Story of the Chinese Mountain Biker
I was thinking, What should I write about? Then the handle on the paper bag full of groceries broke, and the plastic container holding my chicken soup together cracked upon impact. The broth leaked out. I remembered I have bone broth in the fridge that will pair perfectly with this soup. I’m reminded of the story of the Chinese farmer. And now I know what I’m going to write about.
I pour the remaining soup contents into a ceramic bowl. My intention when I made this bowl was a serving bowl. But it shrank in the kiln, and it is now my favorite soup bowl.
The story of the Chinese farmer goes like this:
There was a Chinese farmer whose horse ran away. That evening, all his neighbors came around and said, “That’s too bad.”
The farmer said, "Maybe."
The next day, the horse returned and brought seven wild horses with it. All the neighbors came around and said, "Wow, that’s great, isn’t it?"
And he said, "Maybe."
The next day, his son was attempting to tame one of these horses, and while riding it, he was thrown and broke his leg. All the neighbors came around said, "Well, that’s too bad."
And the farmer said, "Maybe."
The next day, military officials came around conscripting young men into the army. They rejected his son, seeing he had a broken leg. The neighbors came around and said, “Isn’t that wonderful?”
The farmer replied, "Maybe."
There’s a piece of plastic in my Trader Hoe’s soup. How much plastic have I eaten in my life? Not enough. Not enough to kill me, yet.
Last fall I was in a mountain biking accident that damaged nerves in my hip.
The crash was extreme pain that caused nausea. Part of my leg went numb. I thought it would just come back online. And to some extent it did, a few months later. I did not expect a daily barrage of unwanted sensations or lingering level of asymmetry for 240+ days. At times, I wished it stayed numb.
Like Elon, I’m pathologically optimistic. Three weeks after the accident, I went on a solo adventure through Peru. My leg was not healing as well as I’d like. When I got to Cusco, I talked to a neurologist—$25 next-day appointment. He didn't speak English, but recommended lidocaine patches and botox injections. In Peru, you can go to a pharmacy and buy botox and inject it into yourself. I held the box in my hand. I felt myself blacking out, so I sat down on the floor of the pharmacy so I couldn’t fall and hit my head for the nth time.
I skipped the botox and started using lidocaine patches, which work incredibly well. No more nerve pain. It’s just, gone. So for months, I applied patches every day. But if I don’t have a patch, I start going insane.
But numbing every day has never been an appealing solution.
In the face of unpleasant situations, would you rather just be numb?
After Peru, I did a few months of healing, then went on a trip to Oregon, my old stomping grounds. I went mountain biking with a lidocaine patch, and Mike, a nurse. I told him about the lingering nerve stuff.
“I’m sorry that happened,” he said. “Peripheral nerves will intonate.”
He seemed to know what he was talking about. He’d seen a lot of shit. Intonate was not a word I knew. But I knew what it meant. It comes in and out; it’s dynamic. I’m not a fan of intonation. Peripheral neuropathy, they call it. It means your nerves are weird, but not the super important ones.
Mike and I talked about how dangerous our version of mountain biking is. How we’re going to take it easy today, at Post Canyon, a legendary mountain bike park in Oregon. We parked and pedaled up the mountain. Like a moth to the flame, I had my eyes on Bad Motor Scooter, a black diamond jump trail. We opted for Grand Prix, a blue.
At the end of the trail, Mike hit a rather large jump, which according to him, he had hit 50 times. I asked him to hit it again so I could watch, and follow him in. He did, but he came up a bit short. So he hit it a third time. On the third go, Mike fell off his bike. He went unconscious. We called his name, but he didn’t wake up, so I called the ambulance. The wolf-dog I was taking care of started flipping out and attacking me. 90 long seconds later, Mike started talking again.
He stood up and said, “I’m good.”
They put him on a stretcher and took him away.
He called me last night and told me that he broke six ribs, a clavicle, and got a little hole poked in his lung. He said he’s not back on the bike yet, but if I’m ever in town, come over for a beer.
I wonder what would have happened had he not crashed, had I hit the jump next.
No one has the foresight or cosmic understanding to accurately label something good or bad. But that’s not to say things aren’t sad. Bad is a label; sad is a felt experience.
My crash last fall made me feel immense gratitude. It brought me into a new friend group. The nerve reminds me every day that I’m not perfect. Never was, never will be. And at the same time, never wasn’t, never won’t be.
The lessons, teachings, and benefits of that accident have just started to arrive, bearing fruits of wisdom.
On a day to day, it’s a barometer for how I am. If I’m one way, the nerve sensations are moot. If I’m another way, it’s torture.
I consider everything I’ve learned about healing: hyperbaric oxygen therapy, red light, fasting, peptides, lidocaine patches, faith, scrambler therapy, and Rhodiola Rosea.
What’s the meaning of the scar if we don’t learn how to heal?
In another reality, I didn’t hit that jump. I kept riding, crashed a bit later, and tore my scrotum. That happened to a guy on our college biking team. There was blood everywhere. Jaime’s car seat got completely ruined.”
In another reality, I threw in one more pedal stroke and made it to the landing. I kept riding bikes of all kinds, crashed a dirt bike in the woods, and got knocked out. While unconscious, the hot engine melted my legs.
That happened to (or for, I’m not sure) the best rider on our team. In his first DH race ever, he placed second. It was the hardest collegiate downhill race on the East Coast. He went pro in motocross before spending months in the hospital.
Everything is good until it’s not. Everything is bad until it’s not. Maybe it was neither the whole time.
Sad is not bad. Like is not love.
In another reality, I crashed, crawled to my car, and drove home, screaming all the way. Three weeks later, I flew to Peru where I finished writing my book. Crashed is one of my favorite chapters. 250 days later, the intonation is still in my awareness, keeping me from hardcore life-and-death mountain biking.
I don’t know if my nerve pain will ever subside. I’m pretty sure that nerve is permanently altered. But nothing is really permanent. I will evolve and get used to whatever form I take.
“Yes, a man can get used to anything, but do not ask us how,”
Victor Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning
I open my tattered copy of Damnedest, looking for something relevant to the topic. Works every time.
“My barn having burned to the ground,
I can now see the moon.”
Taoist saying
I would like to amend this.
My barn having burned to the ground
I cry
I look to the sky
I can now see the moon
It is sad. There is sadness. Just admit to the reality of the situation and it changes quickly. Don’t skip the sadness. Savor the sadness.
Numbness, tingling, aching, throbbing, itching, burning, pulsating. I got the package deal.
Earlier, I was thinking, I wish I didn’t get injured. I wish that didn’t happen. But then again, if it didn’t, I’d be sitting here wishing something else didn’t happen, because I’m in “wishing something didn’t happen” mode.
At the end of the day, it’s all neutral.
How can I complain, when I’ve learned so much. How can I complain, when I’ve known the fruits of pain. How can I complain, when I’m here now, writing under my name.
With a bowl I made, and plastic in my soup.
Thank you
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Footnote: I have a lot to learn about the nervous system. I want to know how it is possible for me to wake up and before opening my eyes, I can tell you if it’s cloudy. I can tell you it’s about to rain. How does that work? How is it that sometimes I can feel my left hip area and other times I can’t?
How is it that I can feel anywhere?
It may be worth learning more but there’s only so much we can know about the nervous system. Is there anything more complex that we know of in the Universe? Maybe the Universe itself is equally complex. Maybe it’s all the same.
I have the same “ability” of telling whether it’s cloudy before opening my eyes in the morning. Not so much with the rain. Usually I’m right, but sometimes I open the blinds and say “I’ll be damned, it’s sunny out. I could have sworn it was cloudy.”
> “There’s a piece of plastic in my Trader Hoe’s soup.”
🤣🤣🤣