Monthly Archives: April 2012

Please Don’t Kill Me

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star and Fairfield Sun newspapers on April 19, 2012, in my  “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.) And yes, I mean that literally. Folks like me who ride a motorcycle around Fairfield County in April aren’t just taking our lives into our own hands—we’re putting them in yours… and honestly, some of you don’t seem all that jazzed about it. There is an unspoken agreement between all drivers on the road: we promise not to swerve into each other at high speed just because the lady at the lunch counter forgot the fries with our order. The pilots of planes, trains, and cruise ships make this same tacit agreement, yet they very rarely come close enough to each other to worry. Car drivers, on the other hand, barrel toward each other at ungodly speeds while separated by nothing but faith and a pair of painted yellow lines. Unlike pilots, who demonstrate high levels of competency and mental stability over time before being trusted with the lives of their passengers, anyone with a pulse and a pair of keys can get behind the wheel of a car. Scarier still, there is a bravado that envelops people when they step into a metal cage with seat belts, air bags, and heated coffee cup holders. Grandma Jones has led a long, full life—she has no problem cutting against traffic while trying to figure out the GPS. The wonder of automated travel, streaking across open roads at speeds that took modern man centuries to finally achieve, fails to fully capture the attention of giddy teenagers on cell phones. People have become so bored of driving that the failure to multi-task while doing so is seen as a waste of precious time. We choose to forget that we are literally risking our lives hundreds of times on each quick trip to the store. We pretend that nobody in the surrounding bullets of metal and glass is falling asleep, texting, or returning from an all-night bender. We motorcycle riders are not allowed that luxury because we are exposed. The typical car is several thousand pounds; a truck several tons; the typical motorcycle weighs only a few hundred. We do not have seat belts, safety bars, or side-impact air bags—we are surfers atop a hurtling roller coaster. In a collision between the three, one of us is going to end up a stain on the road—guess which? For this reason, my brother refers to motorcyclists as “organ donors. Our only defense is a healthy skepticism of every driver on the road, the absolute certainty that someone is about to do something stupid. (You know, the same attitude dads have about their sons.) That, and gearing up for each ride as if we’re trekking across Antarctica even amid the brutal heat of August.  The thick leather jacket, heavy-duty gloves, industrial boots and blue jeans are the only thing keeping us from smearing our skin across the road like clumped Chapstick as soon as we dump the bike. My…

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Taking on Another of Life’s Humiliations

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star and Fairfield Sun newspapers on April 6, 2012, in my  “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.) I recently undertook a fitness challenge from a fitness challenge from a friend, which is a prettier way of saying I’ve allowed myself to be humiliated on a weekly basis. This humiliation takes the form of something that’s been the bane of my existence since elementary school: pushups. I’ve always thought of pushups as the ultimate waste of energy. When I lie down on the floor, I usually plan on staying down there for a while. There’s something incredibly humbling about the symphony of groans and creaking bones that accompany my efforts to lower myself to the ground. Birthing cows make less noise. As a result, outside of looking for contacts or trying to unplug the answering machine, I tend to put most of my focus toward staying on my feet. I do acknowledge that it’s a great workout, such as it is. It primarily targets the muscles of the chest, triceps, and shoulders, but for me it’s a full-body workout: every muscle in my body shakes like a frightened kitten as I try to push myself off the ground. If shaking uncontrollably were a workout, I’d be Jack LaLane. There’s also a pushup for every personality type: “rookies” (those learning the basic movement) or “pansies” (people like me who treat pain as God intended — something to be avoided) prefer the kind that allows for the knees to touch ground. This simulates the form of a pushup without al that ugly effort they normally require. Then there are the show-offs, the ones who perform their pushups on their fingers or using the backs of their hands. These are the type of people who ride racing bikes on walking paths and they should be avoided at all costs … especially the backs of their hands. Finally, there are those who perform the one-handed pushup, usually in the most crowded area of the gym. They tend to undress in front of you in the locker room with a careless disregard for towel usage before going home to watch Rocky IV. Again. Seriously; ask them. However, pushups fail to appeal to me on even a symbolic level: right after you push yourself up from the ground, you consciously lower yourself back down again. It’s an exercise Anthony Robbins would do if Anthony Robbins were a depressed emo teenager. It seems silly to expend so much energy pushing one’s body mere inches off the carpet, although I admit it allows me to see how much dog hair has managed to escape the maw of our vacuum cleaner. Still, I couldn’t escape the inevitability of pushups as I grew up. My swim and soccer coaches assigned them with wild abandon. In my zeal to get them over with, I resorted to what my older brother referred to as “rabbit pushups,” a quick muscle-twitch action that accompanies a barely discernible bending of the elbow before it straightens back…

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