped me to solely race the kermis events in Flanders. Maybe because having already stolen most of the cash, start money and meager winnings I had, he knew I was tapped. Or because I was so abundantly skilled at tail gunning the General Classification at week long stage races. What I am sure of is that any of us were lucky to still have our passports for all the riffling through our duffel bags while we were busy racing.

So for the summer, Johnny would pick me up in his Ford Escort station wagon each Saturday and Sunday. He insisted I sit in the passenger seat while he set my bike in the back of the car. He always fumbled with the same old wool army blanket over the frame, then put both pairs of wheels one for the race and a spare set, one wheel at a time on top of the frame, each with a layer of blanket covering.

En route to the race he would tell me course details and stories of the race or nearby races from the past. He spoke Flemish and I could only pick up a few words. He also never rolled the windows down in the car, which had no air conditioning. He just sat there in slacks, a short sleeve dress shirt and sweater vest talking, sweating and driving. I barely had a clue of what he was saying. Sometimes he would use hand motions. When he would count, he always used his thumb for the number 1. I’d nod and smile but mostly I hunkered down toward the air vent hoping the warm moving air would somehow refresh me. If we drove past a hops farm, he would point, and then say, “For bier.”

Once in the race town Johnny would wait in the car in front of the bar where the registration was for the race. Only when the car was stopped would he roll the door window down. Upon my return with a large vinyl race number peppered on each corner with holes from years of being pinned on hundreds of other riders backs, I would point and tell him in pigeon Flemish where the changing rooms were. He would nod, say something and drive straight to where I needed to be.

The changing rooms varied from back rooms of bars to auto mechanic garages, to sport center gymnasiums or best of all, the actual sports center locker room. Mostly though, people offered up their own garages or houses. About half the time we went to the home of someone that Johnny knew. Like Johnny, the host was usually old. After I changed, Johnny would squat in front of me and massage my legs with some sort of embrocation cream. The cream would vary based on the weather, but always I raced with an oily sheen on my legs.

After the races the routine was similar. He would wait for me at the finish with a jacket or long sleeve jersey, no matter how hot it was. Then jog with me as I rode slowly back to where I had changed before the race. Once I showered, we would drive back to bar where again, he waited in the car while I returned my number for my deposit of 200 or so francs and collected my winnings if I placed in the races classification. Then back to the car where he’d roll up the window and drive us home. Always making sure to point out the potatoes or hops or whatever while replaying my race, counting with first his thumb, then index finger and making a fist to describe how intense the selection of contenders was as we passed through the village during the race. The routine was the same, both days, every weekend, all summer.

My Flemish slowly improved. One or two days mid-week I would ride to a race on my own, testing my new language skills by asking for directions at every round-a-bout. At the race I'd change with the other riders in the back of the race headquarters/bar or in the shadow of a Citroen needing a new transmission. I’d massage my own legs with warming oil and tell jokes with whichever other English speakers showed up to race. But the weekend races with Johnny were special in their own humid, stale air way.

On Monday evenings he would come to my house with his daughter to translate. We always sat at the table, Johnny across from me, his daughter to the left. He would explain how I needed to train that week. Counting first with his thumb and punching his fist into nothing to emphasize hard efforts. “Driving,” meant riding hard. When he tapped his chest he’d call it his “ticker.” I was instructed to either keep my ticker low or high. That's it, no 5 ranges of heart rate or wattage or types of effort, just "Umph, or Shhh." Each days training advice was written down in “Huers”, which gear to use and what rpm to maintain. His daughter, 19 and not so pretty, translated in a bored, monotone voice but mostly watched MTV, the only non-BBC channel I could watch in English. It took a long time to get to September.

Family Bike Ride

Over the winter A decided she wanted fenders for her bike. Mostly to look AWESOME. Notice how hot that white "mixtie" in the picture is with the fenders?

It took me months to locate the exact fenders required. Getting them as a Christmas gift would have been like her buying me a copy of "Never Been Kissed" so I abstained.

Come my birthday when spring was almost in the air and the bank account almost full enough for me to have access to, I decided since it was my day, I could buy whatever I wanted so I may as well spend waaaay too much money for something originally designed for practicality but taken to a much better looking and (surprise) far more expensive level than necessary. Understand, I've zip-tied, riveted and duct-taped pieces of $30 plastic fenders back together to get me through thousands of winter miles over the years. I also thought, before getting married that tuna straight out of the can as a meal was just fine too.

A of course is the same lovely lady who put Derby Day effort into getting primped to walk the neighbors dog along the "promenade" at the base of Mt. Tabor when we were first married. My point is, she didn't want the fenders for the sake of having fenders to keep the rain off, but specifically she wanted Tanaka Brass Fenders because they look friggin RAD and I'll admit, she has a good eye for cool.



At any-rate, I found the fenders on-line, pulled the trigger and they arrived in a big, brown, discrete package as promised. It took the better part of an afternoon, power tools and beer to get them mounted. A's bike has the biggest, smoothest tires possible and even though my measurements added up with the info on the website, the fenders were a tight fit with the tires and the frame spacing. But whoever thought a tight fit and fashion were any worse a match than peanut butter and jelly?

As I was installing her latest desire into reality, she decided her "Womens' Specific" seat was a piece of crap and wanted to go old school with the heaviest saddle ever made complete with steel springs.


I am 100% supportive of anyone having a comfortable bicycle seat. If it doesn't fit... you won't ride it. The problem comes with the theory of breaking in a real leather saddle. Trust me, I've tried to sleep with a new baseball mitt under my mattress and been as cranky as Billy Martin the next day. I also know all about spending 6+ hours in crappy wet chamois on an equally wet and chaffing bike seat. What I tried to tell A was that come the weekend, an hour from home with a new, stiff, rawhide, saddle I wasn't willing to hear the "Go buy me a hemorrhoid pad, then come back and pick me up in our car" blues.

With the fender project done and the Brooks B33 saddle mounted, she was off to test for tire rub and butt chaffing through the neighborhood. The good news couldn't have been better. In-fact as it turned out, the old school leather seat with the crazy bouncy ride was much more comfortable for her than her modern "especially designed for a woman" seat with feminine graphics in the logo.

So Saturday morning dawns and the Newmaforma is off for a family bike ride. We do our usual loop. A few joggers pass us. Then we pass them. People riding and jogging comment about the boat-bike. Drivers pace us weaving nervously close giving a hands free from the steering wheel thumbs up. Yell out the window asking where I bought it. They say at traffic lights that I should ride to their office because a guy 3 cubicles over likes to ride his bike and would love to see it. Gavin stays unimpressed with the public interest. Usual stuff.

The hill that can't be avoided near the end of the ride is a bit of a bear no matter which street you go up. About half-way up the way we usually go is a park. A bench. A tennis court. And a bursting with life emerald green plot of grass begging for a toddler to run on. Just after the park is the steepest pitch. A narrow serpentine stretch of road that from the lower slope seems to end abruptly at a large brick fireplace on the side of an otherwise forgettable house. When you get there, the road turns and the climb continues unmercifully for another block. An eternity at the end of a long ride.

A decides she needs to stop. Sitting on the bench, her back to the tennis court and feet spread wide apart, elbows on her knees, hands holding her head as she stares at the space between her feet, she slowly forms words. Her bike is lying in front of her, derailer side up, brass fenders shining gold in the sun. Gavin points to the open space and wants out of the boat. I go through the list of things that might be wrong. Saddle sores, sugar bonk, blisters, etc., etc.

"No one said anything about how pretty my bike is."

"What?"

"I'm riding a bike with a 40 lb seat and RAD brass fenders and all anyone says is 'nice boat!'. "

She pauses.

"At least my butt knows this is the sweetest bike in town."

I remain silet. Watching the shadows of the moving tennis players behind her.

"And for the love...I can't feel my legs and I have to climb this friggin hill? Ugggg."

Then she got up and I kid you not, drilled it up the rest of the hill leaving me, G and the boat-bike in her wake.

Child Labor and other things I learned from my mom

When I was four or five, my mom had a project that needed much labor power. Projects in my family often, in hindsight, should have included: building permits, maybe some chemistry or engineering schooling, or any other form of formal precursor. For example my recent boat bike would be considered a middling project. Its best qualifiers including: no plan, a complete lack of nautical knowledge and trying to use tools not suited to the task at hand.

Back to my mom...

Mom wanted carpet in the family room. The entire floor that was the kitchen/dining/family room had white linoleum with a small brick-like pattern that seemed random to the casual observer but after hours of building Lego villages or Erector Set towers one could very definitely see a repeated pattern of shapes in each square of linoleum. Much like the 3 variations of the same floor plan that made up our sub-division.

She concocted a plan to keep the linoleum in the kitchen/dining area and carpet the rest of the room. I'm guessing a 15'x 20' area from vague memory. The catch was there was no capital financing.

No problem! Mom was/is a scrapper. She liked to say, "We're turning lemons into lemon aide."

Each morning that summer she would thumb through the yellow pages then talk on the phone while I ate my Rice Crispies or Cheerios. Sometime later we would get in the family truck, pick up her friend Mary Anne and proceed to our first "stop".

Upon our arrival, mom would wake me up from my morning nap. In the beginning we would go through the front door of the carpet stores first and mom would have a conversation with the clerk...as the summer progressed, we did not go inside so much... The "nots" were usually places we had previously stopped at days before. Some of the stops were stores, some warehouses. Regardless, my job started when we drove around back and mom would pull up to the dumpster. Like a hunting dog I would respond to her pointing by leaping into the dumpster and picking up all the scrap pieces of carpet I could lift. It was exciting for me I'll admit. The small pieces I could throw as hard as I could muster and occasionally I would find a roll of carpet bigger than me that I would lift like a pole toss in Scottish Highland games.

Then the trip home for lunch and to sort the sizes, colors and textures of carpet. Being a little too young to play with knives, my brother and sister were suckered into cutting the remnants into uniform brick sized pieces. It's good to reflect now and know that their summer sucked too.

My first recollection as a kid of being sweaty and tired from hard work comes from dumpster diving for carpet remnants. The sense of accomplishment was great and all, but I was one dude with my mom and her gal-pal. I felt emasculated but wasn't old enough to know what it meant. Torn between feeling proud of being my mom's "Main Dumpster Man" and wishing I could just ditch the women and play Army with my friends (who by the way were all dudes). I soldiered on day after day not really understanding what the point was.

I hit my limit when, as usual, mom pulled the mustard colored Dodge 500 truck up next to a dumpster and I climbed out the back of the camper (that my dad built), dove in and landed on a homeless guy. I was well beyond being potty trained, but if I didn't full-on crap myself when I stepped on that guy, I would bet money I at least peed on he and I both. He yelled something at me and I jumped out of the dumpster, back into the truck and told my mom in few words, "I quit."

Perhaps for redemption or maybe to ease me off my ledge and keep me around to do her dirty work, mom and Mary Anne took me to A&W for lunch. A&W was way cooler than McDonald's for two reasons: Root beer floats and the Bear molded into the straw. See, as you sucked up the root beer in the float, it goes through the straw and just above the top of the mug the straw becomes shaped like a bear then goes back to a normal straw shaped tube. Frigging AWESOME when you're 5.

Regardless of mom and Mary Ann's bribery, they lost all credibility as we left the restaurant and walked out the emergency exit tripping the alarm and nearly making my ears bleed after a morning of soiling my pants.

Fast forward to Labor Day weekend and somehow my folks roped a house full of friends into helping glue down a million brick-sized pieces of random carpet onto a pad to make one BITCHIN' 1976-style family room rug. The bummer was that the house smelled like glue till Halloween and the carpet remained intact through the 80's when the house sold. The first condition from the new buyers? Put the carpet in a dumpster.

Spooge Ball World Championships

This is Spooge. And this is the story of his 2009 Spoogeball World Championships.


We've been playing SB for a few years on camping trips. It's gotten intense. Especially late in the evening. Traditionally I get eliminated in the first round, often by my wife, then wander off to get firewood to illuminate the championship round. My point is not about being a pyro but that Spooge Ball is the real deal, with a real trophy and real drama.

This year however, there have been some changes. Camping is out due to an overall increase in head count and all the crap that would need to get packed to go with each of the new little heads. If we all went camping this summer we'd need a tour bus!


So the tourney starts with Olympic style pomp and circumstance. First by picking the starting order. Each player writes their name on a commemorative ball before being professionally mixed, drawn and entered into the bracket.



As the festivities continued to gain momentum, players; -nay, athletes, were treated to energy foods and performance beverages within the athletes village.




For the uninitiated, Spooge Ball is a game of ball tossing skill in which each competitor tosses their balls across a designated distance to a goal. Points are rewarded for where the balls land on the goal rack. Some people toss their balls further, some not far enough, and some even get their balls to land on various rungs of the rack for 2,3 or a single point. Each pair of balls are connected via rope and each player gets 3 pairs of balls. Unlike the Tour de France where one could win 7times with only a single ball.



Simply put,Team Newmaforma wanted victory. However, one member has a bed time that fell well before the second round of play. Another member managed through to the semi-finals and after finally being eliminated took this photo of the bracket board before the final championship round. Had said player been collecting firewood instead of progressively conquering competitors in each round of the tourney, the photo might have been a little brighter and of better quality. But I think Spooge would frown upon a bonfire in his yard made out of his neighbors decking.



In the end, I cannot report on the championship round or the winner for that matter as Team Newmaforma rushed home to get someone to bed nearly 3 hours past his bedtime.

SkyLab

The media was all over the story. So was I. I was 8, old enough to know that if something was on TV, especially on the news, it was sure to be true.

My backyard was a sort of military training facility. A boot camp to prepare for neighborhood wars. It also served as a prison camp for hostages. Spies caught sneaking over from the other side of the park. In the end it was a forgotten prisoner bound to the swing set with the sharp edged metal chains of a swing well into the dinner hour that ceased all of our neighborhood wars but that is a different story all-together.



Most certainly, my yard was the kind of place the Communists would see as a target of national prominence. At the neighborhood library, on the wall above the photo copy machine was a map of nuclear targeted spots in the U.S. The San Francisco bay area was heavily highlighted. Likely for my backyard training facility more than the Lockheed, IBM or other tech facilities in the area. After all, I had a tank made out of really thick cardboard and a red Radio Flyer wagon drive train. As well as Lemon, Plum and Peach trees ripe with ammunition.



So when the news broke that Skylab would re-enter the Earth's atmosphere, I immediately went to Def con 1. The course of re-entry was to be over the Pacific ocean, possibly nearer Australia than California but that made no difference. Australia didn't seem that far away on the map, in the encyclopedia I studied.

Regardless, I was prepared. I climbed the ivy vines that grew against our house. I climbed onto the roof where I watched airliners approaching for landings, followed contrails to where they faded into blue sky, and wondered exactly how close Skylab would be before I saw it.

I faded into other thoughts too. How high would a side walk ramp have to be if I were to jump ALL the garbage cans on my street on my bike? I would most likely need my friend Joey's bike. He had a Mongoose with Mag wheels. I had a Schwinn Sting-ray. His bike was lighter. It was also all chrome. Chrome was bad-ass. Yes, I knew the phrase bad-ass at 8. I could safely say bad-ass alone, on the roof without getting in trouble. So I often did. Being on the roof was pretty bad-ass too. I spent alot of time there.

Mornings were routine. Mom read the paper at the table and drank coffee. I would try to read the headlines, the comic strips and the sports section, not understanding what free-agent meant. I recognized the names of Catfish Hunter, Reggie Jackson and Billy Martin. I generally found reading the paper, reading anything for that matter pretty boring. Watching the evening news was far more interesting. Reading took time and patience. It was not bad-ass. But this day I read the headline that Skylab had come crashing back to earth. I ran out into the backyard to see if any of it landed in my back yard.

NO SHIT, IT DID!

A piece of metal with the letters "S-K-Y L-A" careened as shrapnel in the side of my tank. I about crapped my pants. I may have peed some but I don't remember. I wouldn't be embarrassed if in fact I did.



The cardboard of my tank was still smouldering. I didn't know what to do. I ran around absolutely speechless. Dumbfounded that it really happened. I was gonna be on the news! Surely the President would come, see my piece of Skylab and shake my hand. He'd see my military training stuff; the ditch I dug, the see-saw turned into a ladder/battle ram/portable bridge to cross ditches, climb fences and pillage enemy back yards. He'd want to drive the tank, squat under the old boat I used as a dome of protection for nuclear fall out. I'd likely be signed into the Army as a Major at least. Definitely as a free agent. Maybe a Colonel. I'd be...bad ass.

All day I told everyone I could. I showed my friends the evidence and there was no arguing the facts. They stood in awe as we touched the ashen side of my tank. Skylab landed in MY backyard. I wanted to call the news stations but my mom wouldn't let me. I carried the piece of metal shrapnel with me all day. My older brother and I studied pictures and drawings of Skylab. He showed me where Skylab was written on a picture of the space station and was certain that was the piece I held in my arms. I agreed without question.



At dinner I couldn't contain myself. I told and retold the story all the while dad looked at my brother square and sternly. I hardly ate. How could I? I was busy explaining how I walked up to my tank and there it was just sticking out of the side! At times Dad kicked him under the table. Prompting him, "Tell him...tell him. You have to tell him."

So my brother came clean. Only Lima beans and Carrots remained on my plate. Everyone else had left the table and were watching the 7:00 re-run of M*A*S*H. He looked at me and said, "I put the piece of metal in your tank. I painted S-K-Y-L-A on it last night."

My lower lip quivered. My ears got hot. My hands shook.

"I gotta say," he went on, "It took a whole bunch of matches to get the tank to burn AT ALL! That's some really strong cardboard you got. That tank is gonna last all summer."

Four

Call it coming to terms with mortality, learning of the relationship between action and reaction or simply a crash course in physics. Whatever it was; I learned it when I was four. Un-related also at the age of four, I learned that adults, the ones you look up to, lie. Four was a big year for me.

Tough as it might be to get up every other day of the week, Saturdays have always come early for me. As a kid I mostly would watch cartoons and catch the week in review news which was 99.9% totally over my head. At one point there was a story about Smokey the Bear, a bear who was saved from fire in Yosemite. The bear was at a zoo and I hoped to someday visit him.

The Saturday before Mother’s day that year was a windy day in the suburb. Standing on a neighbors fence, coat stretched out and held cape like at the bottom end of the zipper with my hands, I could jump from the fence and land on the grass further away than if I simply jumped from the same height. In my mind that was proof enough that I could fly.

The flying game went on for some time that afternoon. My neighbor friends and I took turns jumping to see who could fly the furthest. The experience was the essence of childhood play. Late in the afternoon something went horribly wrong. I landed with my arm straight out, the forearm snapped as if I had two elbows on the same limb.

Weeks later, my mom enrolled me in a pre-school. The teacher was a Mother Goose like, retired elementary school teacher. She gave off a vibe of safety and comfort; someone a kid could trust. I was excited to spend my days doing whatever activities were planned. One particular day the teacher said, “Tomorrow we will have a special guest; Smokey the Bear.”

Excited beyond words, I woke up the next morning having pee’d my bed. Unfortunately the laundry was not up to date and I learned going commando was. All through breakfast, during the drive and as we pulled up to the school, my mom continually reminded me, “Don’t forget to go potty and be careful when you zip up your pants.”

Class went on for what seemed like forever until we all sat on the floor in front of the chalkboard for our afternoon special guest. I could barely contain myself. A fire truck drove into the parking lot and we were told that after visiting with Smokey we could climb all over the truck.

I could have cared less about the truck. I wanted to pet and play with Smokey. After a few songs and a game called “Let’s see who can be the quietest,” for which I never won, in walked a fireman. Then another, holding the hand of what looked like a guy in a bear suit with a ranger hat and holding a shovel. Other kids pointed and yelled Smokey’s name. I raised my hand then screamed out at the top of my lungs, “That’s not Smokey the Bear, that’s a man in a costume.”

Obstinate, the teacher quickly sat me on her lap. The guy in a furry suit told the class to not play with fire. I thought maybe the firemen should not have toyed with the emotions of kids. The rest of the summer went okay.

The Bixby Canyon Bridge

I recently bought the new Death Cab for Cutie CD; Narrow Stairs. It has not left me disappointed. The first track is titled, “The Bixby Canyon Bridge.”

The song pays respects to a dead friend while realizing that while the place is the scene of death, it is for most, a blink of the eye while travelling through every day life. At least that’s how I interpret it in 32 words.

At 16 I went on a church bike trip from San Jose to Disneyland. The trip was a stage for me as I was a social wall flower. On the bike though, I was comfortable. Cycling was my escape and bike racing was a way to vent my adolescent angst. I was good at riding a bicycle at a time when everything else in life seemed difficult.

I crossed the Bixby Bridge with Lorinda, a well matured blond who that season was my single thought while doing intervals or climbing hills as hard as I could when my mouth tasted metallic like blood and the legs burned like hot irons.

Amazed that I was totally comfortable next to her, we rode together for miles. She laughed at my jokes and shared her thoughts. My hands rested lightly on the hoods, legs spun smoothly, loosely. That moment was easy. Off the bike, in contrast, I stared at my feet, tripped over my words or avoided her all together. As we crossed the Bixby Bridge, everything was right in my world.

Unfortunately, just after the bridge, my eyes firmly set on her, we crested one of the many peaks along the coastal highway. I failed to see the giant boulder in the road and hit it straight on, collapsing my front wheel into a heart shaped pile of aluminum.

A few years later, Chris and I did an inland trip to Paso Robles and back up the coast. Riding cyclocross bikes fitted with racks and not nearly low enough gearing, we spent 3 days trying to drop each other with loaded packs while he extolled the virtues of college life.

Both of us thought the other brought a can opener. We ate canned soup and tuna opened with rocks our first night. Crossing the Bixby Bridge from the south on that trip I enjoyed the approach, the vista and the moment for what it was. The wind chilled my sun burnt skin. I thought 19 would last for much longer than it did.

So it was without forethought, after reading Henry Miller and the Beat poets and having developed a respect for the Big Sur that I would finally accept the loss of my cousin Keith, and mourn the tragedy of his brother Kevin during a 72 hour bender at Pfeiffer State Park. The power of nature on the Big Sur was the prologue to the hardest block of my life. I was powerless as even the fog engulfed me and I shivered in front of a camp fire I could barely see.

For the past 3 years the Tour of California has crossed the Bixby Bridge in rightly the harshest stage of the race. The bridge is a must-take postcard shot for the photogs. One might look at those pictures and see the race as a bridge between Euro Pro Cycling and the growing domestic Pro scene. Mostly, the Bixby Bridge reminds me of painful blisters that callus sensation-less so as to continue crossing the chasms that otherwise seem uncrossable.

Graced

In July 1985, during my first full year of bike racing as likely the smallest and worst junior in the history of the world, I followed the CBS sports broadcast of the Tour de France each weekend, with unwavering anticipation and dedication. During the sprint into St. Etienne, Phil Anderson pinched Bernard Hinault into the crowd barriers. The Badger, as the French called him, fell spectacularly and broke his nose. Through the following mountain stages, Hinault etched forever into my conscience, the resolve to fight on as he continued with a pair of black eyes to his 5th Tour victory in Paris.

Beyond my comprehension at the time and more importantly was the issue of Hinault’s rivalry with American teammate Greg LeMond and the subsequent foundation of a battle royale to be played out in full the following year. As an impressionable child in utter awe of what I was watching on TV, all I took away was that Bernard Hinault was a bad-ass bike racer.

A month later, armed with a Kodak instamatic camera and Duran-Duran hair, I jumped into the Badger’s face to get this shot in Sacramento during the Coors Classic. Hinault smiled at me. Not in a posed, fake-hug instead of an autograph way, but in a true candid moment. He could have just as easily jumped off his bike and beat the Hell out of me as he did to picketing workers blockading the Paris –Nice race the previous year. Instead he smiled at me. As he maneuvered past, he patted me on the head and mumbled something in French then disappeared. For all I know he could have said I was an annoying little runt. It didn’t matter. One of the greatest champions in the world graced me with his presence like a back alley pope.

Off to the side, watching me resolute, was Charley Berard a red-headed career domestique for the Badger. Once Hinault left, the crowd simmered down and Berard, still standing there against the barriers, nodded at me and said, “Someday, no?” then made a fist and touched it to his chest twice. I didn’t understand the hand motion until years later when I was in France and the old men at the start of the races would make the same fist, punch it twice to their heart and smile then say, “Today, no?”

That “Today” never happened for me. There were a pile of hopes for a someday, close calls with destiny that made the closer I got to accomplishing the dream seem further and further away. Now, years passed, those yesterdays are the poignant lessons of an ambitious youth. A youth where the best day, the day that got me through seasons of worst days, was the day the Badger smiled at me.

Pool Therapy

I’ve started pool therapy. The pool is at the hospital and primarily serves the rehabbing elderly and obese. Being relatively young and thin, I am an enigma. When I broke my pelvis in 2006 I visited the pool and was offered medicinal marijuana, naked, in the locker room. This time around, I have again, been engaged, naked, in conversation.

Specifically on the topic of how Anton signed up at age 16 to serve in WW II and how he dislocated his hip falling from a broken ladder onto a concrete dock from a ship at Rouen, France. He went on about how the nurses wrapped his legs together in knotted sheets.

“But it taught me a trade,” he declared.

“How?” I asked.

“After the war, I was a Merchant Marine!”

During this trip down memory lane, I spied my t-shirt and wet towel figuring both to be too small to knot around much anything, and that even hopping on one leg, should I have to ditch my wheelchair, I could escape Anton if necessary, naked or otherwise.

The ambient temperature at the pool is much the same as a tropical island during monsoon season. I make a conscious effort to not let the water touch my face or lips. Despite the distinct smell of chlorine, seeing for instance Biker Dude, the morbidly obese, lost member of ZZ Top, paddling around in the water freaks my freak out. The nappy chest length beard and massive water displacement keeps me on edge.

Getting into the pool is a sort of mall-parking-lot-carnival-show in itself. The lift is a hand crank number and the fiber glass chair is akin to the pink seats at Baskin-Robbins. I settle in, pull down the hand ‘safety’ rails to grip while the therapist rips on the crank to lift me high above the deck before swinging me out over the shallow end of pool with some good ‘ole fashioned body english. The old folks scatter from ground zero beneath me and look up from the shallow end railing, questioning to each other loudly who the young whippersnapper is and why he is getting the lift treatment. I imagine myself like the Pope or another dignitary high above the peasants, waving in a fake appreciation for their indentured servant hood. Once in the pool, I come back to reality, grab my floatie belt and Styrofoam dumbbells and retreat to my corner of the pool to do 30-minutes of work that when healthy would barely be a warm up.

I should give Anton more credit. Truth is, at the pool he is my only friend. In his 80’s and living alone, he enjoys egging me on to do standing dumbbell pushups in the deep end.

“Try to keep up!” he taunts.

Being as vain as I am, I give in. Then the old folks start to turn their heads towards us. Next, they approach. Just as the challenger in a Kung-Fu movie stays on the horizon for most of the film before suddenly arriving for the climactic final fight scene, the blue hairs take a good few minutes to float and paddle over to watch the contest of man-hood known as the ‘Styrofoam-dumbbell-standing in the deep end-push ups-to prove I’m stronger than you old man-contest’. It’s always a close battle but I win every time. If bike racing only taught me one thing it’s that the PRO never concedes to the local hot shot.

Anton has alternative motives for me to smoke him in floating tests of feat. And his motivation is partly why he is so loud and boisterous when he tells me what a hard ass he was in his day. I remind him that for a career merchant marine, his skin, virgin of tattoos, doesn’t back up his story too well.

“We should go out drinking, play some pool, get in some fights and then get naked lady tattoos,” I offer.

He laughs and tells me of how many diseases he avoided by staying clear of dirty needles and whores.

"That’s some damned good advice," I say.

I’m guessing purely on my experience of watching Dr. Ray of Dr. 90210 fame on the E! Entertainment channel that face lifts have come along way since 1976 or so. At the pool is “Madame Happy Face Lady” who is of the age where during the Ford administration one might've thunk if a little nip/tuck is good, then a lot of nip/tuck is better. She carries herself with the kind of poise that indicates she knew how to balance tall hair, high heals and a short skirt at the country club and not spill her third martini.

Madame HFL is as tall as myself, boney thin and save for her perma-grin, shows the deep wrinkles of a dark tan from bronzed decades of old. She still has good hair and keeps it in a sort of B-52ish bob like Carol Burnett or Molly Ringwald for that matter. Not that Molly is old, she’s the same age as me, she just has a certain retrofique (my wife’s word) style.

At any rate, I am sure that when Apollo launches meant it was time to swing, Madame Happy Face Lady sent her fair share of men into orbit. Anton is sure of this as well and is using me as his launch pad to be her astronaut. The thing is, from afar she looks like a nice old lady –but up close, kind of like Jack Nicholson in Batman.

Anton concedes to my superior -if only for youthfulness- strength and I bid ado and call for the pool assistant to lower my chair so I can get the hell outta there. As I am leaving Madame HFL inquires to Anton why the young boy was in the pool and must use the lift.

“He broke his hip and his elbow.”

“How?” she asks.

“In an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Hell if I know, we were naked when I asked!”

I’m guessing that a line like that isn’t gonna get Anton a walk on the moon.

IMPACT

Enough requests for this diddy have led me to simply post it for anyone interested to read. I cannot in good conscience not warn you -dear reader, that if detailed discussion of bodily waste is not your thing; read no further. If on the other hand, you relish poop stories...enjoy!




- IMPACT -


On Wednesday the hospital staff wanted me out of their room. They had been feeding me fruit, yogurt and painkillers since Saturday when I arrived after breaking my right hip and right elbow during a crash on a bicycle ride. I was recovering from the surgery to place pins and screws in my broken bones so they would heal correctly. Now I had over stayed my welcome. Before I could leave though they wanted me to prove that I could get out of bed, into my wheelchair and onto the toilet by myself. I also had to take a dump. The P/T did some drills, got me in and out of bed a few times, had me roll to the end of the hallway and back and got me on the can to whiz as a test run before the nurse shoved a suppository up my butt for motivation.

The suppository worked. I got to the commode, did what was required and was in a hospital bed in my own living room a few hours later. Thursday I moved a triplet of rocks and figured even though I still had mud on my boots, I was out of the woods. I wouldn’t have another BM for 5 days. While continuing on the prescription pain pills every 2 hours like a junky with a rich enabler for a lover, my wife, A, fed my pain like clock work day and night. My appetite was back and friends brought me pizza, burritos, grilled cheese sandwiches and ice cream. I was blessed to be surrounded by such caring and loved ones.

Tuesday I was awake by 8, in my wheelchair and at the table by 9. Finished my coffee and breakfast and was booting up the laptop at 10 when I felt the urge. A wheeled me to the bathroom, got me to the commode and something in my gut didn’t feel right. The turd felt as if it had overshot the hole. I’m not crystal clear on anatomy but I know enough that going down that road, there is nowhere else for the crap wagon to drive. Like telling a hiker to turn left at the top of Half Dome. Said hiker can go over the edge or back down the cable ladder but there is no lateral option.

I squeezed and moaned. I focused on the contraction and then tried to relax. I was afraid that if I could rally myself to push any harder I’d rip the skin to shreds and still not be able to rid myself of the bad-man.

During the 2 hours I spent in the bathroom I tried to massage the area externally and began to understand what I was up against. The anus was swollen clear to the pointy edges of pelvis commonly called the sit bones, compacted with a weeks worth of concrete-like waste. I used a plastic spoon in attempt to pick at, maneuver, extract or all three the orb that was now lodged in purgatory between intestine and commode. My muscles quit contracting and the shit had no reverse gear.

On occasion a small nub would crown, showing itself like a turtle slowly shows its head. I would pick it loose with the spoon. Its consistency was tacky like a block of clay. The spoon clogged up quickly and was soon useless. I had to work manually. The pain, disgust, awe and confusion that something this large and toxic could coagulate inside me without fair warning from the medical professionals who bolted, pinned and stapled me back together kept me in an emotional quandary. A cleaned me up and got me into my wheelchair. I tried to sit square but quickly realized the pain my double parked shit was on the area’s soft tissue. Like standing up quickly to go to the chalkboard with a hard-on in a high school class, I sat back down but angled heavily on my left hip to avoid pressure on the log-jam.

Situated back into bed, I curled near fetal style. In the days since my accident, A had been a trooper, over-powering or at least hiding the emotional roller coaster of work, being 6-months pregnant on top of nursing a broken husband back to health. Finally though, on the phone to the Emergency Room staff, she broke. Explaining my condition, her condition and my inability to sit square, she asked for some staff to get me onto a gurney once out of the car. She was in tears. Frantically dressing, gathering snacks for the day ahead, we both wondered how she would get me into the car. Just at the moment when we looked each other in the eyes with a decade of highs and lows behind us, and silently committed to attempting to move me; knowing the possibility of either of us falling, someone knocked on the door. A friend was in the area for work and thought he’d stop in to check up on us. He put A at ease, got me into the car and off we were to the ER.

The Triage nurse was kind enough to leave me fetal on a gurney in a dead end hallway with a piss-pot and a blanket. Should I have another BM I was a shade closer to privacy than display and could moan, contort and cry with at least no one sitting next to me. Hours passed slowly.

About 5 pm I was put in an ER room of my own and a male nurse explained he would give me an enema or perhaps two. “We are super swamped,” he told A. “If this one doesn’t work in 15-minutes, give him this one.”

He held up his other hand with a tube that looked like a family sized tube of tooth paste. He began to explain the process to her while I instead focused in on his strawberry hair and fair, freckled face. “Jam the tip all the way in and SQUEEZE real hard,” he said. His face turned red and his beady-eyes were about to pop out. “Really SQUEEZE the tube to get all the fluid out and up into his butt. Okay? If you have trouble just call for me.”

He fully inserted the tip and SQUEEZED real hard, just as he said he would, filling my bowls with an oily concoction. I held my breath pinching my ass shut to keep the lube inside me. A attempted to distract me by recalling recent phone calls she’d received from concerned friends in an effort to keep the time from seemingly standing still. 15-minutes passed and I stumbled onto the portable toilet, drained the enema concoction and moaned in absolute pain while the pressure of the giant shit pushed against my anus. I almost cried. A found the nurse again and I explained that this thing was simply not going to come out with an enema. He assured us it was a multi stepped process and we would continue with a second round.

After the second enema ended like the first, a moderately attractive 40-something female doctor with shoulder length blond hair came in, shoved her hand up my ass and asked if it hurt. I told her the truth. Lying naked, fetal and turtling an aircraft carrier, I had lost all sense of humor and dignity. For a moment she fingered me like a puppet, then removed her hand, removed the glove and asked if I preferred an injection of pain killers or an IV. I chose the IV. Through the entire hospital experience the week before I learned that more drugs and fewer punctures into my flesh was the best I could hope for. Moments later the male nurse returned, put an IV into my arm, and hooked me up with fluids.

A asked for directions to the bathroom and left me alone with my morphine drip. On her return I was visually calmer and she told me the doctor was waiting for a particular nurse who was about to start her shift and was the best at removing the blockage of an impacted bowel. “I just spoke with the nurse,” A said. “She is the best because she has long thin fingers.”

I immediately put the worst case scenario together. “Oh, no, no,” I cried, “a nurse with long, thin fingers? She’s gonna be a hottie! Is she hot?”

A stuttered; looking at me curled up naked but for the bandages over the incision wound from my previous surgery, “Yeah honey, she is an attractive girl.”

I was pissed.

Moments later, from my fetal position and relaxed, morphine haze, I sized up the “specialist” nurse with long dark hair that hung in soft loose waves framing her smooth sun kissed skin to be about 5’10”. She wore a t-shirt with a print of mountain biker who had already ascended to the base of her shirt and was about to climb the hill of her left breast. Her shirt fit perfectly in all the appropriate places and hung loose from the round edges of her fit figure. Even her frigging scrub pants hung better than a pair of top shelf jeans on a super model. She walked from my field of view to my exposed ass and I knew this was in fact the worst day of my entire life. I asked weakly, “So you like mountain bikes?”

Hot Nurse said yes. She asked about my broken hip and elbow. I apologized for having her start her shift digging out my shit. She said it happened all the time. Maybe for her it happened all the time, but not for me. Not with a hot nurse. Not ever.

Hot Nurse said she had broken her pelvis and femur in a water skiing accident at age 13. Funny, I thought; at that moment I felt 13. Naked, drugged, chilly, and completely naked, I asked her about her activity level now in a faint effort to diagnose my future but mostly to establish that we shared not only the same injuries but interests too. She said all was well, that she ran marathons and rode her bike all she wanted. I cried a little. Hot Nurse applied lube to her long, thin, latex-gloved fingers then stuck two digits inside me. I again apologized and clarified, “All your gonna find up there is a giant crap. I swear I haven’t put any G.I. Joe's or Hot Wheel cars up my butt as some sort of fetish.”

Hot Nurse laughed. I made Hot Nurse laugh! I was still naked and chilly though.

A stood in the corner painfully sympathetic for me but enjoying her own secret fetish of talking about funked up bodily processes and the disgusting things other people do to themselves for enjoyment. She jumped into the conversation with a nod to Hot Nurse and in a whisper asked what kinds of things Hot Nurse has found up people’s butts. The two talked softly about objects that do go -but shouldn’t go- into one’s anus. I shifted uncomfortably, politely not interrupting their conversation as she roamed the inside of my anus with her hand.

Hot Nurse pulled her hand out of me and stripped the gloves off. By this point the room was rank with the smell of my stalled shit. I looked at her giant hazel eyes and she looked back at me. I watched her mouth open as her lips separated and her tongue unconsciously moved forward in her pallet to form a word. All I could think was how insanely gorgeous she was. “That thing is the size of a softball! I can’t seem to get a grip on it,” she said. “It just keeps spinning.”

A Pause filled the room for a moment. Her lips that had so sensually teased me delivered words that did not match her beauty and brought my fantasy escapism quickly back to reality. On top of being stunningly gorgeous, this girl was a total tom-boy. How hot was that? How else would she have ended up a nurse? She could have easily been a swim-suit model.

I was never that quick witted with girls, especially in this sort of situation. I wondered if she played softball in High School. Hot Nurse broke the silence and exclaimed, “I have an idea. I’ll be right back!” then disappeared.

A clasped my hand with one of her own and patted both with the other. “I’m so sorry that she’s hot. She does this all the time. Don’t worry about her being beautiful.”

Much time seemed to pass before Hot Nurse returned slightly out of breath and medical supplies cradled in her arms. “I had to go all the way to Central Supply for this!”

She breathed heavy, her chest expanding, contracting rhythmically. I could tell she had abs as tight as a drum skin. From her still straining diaphragm, I figured she must have run all the way there and back.

I imagined what she looked like running through a basement hallway gripping the supplies in each hand as her arms pumped back and forth in stride with her long legs. Her shirt shifting left then right over her firm breasts held with care by a sports-bra. Yelling, “Outta the way S.T.A.T. I have a patient to save from a giant softball sized shit!”

She would skip the elevator and take the stairs. Having already worked out earlier in the day wouldn’t be a problem for her strong thighs and lean glut's powering her up each step through the corkscrew stairwell back to the ER where she would explode through the door, angelic, tossing her hair back without even a drop of sweet, Hot Nurse, angel sweat then burst into my room to spare me from certain death by my own uber constipation.

In reality Hot Nurse held up a catheter tube and two boxes of K-Y jelly tubes. “I’m gonna run the catheter past the stool and have your wife inject the tube of K-Y while I turn the stool with the catheter. Then we’ll do the same on this end of it and I’ll move it around with the catheter to really lube it up and it will just fall right out. Sound good?”

“Okay,” I said.

A jumped from her seat, pulled the surgical gloves on and was giddy with excitement as the two stared at my plugged asshole. Once manipulated, Hot Nurse pulled the catheter tube out of me and gave the same instructions as I heard for the previous enemas. She left the room, A again held my hands and laughed at the excitement Hot Nurse had for her idea.

After 10-minutes or so I felt the turd moving south and the K-Y beginning to drip out, down the inside of my leg. I moved quickly and carefully onto the commode. I feared falling on my broken hip, shitting all over myself and looking foolish.

A saw me onto the commode where I asked her to glove me before she left the room to avoid the stench. The giant turd crowned, turtled, and then stalled. The familiar pain of an orifice fully dilated but in need of one more centimeter consumed me. I fought from crying, instead trying to focus on squeezing the bastard out. I moaned and swore in pain. When it would budge no more, I reached down with my left hand grasping it like a 40 ounce bottle of beer and pulled. “Oh, good Lord,” I exclaimed.

A stuck her head back in the room. I held the largest handful of shit I have ever seen, out in front of me, steaming for her approval. “Wow, honey,” she said, “drop that in the bucket and I’ll get you another glove.”

Minutes passed and I worked an equally large shit out in the same manner as the first. Hot Nurse came back in. By now the room was rank, worse than a construction site porta-pottie in the peak of summer heat. “Sit up straight,” she said. Arching her back to display proper posture which pulled her shirt taught in an inspiring way. My broken arm rested on one thigh and my good arm on the other. My gloved left hand covered my chilled junk. I followed her directions and sat more erect. My bowels gurgled loudly. Hot Nurse’s eyes opened wide as I had a blow out that echoed and reverberated in the plastic bucket filled with waste beneath me while we maintained eye contact. I fought back from severe sobbing. I felt relieved but none the less wanted to die. Hot Nurse smiled, said to relax and left the room.

She returned carrying a steaming stack of wet hand towels. A followed and asked if I felt better. Before I could answer, Hot Nurse asked if I could stand, with my weight on my good leg and lean against the bed. As I did, she took the bucket of bile away. I heard voices in the hallway and Hot Nurse reply, “Yeah, finally!”

A told me all the nurses knew about “the guy in C-23.” I heard a splash and curplunket in the toilet of the bathroom next door, then a flush. Hot Nurse returned, telling A that her wiping me was unnecessary and that she was happy to clean me. “Really, I do this all the time, it’s no big deal, have a seat…rest.” Hot Nurse said.

I stood semi-bent over, legs spread as if being frisked. Hot Nurse wiped me off with care opposite a cop feeling for weapons or contraband. A sat in a chair in front of me on the other side of the bed, smiling. My bowels relaxed, my anus felt like a freight train had gone through me. I couldn’t escape the embarrassment of Hot Nurse wiping the shit and K-Y off of my ass and from the inside of my thighs.

By this point it was nearly 11:00 at night. I got dressed again, the male nurse returned with papers to sign then wheeled me out to the door as A went to get the car. When she pulled up, the cars headlights lit up the foyer of the ER. The male nurse looked me straight in the eyes, “Bro, you were awesome. You did us all proud back there.” He helped me into the car, shook my hand and wheeled the empty wheelchair back into the foyer. Hot Nurse ran past the Triage desk, rushing to help another patient in another room.