Just Like Riding a Bicycle…

It was recently brought to my attention that I’ve not written anything about sex in a while. So sorry. And no, I’ve not given it up, exactly. You see, the wife had some pretty major “girl surgery” a few weeks back, and in deference to her tender state during her recovery (and at the insistence of her overly jovial physician), we’ve taken a little break from, err, well…you know. I think we’re at around T minus ten days or so. Not that we’re counting or anything. But, they say its just like riding a bicycle…

Ok, confession time. This post isn’t about sex. Yep, that was just a cheap marketing ploy to drag you in after my extended absence. But it is about bike riding, and life, and how the two kind of sort of relate to one another…

I went on a nice ride this morning, as I do every Sunday morning. Which, now that I think of it, used to be reserved for having sex. But that was a long time ago, and that ritual only lasted for, oh, say, a decade or two. Addicts are into ritual, in case you didn’t know. We get pretty damned cranky when our rituals get interrupted, truth be told. Now that I know I’m an addict, I’ve made it a point to replace bad rituals (no, not sex – that’s a really good ritual) with good rituals. No, other good rituals, you know? Since it’s gotten hot I’ve started going for long rides early on Sunday mornings, letting the little woman sleep in as late as she wants and then enjoy a leisurely tryst with her New York Times crosswords. Yes, we adapt with age, don’t we?

Anyway, I often ride alone, which is how I’ve gone through much of my life. Didn’t know I was alone, what with being surrounded by people who love me and all. Kind of imagine rolling down the road on a bike but with a fortress wall attached to you. Lots of weight, tough to get up hills or slow down once you’re headed downhill, and about as aerodynamic as a brick. I’m working on that…

Sometimes I ride with an old friend who is generally more interested in talking politics than he is in riding long and hard, which is ok because we both know what the deal is at the outset. He’s a great guy, in good shape despite being a bit older than me, and I try not to ride him into the ground. I do push him, though, and he’s usually only good for about half the distance I usually go. We know that going in, too, so nobody’s feelings get hurt…

Today, though, I rode with a new friend. She belongs to a group I visit with regularly, a bunch of whom have taken up riding recently. I like to think I’ve been a little bit of an inspiration to them in this regard – know they’ll all be happier and healthier for it. If it turns out I wasn’t, I’m trusting they’ll humor me in my dotage and allow me to keep believing it. I know they’re giving up smoking one after another, and that’s a good thing regardless of their motivation. I don’t take any credit for that, but am happy for them. Nothing better than a long ride or run or just a stint on the treadmill to allow the body to get your full attention regarding how you’re treating it…

Anyhow, my new friend has only been riding for a couple of months, I think she said. Quit smoking and took up riding – an excellent plan. I’ve developed the theory that it is always easier to give up a bad habit if you immediately replace it with a good one. I remember when I gave up smoking at twenty years-old – kicking a 3 pack-a-day habit that had started more than a decade earlier. Hey, I never told anyone I was a good kid. I wasn’t, believe me. Anyway, the first day I threw them away (flushed a half-carton down the toilet if memory serves), I immediately began running something like two miles a day. To the gym. Where I’d shoot hoops for an hour, lift weights, roast myself in the sauna. Nope, not a halfway guy, me. It worked. What can I say?

Ok, I digressed again. Sorry…

So, anyway, I took her on a section of the trail she hadn’t been on before, and did my best not to push her, although I think I did a bit. She’d done 20 miles yesterday, and back-to-back when you’re starting out can be tough. She did great, and we had a nice visit. Learned a little about each other and I was gratified to learn that she’s a moderate Democrat, as am I. We laughed that it just seems to never fail that if someone is happy and caring and fairly well educated, this is the camp they’re likely to be in. No offense to my seemingly happy educated friends who don’t know yet this is where you’re headed. We’re coming out of some rough times and some have developed bad habits. You’ll get there and we’ll be waiting for you…

Anyway, when she ran out of gas I saw her back to her car, reloaded my water bottles and headed out to a section of the trail I’d never been on. Turns out it wasn’t too well suited to the road bike I was riding, so I had to take it easy to save my tires. And I had to navigate unfamiliar territory a bit by feel. But I picked up familiar landmarks along the way, worked my way from lost to found, and made it back to my car, rack and home without any untoward incidents. And life kind of works that way, doesn’t it?

Like most kids, in these parts at least, I grew up on a bike. Okay, well, not really. Actually, I was one of the late bloomers, having suffered a couple of nasty wrecks when I was 5 or so, following inappropriate directions from an older brother who I now know was dead set on killing me in the nest, but which I didn’t realize at the time. As a result, I didn’t get into riding in earnest until I was probably about eight, but then I focused on making up for lost time. I got to where I could ride a wheelie on my old sting-ray for blocks, and pretty much nobody would race me. I bought my first 3-speed with my paper route money when I was about ten, then moved up to a Dawe’s Galaxy British touring bike when I was twelve or so. It cost me $300, I remember. My mother raised holy hell and my Dad said, “He earned his money he can spend it however he wants.” Thanks, Dad. And boy, did I ever put some serious miles on that thing…

Then…hmmm. Now that I think of it, I quit riding bikes about the time I started thinking about sex. I got so busy then with sex and drinking and drugs and music and acting the fool, riding a bike never again crossed my mind. As a matter of fact, prior to a couple of years ago, I think I only took one semi-serious ride on a bike when I was about 30, outside of demonstrating techniques for my daughter who turned into a serious kid rider in the neighborhood for a short while, and my son who never did get the hang of it and can’t ride to this day. Interestingly, she’s an excellent driver, while he really, really needs to live someplace with efficient mass transit. Am not sure whether there’s a correlation or not, but maybe…

Anyway, my thought between the correlation of bike riding and life goes something like this:

We can choose to ride alone, or with friends. For most of us its probably best that we do a little of each. It doesn’t seem right to drag someone, particularly a novice, down a path we’ve never been before, but even more wrong to not ever explore something new. They call it getting in a rut for a reason, and any cyclist who has been around awhile knows what I’m talking about, and how much this is something to avoid. When I first started into my spiritual studies, I remember an author suggesting that the best route is to travel a path that someone has been before, because it’s been proven. And I’m comfortable riding in someone’s wake for a bit, but can’t buy into the notion that this is by definition the best route to the destination, nor even that his or her destination is the right destination for me…

When we’re not riding alone, it is good to ride with old friends from time to time, but also with new friends. They say that familiarity breeds contempt, but I’m not sure that’s always the case. Sometimes I feel like talking politics, and sometimes I know he needs to. And sometimes old friends will find a shaded trailway out in the country the ideal time to share some current pain or achievement. Riding with new friends, though, gives us a chance to expand our horizons – to learn new things about others we didn’t, and in the course of that maybe learn a little about ourselves. It allows us to empathize with where they are in their development, perhaps assist in some small way, to be reminded of where we are in our own and how we got there, and to take stock of whether that’s where we want to be…

And while we’re riding through life, we learn how important it is to keep our eye on the road, but not to become so fixated on the course we fail to appreciate the pair of mallards wheeling in for a silent landing on the mirror surface of the river, the squirrels chasing each other merrily up a tree, the beauty of a thunderhead towering against a crimson sunset or the shimmer of the first break of dawn in the east as we set forth to beat the heat of the day. We learn to appreciate the power of the wind, fighting us or helping us along, and to take advantage of the long downhill to gather speed without losing control, with the momentum from the plunge and our weight on the pedals pressing us up the next challenging climb, adjusting our efforts and gearing and breathing to make the summit and see what lies beyond…

And then, of course, there’s always sex…

A Shitty Friend

Wow! So, life throws us a curve ball once in a while. Mine caught the outside corner of the plate the other evening as I was sitting in my Friday night AA meeting. A friend sent me a brief text message informing me that a mutual buddy had apparently committed suicide a couple of days ago. So of course, moments later was the first time in a month I've been called on to share. What do you say at a moment like that? I don't really remember what I said - shared my loss and shock and befuddlement and settled back in a daze to contemplate the ceiling tiles as the meeting wound its course. Accepted a few kind words from friends and virtual strangers (nobody in the program is truly a stranger - those who know, know.)

It was a couple of hours later, after I'd had dinner, shared the news with my family (they'd met him with me at our local watering hole and he'd helped us move almost a year ago), and settled in front of the computer to visit and get a sense of what had happened, that it began to sink in. I went to his Facebook page, read some comments, shared a few, looked at the pics of his smiling mischievous face - drinking a beer (which we did a fair amount of together), hanging with friends, scuba diving, biking. I really lost it. What a waste and what a loss - one of the most intense livers (not the organ) of life I've ever known. He was what everyone dreams of in a friend - open, curious, vivacious and full of life, funny in the extreme, always ready with a tale to top whatever tales were being shared, bright, and exceptionally caring. As I mentioned elsewhere, I don't think he knew how to say no to anyone in want or need. He will be sorely missed, and I don't begrudge him for a nanosecond the decision he made on how he chose to go. To each his own. He was not the shitty friend. I was...

I am still very early in my sobriety, but am well enough dried out through AA and through counseling to finally confront the demons that drove me to drink in the first place. I've long known that I have few real friends, close friends. You know, the ones with whom you'll share your deepest secrets and fears and desires. I'm probably not very unique in that respect, relative to other men anyway. We tend to share on a pretty superficial level. Women, I think, are much better at that, and probably healthier for it.

AA helps some of us stop our drinking, but its up to those of us who choose to, to to do the deeper work of understanding and dealing with what's driving us to drink. Much of the discoveries can be painful, but richly rewarding as well. At the premature death of my friend, I find myself exploring again the pathologies of relationships and friendships, trying to divine the wheres and hows and whys of our connections with others. In my case, my shrink has helped me conclude that I was emotionally abandoned at multiple times from early childhood through early adulthood, to the point that my defense was to close myself off from all but the most superficial of relationships. I was emotionally abandoned by a mother who had four children in five years, followed five years later by another, apparently leaving her with insufficient time or inclination to give any of us what we needed in terms of emotional nurturing. My best friend moved away when I was twelve, which devastated me more than I realized or shared at the time, although I remember sitting alone and sobbing for hours on end that summer. I never spoke of it to another soul. A few years later, my young girlfriend, who I had no reason to expect to wait for me while I froze my ass off in Korea, wisely chose not to, and that was when I moved from the ranks of high-level amateur drunk to a polished world-class professional. Fresh pliant clay is easily formed, but, once hardened, infuriatingly difficult to reshape...

From that point forward, with lady friends or guy friends, my modus operandi was, I think, eerily similar. I wasn't reluctant to put myself out there enough to get attention, hopefully affection, and affirmation. Once that objective had been accomplished, I shut off the valve. I had what I was after and wasn't going to risk the tiniest amount more. I wasn't about to invest enough that I couldn't handle the loss, and as a result, invested so little I never could enjoy the full potential benefit of any relationship. Low risk, low reward. No gain, but no pain. Pretty pitiful. And pretty shitty if you are on the other side of the equation. None of this was conscious, mind you, nor intentional. Doesn't change what it is, though...

The sad, funny, ironic thing is that many people consider me a good friend, think more highly of me than I likely deserve. While it is true that I will almost always respond to a request from help from someone who asks and genuinely needs it, I don't have a pro-active bone in my body when it comes to seeking out opportunities to serve anything less than humanity as a whole. I've long characterized myself as a "forest person" rather than a "tree person." You know, macro versus micro, when it comes to other human beings. It's only recently that I've started to realize that this is a defensive behavior, designed subconsciously to avoid the personal investment in another individual's life that can, and generally will, lead to pain somewhere along the way. Alcoholics are driven by two things - resentment and fear. I resent, I now realize, my real and imagined losses and abandonments, and I fear repeating them. It's an ugly pathology that has led to a lot of heartache for those who've risked loving me. And it is a perfect factory for manufacturing shitty friends. I'm living proof...

I still cry easily, always have, and have always somehow recognized it as a healthy behavior. But the tears come much more infrequently these days, as I've donned this psychic armor against loss. Care not, hurt not. I'm a smart one to be sure...

Bert, God bless him, had apparently penetrated my protection without my really knowing. He was child-like in many ways, bi-polar and ADD I found out later and recently, which explained the quirkiness that attracted me to him the first time we met at our local brewery. He was getting treatment and some medication, but this is tricky stuff I know from family experiences. I am suspecting that this regiment likely played a role in his final act - will likely never know...

Like me, he never met a stranger. Unlike me, however, he was all in from the first encounter. He was curious and energetic - would be hurt by those who wouldn't hear him out, which were many, as his condition didn't allow for him the patience to hear someone fully out before diving in with his own take on whatever topic was in play. This was never off-putting to me, as I am a serial interrupter as well...

I know some women who played a large role in his life, and am looking forward to visiting with them at his memorial. I'm a big funeral goer, which fascinates those who know me. I always knew that these events weren't for the departed, but for those of us left behind, and had learned as well that I somehow have the capacity to provide some comfort to the bereaved in most cases. For me, I suppose it is a chance to make a little contribution to the loved ones of friends, without any risky commitment. The moral being, even if I'm a shitty friend while you're alive, I'm a real pal when you're dead. So if you're morbidly inclined...

Bert loved women, and they loved him. He was attractive, fit, energetic. If he saw a pretty girl he was likely to make a play, even if she was on the arm of a gorilla. Impulse control issues, you know? He was unable to sustain relationships, though. His mind was off on tangents too quickly for him to make and follow through on longer-term commitments required for successful healthy relationships. And I know now that those who spent sustained periods with him knew of his dark down periods, while I only knew him in his elevated states, during which he craved action and interaction. He was a dedicated cyclist and athlete, rode long distances on his bike, which I'm sure was uplifting to him, with the wind in his ears and the world flashing by and no need to focus on anything but the pumping of his well-muscled legs, deep steady breathing and the stories dancing through his mind. He'd torn an ACL in a skiing accident last spring, and had set back his own recovery a bit by pushing too hard too fast. I know this tormented him. He was also a diver, and I'm sure drew similar comfort in working underwater, alone in the nurturing embrace of the tropical seas he so loved. But a ruptured ear drum had brought an end to this enriching vocation. Life deals us all some hard punches. Bert may have been tagged one too many times...

Ruminating over our too-short friendship and too-few encounters, I find myself wondering if I might suffer from similar psychological or neurological short circuits - will be visiting with my shrink about this and getting her views. (No dark thoughts, friends - don't worry. I'm not wired that way, for sure...) Whatever the case, he reached out to me in his own way a few times toward the end, as he did to others in the final months and weeks and days. Not in a way that foreshadowed what was coming, I don't think, particularly if you're tone deaf to the suffering of other individuals, as I apparently am. Shitty...

We'd only actually visited a few times in the months since I achieved sobriety, as our normal meeting spot was the brewery that my sponsor wisely counseled me to avoid due to its potentially destructive temptations. I know he didn't like to think of me as an alcoholic, as that was me voluntarily stepping down from the mini-pedestal he'd constructed for me in his feverish mind. I think he was coming around to understanding that I wasn't that much changed, just healthier, and that what changes there were I gratefully embraced. He seemed to want me to declare him an alcoholic, which he certainly wasn't, so that he could share my experience. I feel no guilt in not taking on this responsibility. Not my role. I understand now, though, that he was hurting deeply inside, and was in his own way seeking any explanation and solution that would bring him some peace. I didn't realize this, however, until it was too late...

Our last exchange was a series of texts, that I deeply wish now I'd saved:

Bert: "I miss our visits."
Me: "Me too. Hopefully we can go riding when it warms up."
Bert:

Damn it, here come the tears again...