Muscle Memory

I left Miami early one morning in mid-May and drove close to 700 miles. I found a KOA campsite north of Atlanta and pitched a tent for a few hours of sleep. The next day I drove another 600 miles to St. Louis. My cousin Mark Lewen lives in Chesterfield, just west of the city. He is a cardiologist, and his wife Joan and his three children (not yet teenagers in 1995) welcomed me with open arms, and a stethoscope. I had been coughing for weeks, a moist and productive cough. I wasn’t in the house for a minute before Mark had his stethoscope out and was listening to my chest.

He had some sample pills at his house. “These are for bronchitis,” Mark told me. “If your cough doesn’t clear up in a few days, then you’ve got what I think you have – walking pneumonia. If it doesn’t clear up, get a chest x-ray and then the doctor in Colorado will prescribe an antibiotic to take care of the pneumonia.”

The next day I drove close to 900 miles to Conifer, Colorado. In three days I had driven from sea level and 90* heat and humidity in Miami to an elevation of 8,600′ and a massive snow storm in the Rocky Mountains.

Mark was correct. I had walking pneumonia.

Chris and Mary were renting a one-bedroom loft house at 31551 Black Widow Drive in Conifer, Colorado, approximately 25 miles southwest of Denver. The house sat on 3½ acres of property, which was adjacent to a 350,000 acre section of Arapahoe National Forest. As such, we had a 350,000 acre back yard. They were renting the house from Denise and Brian, who lived in a larger, 3-bedroom house on the same 3½ acre property. There was also a large barn on the property, with an acre of fenced-in pen reserved for Jake, the donkey.

In addition to Jake (Brian would eventually get a second donkey that he also named Jake), we lived with 2 Chesapeake Bay Retrievers (Boone and Babe), a Greyhound rescue named Ginger that welcomed all newcomers to the property with a nip on their ass (not a very pleasant “Hi, welcome to our home”), and Wolfgang, who was part-wolf and part-Malamute.

By the summer of 1995, Wolfgang was about 7 or 8 years old, and had lost a step or two of speed. Thank goodness for that, because even the aged Wolfgang was a scary beast. If you happened to walk between Wolfgang and his favorite elk bone that Brian would bring home from the taxidermist, he would let you know of his displeasure with a growl that could freeze anyone in their tracks. More than a few times, walking late at night from the big house after a few drinks with Denise and Brian back to our house about 100′ away, Wolfgang reminded me that he was not your normal house-pet.

Sometimes, Mert, Brian and I would take Jake and the dogs for a trail run in the woods. Running with dogs is a lot different than running with a 500 lb mule. The only difference between running with a mule and running with the bulls in Spain are the horns. My suggestion – don’t run with either.

Mert and I had unlimited mountain biking in the Rocky Mountains just outside our front door! Often, we would load up with our rock climbing gear and bike over to Upper Maxwell Falls, where we would top rope 5.8 – 5.10 routes. What a fantastic place to call home!

Earlier in the Summer, Mert had injured his back while driving a truck for Federal Express, and he was getting workers comp physical therapy at a clinic in Denver. He was in too much pain to work, but mountain biking and rock climbing are very therapeutic! The company that owned the worker’s comp clinic also owned several nursing homes in Denver. I applied for a job as a PT aide at one of the nursing homes. A very sexy 25 year old who was applying to OT schools oriented me to the nursing home and my daily responsibilities, and by the end of the first week of work, Blondie was my summer girlfriend.

Mert and Mary got married in Memphis, on June 17, 1995. Mary flew to Memphis about a week before the wedding, and Mert and I drove out in his Subaru Outback a few days before the wedding. It’s 1,100 miles from Conifer to Memphis, and Mert and I took 3-hour shifts and drove straight through. After the wedding, the plan was for Mert and Mary to fly to Maine for their honeymoon, and I was going to drive the Subaru back to Denver, filled with all of their wedding presents. I was not looking forward to that drive back to Denver.

I stayed up all night partying with some of Mary’s bridesmaids. The following morning, somehow I made it back to Mary’s parent’s house, where I was going to get in the Subaru and start driving to Conifer. I was so damn exhausted, I really didn’t think I’d make it out of Tennessee before falling asleep at the wheel. Fortunately, though, I was going to have company. Mert’s sister had flown out from San Diego for the wedding, but her boyfriend stood her up and for some reason she had only bought a one-way ticket to Memphis and couldn’t afford a plane ticket back to San Diego. She was going to come with me to Conifer, and then catch a bus from Denver back to San Diego. At least I would have someone to share the driving with.

I sat at Mary’s parent’s house, trying to figure out if I was hung over or still drunk from the night before, and the clock stood still. Mary and her mother opened all of the presents, and wrote down who gave what so Mary could then write the thank you notes when she returned from the honeymoon. There was only one present, though, that I was concerned about. Chris’s friends from the Memphis rugby team had given him a ¼ pound of a particular type of plant that is now legal in Colorado and several other states, but in 1995 it was not legal anywhere. And I was supposed to transport it across four State lines. Can you say “Felony?”

Mert handed me the ¼ pound bag of this particular type of plant, and I stuffed the bag into Mert’s sister’s suitcase. If we got pulled over by the cops and they decided to search the car, at least I’d have a chance of saying it wasn’t mine.

That problem solved, I still needed to get Mary and her mother to hurry up and finish with the present opening so Mert and I could pack the car and I could get on the road. My plan was to have Chris’s sister drive the first couple of hours so I could get some sleep, and then I’d take over and get us the rest of the way home. The car now finally packed, Mert gave me the car keys and said, “No matter what you do, don’t let my sister drive. She’s the worst driver in the world. You’ll never make it to Conifer alive.”

I kept my promise to Mert and didn’t allow his sister to drive, and she never offered to take the wheel. I got the sense she knew she was a terrible driver, and was used to being along for the ride. I made it through Arkansas and Oklahoma and into western Kansas before I pulled over into a 24-hour diner and slept for a few hours in the parking lot. Somehow, we made it back to Conifer without getting pulled over by the police and without me falling asleep behind the wheel. Mert and Mary came home the following week, just in time to help me survive of the worst days of my life.

As a physical therapy student, I was taught the theory of Muscle Memory. Muscle Memory is the body’s ability to remember a complex movement pattern over time. If the movement pattern is practiced and repeated with enough frequency, your body will remember. Even if a person doesn’t perform that movement pattern for years or even decades, when called upon, that movement pattern will be there, no questions asked. If Michael Jordan doesn’t pick up a basketball for the next 25 years, he’d still have an amazing jump shot. If Wayne Gretzky doesn’t pick up a hockey stick for the next 25 years, he’d still have an amazing slap shot. If Tiger Woods doesn’t swing a gold club…. You get my point. For most of us, think: ‘It’s like riding a bicycle.’ Your body just remembers how to do it.

As a kid, 10 or 11 years old, my mom signed me up for judo lessons. I took judo lessons 1-2 days a week for a year or two. What I remember most was the amount of judo rolls we practiced every day. A judo roll is how you’re supposed to land when you get flipped. If your body knows how to land, then even if someone much stronger than you grabs you in a headlock and flips you over their shoulder and slams you onto the ground, you won’t get hurt. Or, at least, you’ll get less hurt if you roll correctly.

Before leaving Miami, I had signed up for the Tour of Colorado, a 6-Day bike ride/race through, up and over seven 12,000′ peaks in the Rockies. (Fortunately, the pneumonia cleared up quickly with the antibiotics). Out for a training ride soon after Mert and Mary returned from their honeymoon, I crested a hill and started my descent, going about 20 miles an hour into a right hand bend in the road. It was a typical back-country Colorado road; paved, with a soft gravel shoulder. Very low traffic. The kind of road you can bike on without worrying too much about cars or trucks. Rutting elk dashing across the road trying to make a baby elk were more of a worry than cars and trucks. Snow covered peaks in the distance, even in June and July; fresh air, birds chirping. You get the idea. Peaceful and serene in every direction. Postcard Colorado.

Until some piece of crap hillbilly drove up alongside me and swerved his car into my bike, sending me flying over my handlebars and bouncing off the side of his hood. Muscle memory served me well, and I went into a perfect judo roll. My right shoulder, arm, hip and thigh took the fall. My helmet never hit the road. I bounced off the road in time to see the son of bitch look in his rear view mirror and head around the turn.

I jumped up, grabbed my bike, and gave pursuit. I had passed cars on this road before on my bike. The road became dangerously steep and curvy up ahead, more dangerous for a car than for a bike, and I knew that I could catch the son of a bitch, or at least get close enough to get a license plate number.

Somehow, two random intelligent brain cells must have collided during the crash. I put on the brakes and got off my bike. Adrenaline was peaking like never before in my life, but I realized that my bike may have been seriously mangled. The frame may have been cracked, wheels may have been snapped, handlebars twisted, brake cables disconnected. Also, my body may have been cracked, snapped, twisted or disconnected. Ten seconds must have passed before I became aware of the pain. I looked down, and saw that the entire right side of my body had been filleted.

To this day, if I ever hear or read about something bad happening to some random guy in Colorado, I hope and pray it’s that son of a bitch that tried to kill me.