Trouble Getting Started

It's always like this.

I'm not sure I can explain why it takes me so long to get started.  I was supposed to leave two weeks ago.  When I was working, I would have gone and already been back.

I have lots of excuses.  The surgery.  The heat.  Plumbing problems in the house.  Fooling around with getting this Blog started.  One excuse is a reason.  Too many excuses is just.... too many excuses.

Enough.  Yesterday I packed the Beast away.

Grrrr.  You do know it's hot in here, right?

Today I washed the vehicles and mowed the lawn.  Tomorrow I will pack the Daze.

Oboyoboyoboyoboyoboyoboy!

And Thursday I'll be gone.

Surgery Scheduled

I went to see the surgeon who is going to operate on my hand today.  It's an interesting procedure, called Mohs Micrographic Surgery.  Apparently the old way to take off skin cancers was to just hack an overlarge circle around the obvious tumor, and then sew the whole thing up, or apply a skin graft if the hole was too big.

This way is more cautious.  Basically she cuts out the obvious, and a little circle around it.  Then she carefully examines the edges of the tissue removed to look for cancer.  If she finds any, she makes another small cut in the direction of that evidence (she is both surgeon and pathologist).  This is repeated several times until no more cancer can be observed.

The object is to do as little damage as possible and yet be sure they get every bit of the growth, which is sometimes asymmetric beneath the surface.  Afterwards I have to keep my hand up on my shoulder in a sling for a couple of weeks so it will heal properly, and I'm all done.  Maybe some therapy if the scar is too tight.

"Is there any medical reason to rush into surgery?  I was on my way up to Colorado on a motorcycle trip."

"You should go!  When will you get back?"

"I was thinking maybe October, after the aspens change..."

"Oh."  She was taken back a bit.

"Do you have to be gone so long?  A few weeks is okay, but I wouldn't wait months."

"How about A month?  Sometime in September?"

"Well, there are no guarantees, of course.  But that ought to be all right...  Wear your helmet."

Beneath the startle I could see a little envy in her eyes.  Here she is, making money hand over fist, a whole office catering to her every whim.  But there was one thing she could not afford.  She could not afford to take off for a month to see the aspens turn.

What the hell, I waited 30 years to get in that position myself.

I am set up for 9 am September 27th.  It will be in office, under local anesthetic, and could take up to 8 hours, depending on how many times she has to cut.  I plan to bring lunch and a couple of books, and drive my own self home.

My ex is giving me grief on this.  Can't say I blame her. I know I am being ornery, and I do appreciate the concern.

"I can NOT understand why anyone would leave CANCER anywhere in their body for ANY length of time!"

"But, but, but... darlin'... that's my clutch hand she's cuttin' on.... I wouldn't be able to ride for weeks!"

Bob

Cancer

Bet that got your attention.  Scary word, huh?

Well, it turns out I've got one.  But maybe it's not so scary.   I was getting ready for a motorcycle trip up to Colorado, and I noticed a couple of itchy bumps on my left hand and arm.  I do try to see a dermatologist once a year or so, just for grins, and it had been a while.

When I called, they told me he was leaving the practice that very week.  So if I wanted to see him, I had to come in the next day.  So I did.

He looked me over, and did biopsies on the bumps.  One turned out to be benign, but the one on the back of my hand is a "squamous cell carcinoma", which I am told will have to be cut out.

Hey, it's just skin.  It is NOT a melanoma.  The back of my hands have suffered much from a lifetime of sun exposure.  So now I'll have to go see a dermatologist twice a year instead of once.  The only danger is if it gets really large before it's treated, and that takes years.  Or so I'm told.

So I'll have it out.  He referred me to a surgeon.  Damn.  This is gonna cut into my trip something terrible.

Lord knows I've got enough scars on my hands.  Mostly from being too cheap to let somebody else work on my car.  One more little nick won't kill me.  Well, that's the plan.

Hey!  Maybe I can claim it as a "fencing scar".  That ought to impress everyone.  Not as good as a Super Bowl ring, but what the hell.


Bob

Kawasaki!

Geshundheit.

Purty thing, though, ain't it?  A 2006 Kawasaki Vulcan 900.  This photo was taken up at Stillhouse Hollow Lake, on a boat ramp below the Lampasas River bridge. 

I blame my brother.  He got one, so I had to get one.  That's the Law of the West.  East too, I guess.

Now I have to figure out how to use the thing.  And that's not as easy as it sounds.  O, it's not the riding part.  That comes back amazingly fast.  Nor even the weather.  I have a rain suit, and the sense to get into it.

It's a bit more fundamental than that.  It's a butt problem.

The last time I had a bike was back in the 1980s.  I drove it up to Colorado for most of a month, camping out in the boonies, sleeping on the cold, cold ground.  Ah, those were the days....

When I finally got back, my butt was so sore it clouded my mind a bit. After the Yamaha 1100 sat unused out in garage for several months, I sold it to a cop.  I'm told he wrecked it within the month.

The sad fact is, most all the pleasure of riding is in the first 30 minutes.   And it's no damn slouch.  You know, that blue sky feeling, the crazy illusion of  balance and beauty and grace, a blurred rush of ground beneath you like an electric sander approaching your toes, the wind in what's left of your hair, etc., etc.  All that stuff.

Over the following 15 minutes, though... Houston, I believe we have a problem.

From then on it's just one fresh hell after another.  Hot spots rise up beneath you like little solar flares.  Your back siezes up in the Vulcan Death Grip.  And then there's that incessant funny little dance from the waist up at 70 mph, leaning and twisting and rising, trying to find relief.  Any relief at all.  It's sort of the reverse of clogging.


The bike still looks good.  But it feels like this:

"Do you expect me to talk?"  "No, Mr. Bond.  I expect you to die."

So where can you actually travel on a motorcycle?  The answer so far seems to be anywhere that takes less than an hour.  All the way to Arkansas appears to be out of the question.  But I've already gotten acquainted with half the back roads in two counties, in a broad arc from Bertram to Belton to Bartlett and back.  Next up is a swing to the south.

Is this really travel?  Or just a carny ride?  Maybe it doesn't matter.  It's fun to go driving just for the heck of it.  I used to do that in a pickup.  I'd got out of the habit, over the years, in an age of 2 dollar, 3 dollar, 4 dollar gas.

The Vulcan gets 45 mpg.  I don't even have to think about it.

So now it's just me and the motor and the maize out here in the country, rolling along between the fencerows at 40 mph, not a care in the world.  Maybe today I'll  wander up to Weir, check on the Weirdos.  Or Walburg, pick up a beer and a burger.  Practice that little lefthanded low down wave us bad bikers give each other.  I think it's required, once my probation is up.

Pure bliss, rented by the hour.  Not bad.  But after the hour is up, or until my butt is beaten into shape, I have get off for a while.  No, I haven't figured out the right frolic-to-rest ratio just yet.  But I'm working on it.

If only I could leave my ass at home.

Bob