THE RIPPLE: The Glory and The Grind

As I spoke about in a previous vignette about how if we weren’t tested that first two weeks on walk 1, it’s doubtful we would’ve made it.  That may seem counter-intuitive to some.  

You see most people will look for any reason to fail at things and they have a whole litany of excuses to justify it.  

A few, however, search for that one way, any way, to succeed.  It may take months.  Or years to find it but they do.  

——–

We were trekking the Rails-Trails to DC in 2009 and I met a man who stopped us for a conversation for the ‘who, when, why, and what about the walk’.  I answered as honestly as I could about our mission and our cause and his hapless almost helpless response was, ‘You know, I’d love to do something like that.  But I have a family and a job and responsibilities.’

I suppressed the great growl within and merely responded, ‘What makes you think that I don’t?’  

——–

I’ve met many people on our travels that would’ve, should’ve, and could’ve embarked on a grand adventure, traversed the AT, or climbed K2, and though I’m no scholar on the matter, my best guess is that why they didn’t or why they did and failed can be reduced down to one simple phrase.  

——–

Colin Fletcher, the Godfather of modern backpacking wrote that within two weeks of an adventure, you’d know if you were going to succeed or fail.  I read his books before the launch of Walk 1 and they were only academic to me at the time.  

But in our lonely tent along the TX highways, I learned what he meant.  There was one night I asked myself what the hell was I doing there and why.  I was beat down and in a bad way because I began to see for the first time not the finish line but the thousands of miles til then. 

A few sponsors had bailed, we’d been battered by unrelenting storms, setbacks, and other challenges, too.  

——–

There’s a moment at which faith crosses the threshold of self doubt and uncertainty and the only thing you need to decide is whether you have the will to continue.  There is no Glory without the Grind.  

——–

YBD’s Notes 1:  No longer will I chapterize Book 2, The Ripple.  As I plan and prepare for WALK 2, the past and present story will unfold as it’s meant to, unscripted and non-linear.  

YBD’s Notes 2:  One should never give up on the aspiring to inspire in all walks of life. 

CyberKnife

Back in the backlot of an architecturally unassuming Westchester industrial park is the brainchild of two neurologists, Drs. Joseph and Berg, both brewed from the great crockpot of talent that is Manhattan’s AMC.  


The Animal Specialty Center is in many ways not unlike the dozens and dozens of veterinarian clinics I’ve toured around the country.  Dedicated  staff. Check.  Exceptional and compassionate care.  Check.  


One things stands out, however as the focal point.  And it stands tall.  

Say ‘Hello’ to my lil new friend, the Cyberknife.  

——–

Blake and Dr. Sue

To frame the entirety of this part of our story accurately, a bit of history is in order first.  I met Dr. Sue, one of ASC’s medical oncologists back in San Diego 2010 while giving a presentation about our Walk 1 – Austin to Boston – to the attendees of the Veterinary Cancer Society (VCS) Meeting.  

Come full circle, last October at VCS Twin Cities, we met again and she extended an invitation for me to visit their clinic in Yonkers.  A reunion perhaps of greater prescience than either of us could’ve known at the time as Blake, one of two beautiful rescue labs and part of the 2 Million Dogs family was diagnosed only weeks afterwards with meningioma becoming an ideal candidate for the Cyberknife.  

Blake’s mum, Chris, is one of our PUPS out of Baltimore and last week I spent time at ASC filming their story and learning about the relative benefits of Cyberknife vs. fractionated radiotherapy vs. stereotactic radiosurgery.  


Since I’m no scientist, I always try to reduce things down to their most basic elements and from my understanding, the differences between the three are merely a matter of time and precision.    

——–

Murphy

When he was DX’d with nasal adenocarcinoma just weeks after the conclusion of Walk 1, I chose  IMRT  once Withrow at CSU ruled him ineligible as a surgical candidate. I chose a slow course of radiation for an inoperable tumor and not only did it fail, Murphy developed a secondary Sarcoma in his nasopharynx.  

I got the best clinical advice at CSU but ultimately, I made a decision as a father rather than a patient and that faultline proved fatal and Murphy didn’t even make it a year.  

——–

That’s the trade off between the three types of radiology at least from a textbook perspective.  Time and precision and clinical outcome.   Blake underwent three days of Cyberknife treatment and godwilling, that’s all she’ll ever need.  

I firmly recommend exhaustive research and due diligence for the best most effective long-term treatment plan if you have a companion animal with cancer, along with the wise counsel of a vet oncologist.  

——–

I was grateful to be an honored guest at ASC last week; to herald in their 6 year anniversary, and most importantly, be there for friends of ours, Chris and Blake.  

And although I didn’t get a slice of their birthday cake, I have bigger sights in mind.  To a few trusty friends I texted the image of the Cyberknife and it scared the hell outta them in a RoboCop sorta way.  

Not me.  I’m from Texas and all I could think of was mounting it and riding it like Slim Pickens did a nuke in Dr. Strangelove into a blaze of glory.    

Thanks to the staff of ASC for being generous and accommodating during our time there and to Drs. Joseph and Berg for being pioneers in the field of veterinary medicine.  

THE RIPPLE: Ablation

From Dictionary.com

ab·la·tion  [a-bley-shuhn]  noun

1. the removal, especially of organs, abnormal growths, or harmful substances, from the body by mechanical means, as by surgery.

2.the reduction in volume of glacial ice, snow, or névé by the combined processes of melting, evaporation, and calving. Compare alimentation

3. Aerospace. erosion of the protective outer surface (ablator)  of a spacecraft or missile due to the aerodynamic heating caused by travel at hypersonic speed during reentry through the atmosphere.

——–

Years ago, my ex HJ – Murphy’s Mum, and I were playing water volleyball in Lake Travis when I cut the hell outta the bottom of my foot – slashed open by a sliver of glass.  

Like some bad sci-fi feature, planter’s warts infested and infiltrated that wound, and grew weirdly into a cauliflower type colony that became crippling to the point that I could barely wear sandals.

I went to see a podiatrist in San Antonio and the news was not good.

Two treatments were available.  I chose the harsher but surer. Chemical ablation.  It took weeks and weeks to burn it down during which was a pain so severe. 

——–

Surprisingly, I only had two foot problems on the first walk: A corn that blistered up occasionally.  And a left phalange that when quashed down by the weight of my pack lost a toenail times two.   

——–

YBD’s Notes 1:  Still don’t know what the hell a corn is but it’ll travel with me on Walk 2.

YBD’s Notes 2:  It was an amateur’s mistake.  I carried so much weight on the first walk that my toes grew by a half inch.  My 11.5 became a 12.  

YBD’s Notes 3: There’s no shelter for love.  There are some things that just don’t burn down and love is one of them.  




PSH

We all try to live life large.  But sometimes it’s just larger than us.  

I can count on one hand my true heroes in film and Philip Seymour Hoffman is one of them.  

Damnit man. I always thought at that table you and I would sit.  

An artist incomparable.  An actor to end all actors.  And an inspiration to all those independent spirits.  




Regarding Hudson

Even though we’re a few months away from the start of our Walk 2, there are already grumblings in the background.  Some of the planning and preparation aspects of the excursion are still underway and I can’t respond to them yet but the loudest one I can.   

Let me begin by saying thanks to all of those voicing their concern about Hudson’s health.  To me, that speaks to your love of my little boy and that you care enough to stand up for his safety.  Can’t thank you enough.  

In a few weeks time, on our way down south to start phase II of our training in warmer climates, Hudson will have a full evaluation of his health, physical condition, and road readiness by a vet.  Muscle strength, joints, tendons, pads, etc. will all be examined.  

But that won’t be the last evaluation.  As we train together, I’ll be assessing his weight bearing capacity and stamina amongst other things.  Keep in mind Murphy, too, was 7 years old when we left Austin and on a much bigger frame than Hudson.  
The second concern we’ve received is regarding Hudson’s cancer.  We got the best possible prognosis from his two path reports combined with wide margins and there’s a 95% chance of no recurrence within two years.

Everyone is going to have their own opinion about this understandably but getting The DX, diagnosis as I call it, shouldn’t automatically be a death sentence nor life limiting.

My route and start and finish dates have been finalized.  We’ll launch from Vancouver the weekend of May 10th and arrive in San Diego the weekend of November 1st.  That’s approximately 1,600 miles or roughly 65 miles a week of walking for the fuzzybutts and me.

Lil’ Nana will be fine.  Hell, it’ll be hard to get him to stop at 65.

But the question, it seems, is will that be too much and too taxing for Hudzers?   

——–  

My last thoughts for you in the wee hours of Wednesday morning is one of the main reasons Hudson and Murphy and I made it as far and as long on the road was because we weren’t hot dogging it out there.  Pun intended.  

I didn’t take unnecessary or uncalculated risks and, equally important, I had contingency plans in place.  My job was to get the fab fuzzybutts from point A to point B safely.  Walk 2 won’t be any different.

Phase II of training entails working with both boys separately and in tandem.   Even still, that probably won’t answer the question.  Nor will even the most skilled and learned veterinarian be able to say whether Walk 2 will increase the risk for a recurrence of cancer in Hudson.

——–

I must press ahead with reason, faith, and the love of my boys as my guide.  

THE RIPPLE: Chapter 1: Man Plans. God Laughs. Dogs Poop

In the first week of launching the Austin to Boston walk in 2008, the whole weight of universal forces bore down on us like the wrath; a swift and unforgiving maelstrom that tested our mettle absolutely.  
——–
First there was the crippling weight of my pack because I didn’t want to be caught on the road without some essential tool, doo-dad, device or sundry to assuage the uncertain world I had just thrown myself into.  
Though I made a pact with God to get me and my boys to Boston safely didn’t mean I didn’t have a backup plan. Or two.  
Hudson and Murphy’s safety was of paramount concern to me and I packed for it. Shit, I carried enough medical supplies to run triage in a war zone.  I had a secondary leash that could counter as a tourniquet, micro flasks of iodine and isopropyl alcohol, and gauze pads of all sizes and shapes.   
A NOAA radio, batteries of all flavors, my clunky Dell laptop, and a seven iron to ground against lightening strikes and guard us from gophers, golfers, or god knows what.  
I barely made it five miles the first two days and even though I was in supreme physical condition, the weight of my pack almost became walk ending.  My lower back was already badly damaged from a work injury and later a car wreck and the sheer act of lifting my overloaded 5500 cc Osprey tweaked it even further. 
——–
And then the skies unleashed their fury.
Scientists say that of all of the senses, smell has the longest memory.  For example, you’ll never forget the acrid, stinging stench of a skunk.  That’s true, but I’ll never forget two sounds.  
One of which is the shrilling of my NOAA radio warning followed by the voice of the Atari Man, the nom de plume I assigned to that analog version of a linesman casting weather forecasts like a Pong match.  
Tornado warning. Wind speeds up to 50 mph.  Freezing hail.  Flash flooding.   Seek shelter.  
And indeed, Atari Man called it right.  Lightening storms and unrelenting rain opened up all around us and it got so bad that we abandoned our $20 Walmart tent off the northbound side of 973 for the underbelly of a nearby bridge.  
Clearly, this wasn’t the way I planned it.  
And that was just for starters.  
Fire ants, crazy sponsors, a lost bag, forgotten antibiotics, bad burritos, and a mad cow man followed in that first week. 
——–
YBD’s Notes 1:  I have a good friend going through a tough patch and in her words, she’s in ‘Protection Mode’.  

There are some things in life for which there is no shelter and if it wasn’t for the proverbial kitchen sink being thrown at us the first week of our walk, we would have never made it.  

I remember with perfect clarity in the tent with my boys what made the difference.  

YBD’s Notes 2: Early on, I had to understand which weight to shoulder and which to shrug.  That wisdom carries forth to our second walk.  

YBD’s Notes 3:  Very few things are worse than being in a bad bad storm when your dogs gotta poop.

Beginning Again

So much has happened since the start of our first walk and its finish…
Murphy being diagnosed with nasal adenocarcinoma within weeks of our final mile and dying a damn hard death less than a year afterwards broke my heart beyond repair.  
And then I tried my best to live a normal life but I have a mission that beckons me back on the road.    
Come this May 11th, I’m walking again and if you’ve been reading this blog, you know the route: Canada to Mexico via the West Coast Seaboard.  
And as we begin making final preparations and training for it, I’ve realized that this is the way to portray the first walk.  
I’ll begin again.  

Beard Wins

Though down and outright absolutely, Tom Brady, The Patriots and my pick got trounced at the AFC Championship last weekend, I still came out way ahead. Or abeard.   
Little did I know that I was really lured up to the White Mountains by a bunch of Sirens whose sole intention was shaving my very awesome man hair growth.  
It was a beard intervention of sorts.  Now I’ve been through some interventions before.  There was the Robinson Sisters-in-Law shampoo intervention after a live interview in Memphis back in 2008.  Then the great tick intervention of 2009 and then the wardrobe malfunction… uh, well, we won’t talk about that.  
But I believe 2014 is the year, nay the rise and return of spectacularly hirsute men.  
Isn’t it ironic that just after their failed attempt at shearing Yer Big Dog that this article about the historical importance of facial hair was posted?  Coincidence?  I think not.  Paid advertorial?  Maybe.  Trail Magic?  Definitely  
To paraphrase a quote from Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing…  “O, what hairy men dare do.  What hairy men daily do, not knowing what to do with their chin-do.”  
The White Mountain Sirens failed to shear my beautiful, big dog baby mutton chops.  But it got me thinking.  It shan’t be sheared.  It can’t be combed.  But maybe, just maybe, I’ll bead and braid it.  
For reasons beyond my understanding, I’ll wear it until it’s time to shave.  Until then…
Pats lose.  Bangs lose.  Beards win. 

Yawnp

I got a call this morning from a good friend.  Just jawing about theoretical physics and Gillian Anderson in The Fall, and why reds just don’t do it for me.  But as a blonde, well, she’s some kinda special.  

My friend is an architect and after the man to man cheese-mo speak about babes and blondes and blondes and babes, he said he couldn’t find his way around how to incorporate a state mandated inclusion in his design project he was working on. 
So I said, ‘If you can’t plan around it, make it your plan.’  
Two hours later, we completely redesigned the plan that it’s now educational, eco-friendly, inspirational, motivational, market driven, the focal point of the structure and to boot, it’s never been done before.  
It’s too early in the morning to pound my chest and yawp so I’ll yawnp.  

Silver on Skin

A few funny things happened this weekend.

I bear Malcolm’s ashes on my right hand now as my necklace broke this weekend on his anniversary.

And then inexplicably, my laptop played Bob Marley when it was closed and shut down.

I do not presume to understand the cosmic implications of anything I do.  I miss Malcolm.  There’s nothing more to me than that.

« Previous Entries
Next Entries »