25 years: May 17, 1989

I reminded myself to take in all the sounds and smells and sensations as the dust coming into the car through where the windshield had been switched from light to dark and the car rolled front over ass-end and sideways five times. My hips jammed deeper into the crook of the drivers seat with each roll and the seat belt whipped my chest like I was getting a spanking with my dads belt when I was younger. I remember seeing four mailboxes on a posts coming at me into the passenger seat.

I don't remember the windshield actually shattering. I must have raised my hand to protect my face. The sound of metal twisting and crunching like a giant aluminum can being stepped on in slow motion was constant until it all stopped. Later I associated the switch from flipping sideways to end over end to the moment I slapped the phone poll with the back of the car.

When the car stopped nose down in a ditch, I turned the radio off, climbed out the front and slid down the hood. I walked along the passenger side of the car to climb out of the ditch and saw that the rear of the car was missing. It occurred to me that there was no way to fix this. Not even enough for my dad to not notice.

 Dust was still in the air and I heard a dog barking. I walked around the back of the car to survey the rest of the damage. I stood in the middle of the road for a bit. Maybe more than a few minutes. I wasn't sure if I should walk home and get tools or what to do next. The road was dirty with debris. Pieces of wood mixed in with metal and plastic. I began feeling nauseous about when I saw an old farm truck driving towards me but swerving all over the road. I was concerned he was drunk. The old man in the truck slowed even more as he approached before
he stopped. He opened the passenger door, told me that I was hurt and that he would take me to the hospital. He was sun baked and wrinkled like all the farmers in the valley. He wore a plaid long-sleeved shirt and faded denim overalls. I started to talk to him but he quickly shut me up.

"I don't want to know anything. I'm gonna drop you off at the Hospital and call the Highway Patrol about cleaning up the car you spread all over that road."

It was 3 and-a-half miles into town to the hospital. We had three and-a-quarter more to drive. I knew the whole valley and every  road into the hills from riding my bike. Not so well from driving my moms Honda Accord at 90-miles an hour.

The previous summer I started working for my dad. Until he fired me. About that same time, puberty had finally kicked into full swing. I was finally getting results in the bay area criteriums and on the track at Hellyer Park.  I used the newfound testosterone to pedal as fast and as far as I could. A good winter of training followed and also included some unsurprising head-butting at home. I got a job bussing tables to pay for my trips to the OTC in Colorado Springs. I had all but quit school. It was no surprise that I wouldn't be graduating after 3 years of poor attendance.

The weekend before, I crashed in a bike race and hurt my knee. It was a criterium during a stage race on the northern California coast. I was desperately trying to move up to the front of the race, took a corner too wide on the outside of the pack and clipped the curb when I ran out of road. A whole pile of guys landed on top of me. It was my first big race in the Seniors during my last year as a Junior.  

All of that is how I ended up in this old farmer's truck. I had been driving my training rides at ridiculous speeds while the swelling went down in my knee and the road rash on my hips and legs healed up. The Hospital was only a few blocks from my house. We'd almost pass it on the way. The farmer was driving maybe 45 mph.

 "I could jump out of the truck and tell my dad I ran out of gas," I thought to myself. "I could say the car was stolen and some other delinquent ripped it in half."

I looked down at my shirt for the first time and realized all the blood on it and my lap. I looked at my left hand and saw bloody stump of my thumb. It was all curled up and slashed open. I turned my palm out and saw the gash where most of the blood was coming from. The truck bounced and jerked as we hit some potholes and dropped down the hill to cross the bridge at the little creek bed at Santa Anna Valley Rd. My hand jerked in my lap contracting my ring finger and I saw a tendon move in my gashed open palm. I couldn't believe that I really saw that so I moved a few fingers again. Sure enough the tendons moved and shards of square safety glass glimmered as they sat in a puddle of dark, healthy, blood. My stomach turned, I almost puked.

The farmer looked over at me and nodded, "Your face is all cut up too. Don't touch it, you'll just smear the blood all over. I don't want you leaving a puddle in my truck."

I stared at the horizon like I would when fishing in Monterey Bay in an effort to not get sea sick. The sun was starting to set and turn the brown grass gold on the rolling hills that makes the central coast of California so special. The smell of bell peppers and garlic was in the air as we slowly left the fields for sub-divisions of town. The wind was drying the blood on my face and as my face stiffened and scabbed, I started to feel the throbbing and burning of open wounds in my thumb and hand.

The farmer stopped at the entrance to the small hospital. I got out and he said, "Good luck."

I walked into the Emergency Room cradling my hand not knowing what to do next. A row of 6 or 8 chairs lined each side of the room. There was just enough space for an aisle way to the front desk. A woman sat behind a glass wall with a hole to speak through. She stared at me and looked surprised so I decided to speak quickly to fill the awkwardness. "Uh, I need band-aides?"

I was put on a gurney and taken around the corner. A nurse had me sign a few documents. She asked if I was in pain. I saw my reflection splattered in blood in the metal light above me that was not turned on.  I said yes and she injected me with morphine.  A doctor started digging into my hand and the nurse asked me again if I was in pain. I realized since I was now 18, I didn't need permission for pain medication. I said yes every time she asked and when she didn't I asked for more.

I felt pretty good by the time the Highway Patrolman came in. As we discussed what happened, the magnitude of what I did started to sink in. The doctor continued to dig in my hand and face pulling little square shards of glass out. My dad burst into the room toward me with the look and pace of rage. I yelled, "Get him out of here!" The CHP stepped between us blocking my dad from my sight. He told my dad to follow him and they left. 

What seemed like only a few minutes was likely closer to more than an hour. The CHP and my dad walked back into the room. The doctor was still digging glass out of me. My dad was pale and somber. He put a hand on my head and said, "There is six-feet of pole left in the ground, and about four-feet hanging from the electrical wires. Everything else is splintered across the road and field. We found most of the car except for the jack and spare wheel."

Thirteen Months

Last summer for his 5th birthday, G wished he could be six when he blew out the candles. His wish is getting closer to coming true as kindergarten is a mere week-and-a-half from being over. Next thing I know, we'll be planning the big '0-6' party.

Kindergarten being what it is, a cesspool of disease smeared by dirty little hands, snotty noses and un-guarded sneezes that, amazingly, can cross a room at remarkable speed for coming out of such small barrels, has had it's moments where I thought this year would never end.

I've been anxious for the last year to end too. There has been some disagreement as to what makes a year in our house. A: January - December , or B: 12 continuous months . I choose B because it can start from any chosen moment and life is too short to wait 8 months to start trying to get out of a bad groove simply because of a twelve pack of numbered pages hanging on the fridge. We've been close in years past, but every year something goes wrong and somebody breaks something or somebody has a surgery that turns into two or three more to fix whatever went wrong in the first one..

So this year, the one where the Newmaforma manages 12 months free of hospital stays, surgeries, screws, pins, casts or sedation finally happened a few weeks ago. Our first Hospital free year since September of '06. I wanted to celebrate but...black cats, walking under latters and all, kept me more cautious than joyful.

The party balloons popped sooner than later. A kid at school gets sick, then 5. A week later half the grade school is absent and a note comes from the principal explaining that Parvovirus is not just for dogs. Further research reveals that Parvo in humans, Parvovirus B19, is commonly called Fifths disease and is normal for kids to get and less so for adults. If a K9 and kid virus is rare for adults, A is certain to take it to a new level.

Words like 'rare', 'uncommon',' unique' are peppered throughout A's medical history. Of course the recent pricks, swabs and prods have left the local medical community scratching their heads. This shit is off the hook. A called one of her specialists who led her back to the E.R. Now her throat's so swollen and painful she's spitting saliva out into a coffee mug instead of swallowing it. She can't talk so she texts me like a teen-age girl. The fever is unrelenting and she only sleeps in fits every few hours day or night.  This virus she's hosting only fed itself on little kids as an appetizer and has turned to A to show its monster-self for the real meal.

Maybe we've moved on from invasive treatments, but the girl raised in Africa is getting her ass kicked by domestic kindergarten germs.

Keeping My Day Job

My 'How To' book on building the perfect athlete has run into some snags. Publishers expect three completed chapters before handing out advance funding. I have notes on scratch paper that work out to roughly three sentences. Add that I have learned my thesis doesn't jive with my chicken scratch, scribbled notes and I'm sunk.

Problems began to surface when faced with having to repeat a level of swim lessons. Casual observation found that even the phenom kids have to double up on a few classes because they aren't big enough for classes designed for older kids that are simply more physically mature.

No problem, I thought, If G has to skip every other class or two, he'll still be on track to score a scholarship in time for me to retire early.

As you may recall, there was trouble from the get-go. In the following days, his drive, resiliency and desire to do anything but go to bed, led to extra training in the bathtub and success in conquering his fears. This single mindedness to push through, to keep training despite sacrificing story time books or (highly edited) bedside tales of dad's youth paid off. Just as the great Rocky Balboa conquered winter in Siberia in the 1985 Boxumentary Rocky IV, G was not deterred by pruned toes and fingers while mastering full-head-submersion bubble blowing. Nothing makes a parent more proud than a naked kid with a pair of swim goggles being occupied for an hour. When I shared my pride of his accomplishment his only question was, Do I get a trophy?

The clear desire for a trophy is good. Eventually he'll realize that trophies are worthless and the heads break off when they're stored in shoe boxes at your parents house while you chase your dream and couch surf around the country. By then he'll learn that athletic success is about money. He'll practice free throws and three pointers with the goal of buying his parents a gigantic house high on a hill above the rows of McMansions that all the poor people like doctors and lawyers live in.

So we signed up for a school sponsored basketball camp. Whatever it takes to get through winter right? A dozen kindergarteners, bouncing balls in a wood floored echo chamber while you sit with a bunch of moms staring at iphones is about the best way a parent can show their child unconditional love.

Basketball has a lot of nuances, rules and details that 5-year olds might not get. Dribbling, pivoting, passing, offense/defense and generally the whole game are some of the things that may fly past a kid  this age much like a basketball itself being passed.

We practiced dribbling at home in the garage for 5 minutes one night until G got bored with it. I added a bounce pass and a straight to the chest pass on different nights with the same result.

Dad, instead of basketball, can we box?

Dad, can you bolt my bike to your rollers?

Dad, can we build a jump for our bikes in the garage for when its raining outside and you won't take me to the Lumberyard like right now?

Basketball wasn't seeming to 'take'. Until they learned about blocking an opponent. This brought the physical aspect of the game to his attention. G likes a challenge. The adrenaline rush of direct competition. Mano a mano. At first when blocking, all the kids looked like they were just doing jumping jacks. G changed that up one Saturday when he curled his fingers like claws above his head, made a scowl to drive fear into the ball holding opponent and growled like a bear. The other kid just passed the ball around the grizzly in a Lakers jersey.

I'm a bear! Are you scared? G asked

No. The other kid says.

Oh.

Gavin?! What are you doing? Coach interjects.

I was blocking like you told us. But I was a Bear. I was gonna be a Dinosaur but their arms are too short to hold the ball.

Coach walks away.

A week later, G finds himself blocking his opponent who has the ball, but this time he doesn't act like an animal. The other kid dribbles the ball and fakes left. Gavin follows. The kid starts to go right and G opts for the flying kick. For real.

The other kid waits for him to land on the ground, dribbles around him, shoots, misses and a teammate gets the ball and actually makes the basket. G is back up and now well out of bounds doing karate chops and round house kicks to his shadow against the folded up bleachers.



doesn't care he has to repeat...again!

In the meantime we are continuing with swim lessons. When I ask G what he likes best of his current activities: swimming, basketball or riding bikes, he says, Swimming and bikes. I like swimming because it's like I can fly underwater. I like riding bikes because I'm as fast as a Cheetah.

I can't argue with those motivators so I make a mental note that high speed sports are what he likes. I should probably buy a Ducati. Then the swim teacher tells me that the class that he is repeating, he'll have to repeat again. The first repeat was because he kicked his legs as if he was pedaling a bike. Now it's because he doesn't extend his arms with his strokes. The coach says it looks like he's punching the water.

So I ask; Your not moving your arms like swim coach is trying to teach you. What's that about?

I'm punching the water.

Why?

Because it's bad.

Why is the water bad?

Well, I can't breath when I'm underwater, and if I take the goggles off it burns my eyes. And it smells funny and you and mom make me take a bath to wash it off as soon as we get home.

So we're back to riding bikes. I can handle that. 'How To' books are boring anyway. Over-bearing Parent books sell better.