The Trip That Saved My Life

A bright, shining Sunday morning, and the beginning of the trip I’ve dreamed of for years. It seems a bit chilly, but after all, I am a BAVORAK rider and so "Vee spit in der face of bad vetter". I have plenty of time, over two weeks, so one of my earliest decisions was to be flexible. Now I find that before I even leave, I have changed my plans. Instead of an early start to Chicago, my conscience prevails and I decide that the couple of hours lost by first attending church with Macy will be time well spent. This gives us a chance to not only hear God’s word and put me in the right frame of mind for the trip, but also allows me just a little more time with my wife before I leave. This will be the longest I have been away from her and it feels a little like going away to college for the first time, excited but a little sad.

I’m off to Chicago by 11:00 and the weather is great. The bike has not given a single hiccup since it went back together and it continues to perform flawlessly. These BMW’s are unbelievable. What other machine could sit outside for over a year with the air cleaner lid off, exposed to the weather, allowing water to drain down the injector pipes and into the engine, and then once cleaned up, start right up and run great. Part of it must be those Nikasil cylinders.

As I approach Chicago a rain squall hits, but I really don’t care. I’m off on my dream trip with Mary. Oh, ...... who’s Mary? The call numbers for the RTP when in police service were 1M11 or One Mary Eleven. What better name since the first love of my life, my wife Macy’s, true name is Mary Carol.

After soaking up as much as I could stand at the conference and exhibition, I left Chicago for the short ride to Springfield, IL. My second day is going to be a long one, so I decided to get a little jump on the mileage by getting to Springfield this evening. Route 66 has been very difficult to follow through Chicago, and as I approached the south side of town, I felt more and more eyes trained on me and Mary. But unlike most, who gaze in wonder or even envy, the eyes in south Chicago seem to be much more malevolent, even hateful. I decide that it would be prudent to jump onto I55 South until I am well out of this depressed area. About 20 miles out of town a sign appears heralding the direction to Historic Route 66. A quick turn and I find myself on a smooth two lane road which roughly parallels I55. My dinner stop is at The Family Route 66 Restaurant. How could I possibly pass up a place with a Cobra painted on the wall. What I found inside was totally refreshing and truly Americana at it’s best. The place only seated about 70, and as soon as I walked in people turned from their meals and began talking to me as if I was a celebrity. What kinda motorcycle is that? Where ya from? How far ya goin? All the conversations were congratulatory in nature, and it just seemed that all the men were thinking, "I wish I could do that", while all the women were thinking, "That guy must be nuts." The real pleasure for me was talking to a guy named Olaf, no kidding, Olaf, and his wife. Olaf has a thick German accent and seemed to know all about BMWs, which amazed me for a guy in bib overalls who makes his living hauling a big semi type dump truck to and from highway projects. Then he mentioned that he had an old R50 in the barn at home that he still rides occasionally. 214,000 miles and never had the cylinders off. Of course that was the cue for his wife to comment, "Yea, and you’ll break your neck some day on that thing. A 73 year old man has no business on a motorcycle." The waitress made quite a fuss about the weight and construction of my jacket, so I decided to hit the road before one of the guys offered to test the effectiveness of the Kevlar with his deer rifle.

Continuing on Route 66, I found that the people of Illinois pay a particular reverence to the old road. In each little town, there are shops that if not entirely devoted to the road, at least have the hats, shirts, stickers and books that a traveler may desire. As I approached St. Louis, I found myself again in dangerous territory, this time the area was called East St. Louis, and I think the old road was telling me to avoid the old road anywhere around big cities. Again I jumped up onto I55 and quickly found myself on I64, the I44 heading out of St. Louis. I know I am missing some key points, but since I don’t have 2 months for the trip, I just can’t make all the stops I’d like to make. Besides, Mary and I enjoy the interstate just about as much as we enjoy the two lane roads. Once outside of St. Louis, it is very easy to follow R66 due to the signs. The road will go off on it’s own for a while, and then join back up with I44, then separate, then join, over and over again. The old road is once again filled with all sorts of stores and shops proclaiming they are the TRUE R66 businesses. But the road in Missouri is different that the road in Illinois. There is no reverence in Missouri, but rather a feeling that it is just lined with hucksters looking for a buck or two, or fifty. This is a long day for me at 435 miles, ending by taking a 30 mile detour to Parsons KS where a good friend lives. Instead of sticking with the freeway/old road combo into Kansas, I decide to take a little two lane highway called State Road 130 from Springfield into Kansas. What a treat. Beautiful farms, wonderful smells, and one of the best two lane blacktops I have ever ridden. Arriving at Parsons I feel refreshed from the last 50 miles but welcome the cold beer served at the Kitchen Pass in downtown Parsons. A good road, good friends, a good bed, and all for free. Life doesn’t get much better.

The worst day I’ve had so far. Good roads, friendly people, but I just wasn’t up to a long ride, or even a short one for that matter. After an early breakfast at a little family diner in Parsons with my friend Mark, I’m off and running out 400 to take 69 south to Tulsa where I’ll meet up again with the old road. But for some reason I can’t stay alert. Plenty of sleep I thought, but my grogginess was showing in the lines Mary was taking down the road. Have you ever been driving and had that little instant where you realize you have not been focused on the road and probably even closed your eyes for just a second. Well I’m here to tell you that on a motorcycle when you come back to consciousness and find yourself on the yellow line, it WILL scare you a bunch. I tried all forms of caffeine and periodic stops before I finally began to again be as one with Mary. Luckily, I had planned for a short day after the previous long one, but it still took me 6 hours to travel the 219 miles from Parsons to Oklahoma City. At 4:30 pm I was in bed sound asleep with the alarm set so I could call in to Macy and let her know I was alright. Never again do I want a day like today. Just too scary.

This was to be a long day, from Oklahoma City to Albuquerque NM, for a total of 542 miles. But as I sit and write this, I have not left yet and the 10:00 am hour draws near. The problem stems from the confusing and misleading weather reports I am getting from the weather channel. We are right on the edge of a large group of thundershowers, and my new Frogg Toggs, (thanks for the tip Charles), did not arrive in time for my departure. Macy has mailed them ahead to my nephews house in California for the trip back, but as of now I have only jeans for the bottom half of my body. The Joe Rocket Ballistic jacket does fine protecting the upper torso, and I probably would not worry about it if it were warmer. But with the temps being in the high 30's or low 40's in the early morning hours, I know the ride would be miserable if wet. I am wearing two pair of jeans to fight the cold, but if they were to get wet, it would be like wearing 50 pounds of crushed ice around my legs. Well, I’m going to pack up and leave by 11:00 am so I can at least make Amarillo today. Luckily I had built an extra day into the trip in the Albuquerque / Santa Fe area so I’ll make up time there.

Heading down the road I realized I must have done something right. All the bad weather in the early morning hours has drifted to the north leaving me with clear skies. I really love this bike. It just seems perfect for my riding style and I enjoy the little extras like the adjustable windshield and the heated handgrips. But I am continuing to see more reasons for not keeping Mary. In its current police color scheme, I am scaring the heck out of everyone on the road. There is a good side and a bad side. The good side is if you are following someone whose speed varies between 5 and 10 mph over the speed limit, ( you know, the ones that you get ready to pass and they decide to speed up,) when you finally get abreast with them and they see the police markings they immediately fall back to the posted speed limit, never to be seen again. The bad side come with drivers who are traveling faster than you. As they approach to pass, say 5 to 10 mph faster than Mary, they see the markings and immediately drop to just ½ mph faster than you. They have already committed so they have to pass, but they pass very slowly hoping to avoid a ticket. After a few of these cars join you a pod of cars forms with Mary in the middle. Not a very friendly place to be at 80 mph.

When I’d had enough for the day, I pulled into a little town called Grant Texas. On the old Route 66 road, I found a little motel that was perfect. Just what I wanted to see and experience during this trip. Owned and operated by the kindest couple and kept sparkling clean, the ‘Cactus Inn’ was nonetheless designed and built in the 50's. A nice modern TV with cable was in the room but the chairs, dresser and pink plastic tiles in the bathroom all betrayed the ties to an earlier age.

After settling in, I headed into town, (2 blocks away), to find some milk for the in-room coffee that the Cactus Inn provided. I pulled in to a ‘Shop and Go’ convenience store and was immediately surrounded by 4 boys, probably ages 9 to 13. They had all the questions you would expect such as, "Are you really a CHP officer?", "How much did that thing cost?", "How fast will it go?", etc. etc. etc. When I offered to let them sit on it they were amazed. It reminded me of being 12 years old and meeting Hugh O’Brian, the star of the Wyatt Earp television show, and him letting me hold his guns. My wife calls this kind of thing ‘making memories’. As the boys continued to ogle Mary, I went in and bought my milk. When I went to the checkout a sweet lady probably younger than she appeared said, "That was a real nice thing ya did for those boys. They don’t get much excitement around here." Then she smiled at me with all six of her pearly white teeth. I realized that this is what I wanted to see. The people away from the big city, the one’s who don’t drive Porsche’s or own a single piece of Tiffany’s jewelry. These people not only survive on their hard earned $15,000 a year, but they actually live. Of course I’m sure they’d all like to win the lottery, but until then they choose to be happy with their lives. Meeting people like that can sure make heated handgrips seem less important.

It seems that every time I get up from bed or lay down on the pillow for the last few days, I’ve gotten a little dizzy. I’ve also noticed some extreme shortness of breath when not on the bike, but since I have promised my wife that when I return from this trip I will be a non-smoker, I am attributing this to smoking much more than the normal ½ pack a day while I still can. Nothing serious, and it never appears during the day, just a little strange. The crisp desert air from the open window is invigorating and I hurry to get packed and on my way.

A short ride and I have entered the grand state of New Mexico. I know it’s personal preference, but of all the states I’ve been through on this trip, New Mexico, to me, is the most beautiful. The surrounding mountains are the most majestic, formed of boulders the size of which I have never seen. With my 6.8 gallon tank full, I intend to make some good mileage today, perhaps past Albuquerque, making up for the lost time in Oklahoma. Although the most scenic state, New Mexico proves to be the most disappointing for traveling Route 66. All along I44, the major highway, I can usually look just 20 yards or so to one side and see the grass overgrown remnants of Route 66. I’d get a little excited when I would see a sign pointing out that the next exit would lead to the old Historic Route 66, but without fail, the exit will lead you on a short 2 or 3 mile jaunt through the local town where you could see the Route 66 drug store, Route 66 Muffler Shop, Route 66 Storage Sheds, and hundreds of Route 66 bars. After being sucked in to this trick 7 or 8 times I finally realize that Route 66 is pretty much gone in New Mexico. So I stick to the highway, running 5 miles over the limit at 80 and enjoying the scenery.

It was on this leg of the trip that something both funny, yet sad happened. I noticed a car approaching quickly in my rear view mirror, traveling perhaps 90 mph. As it go closer, I could make out that it was an old black Ford, probably unroadworthy at 55 mph. Just as it drew even with me, I looked to the left in my sternest ‘police look’ fashion, just in time to see the car contained two boys, approximately18 to 20 years old, with black, stringy hair and the prerequisite black Tshirts of their generation. Then I noticed the passenger was taking a ‘hit’ from a reefer just as our eyes met. As they passed, the passenger went ballistic, jumping around the front seat, screaming at the driver. His head would disappear, then reappear, as he seemed to be fishing items from under the front seat. Then I began to experience a rain of ‘tiny’ cigarette butts and a couple of small plastic bags from the passenger window. After performing this highly intelligent maneuver of pelting what he thought was a policeman with the ‘evidence’, the passenger calmed down, but continued to swivel his head every 15 seconds to see where I was. The road was straight across the desert for hundreds of miles with very few turnoffs, so they had nowhere to go. In what must have been one of my more sadistic moments, I began to turn my dual hi-watt searchlights on and off repeatedly. That’s all it took. The passenger was once again jumping around and yelling at the driver as they pulled off the road onto the shoulder. I would have loved to have heard their conversation and seen their faces as I just continued to motor on past them and keep on going. I wonder how long they stayed there? Needless to say, I never saw them in my mirror again. I have to admit that my worldly self was chuckling at shaking these two boys up, but then I couldn’t help but feel sad and grateful. Sad that two young lives were being wasted by their lifestyle, and so grateful to God that my children had passed the trials of that age and grown to become children that would make any parent proud.

As I entered a mountain range I was struck by the beauty of such sheer cliffs, devoid of trees. Within what seemed like just a few minutes, I rounded one of the tallest mountains and the city of Albuquerque lay in a basin surrounded by these beautiful giants. I saw 40 or 50 dots of color above the city and realized they were hot air balloons. Although I had not planned it, I had arrived during the annual hot air balloon festival. I pulled into a little motel that had advertised a low rate in one of the Trip Coupon magazines I had found in a restaurant, only to be told that the low rate did not apply during the Balloon Festival. I did not care. A hot shower and clean sheets was all I wanted, and that they delivered. While getting dinner for the night to take back to my room, I was surprised to hear the whooping of a police siren coming from the intersection near the restaurant. It was one of Albuquerque’s finest, on his black and white police bike, almost a twin to Mary. He must have thought I was another officer at first, as did all the policemen on the trip, then like all the others, just gave me the strangest look as he drove by, not knowing quite what to think. Back to the motel, having escaped another ‘impersonating an office’ charge.

Getting close to the end now. And some things are finally making sense. The altitude was at about 7500 feet, as opposed to the 800 feet above sea level that I am used to in Evansville. There were no big climbs to this level. I was to learn from the hotel manager that I was riding a very long hill since Oklahoma, going higher and higher above sea level while the highway seemed level. I checked mileage, routes, alternate routes, and weather patterns before the trip but never thought to look at the altitudes. This could explain the dizziness and shortness of breath, which by now had become quite a bother. I could only walk 20 or 30 feet without huffing and puffing, and about once an hour I felt I couldn’t get my breath. If you’ve never experienced this sensation it is rather upsetting. The good news is that while traveling on the bike, nothing strenuous is required, and with an 80 mph wind coming at you, there is plenty of air to breath. But I have to admit that with each hour I grew more and more tired, even after sleeping for 8 to 10 hours. I was once again faced with the problem of fatigue and lack of concentration on the bike, finding myself wanting to stop for a rest every 30 minutes. If I pushed myself to ride for an hour I began to feel sleepy and notice little things like not staying aware of where the traffic was around me, something very important on a motorcycle. I stopped at a family style restaurant for a healthy meal of roast pork, salad and vegetables, then pushed on into Arizona, arriving at Flagstaff in the late afternoon. I was not yet hungry, but purchased two corndogs at the gas station, knowing I would not be leaving the room once I hit the bed. I barely got my boots off, again suffering from shortness of breath, and set the alarm for a few hours later when I would check in with Macy. I closed my eyes and was asleep.

The blaring of the alarm woke me and I realized I was still wearing my Ballistic Jacket. Except for gloves, boots and helmet, I had just collapsed on the bed. Slow, deep breaths were helping, but I still felt terrible. I called Macy and like a typical little boy who doesn’t want to come in from playing, even when he’s hurt, I lied through my teeth. My next stop was to be Santa Monica California, the end of the road, where I would meet up with my nephew and retrieve my Frogg Toggs. I called his cell phone, the only number I had for him, and received a recording that the user was not available, and the unit was unable to take voice messages at that time, so I punched in my hotel number, followed by my room number. He never called. My nephew is a wonderful guy who is great fun to be with, but not the most reliable member of my in-laws. I figured that he would just have to put up with an early morning call the next day, and stripped down for bed. The corn dogs were ice cold, so I threw them away, had a glass of water and collapsed. I had no idea that I would not awake for 13 hours.

Ok, the only explanation I have for how I feel is that the two boys I left on the highway had somehow found me, crept into my room, and beat me with rubber hoses as I slept. It was already 9:00am and I should have been 100 miles down the road. A quick shower, and I mean quick, because the humid air in the hot shower made it almost impossible to breath, and I began to load up the bike. If I thought the other days were bad, this was a doosey. Loading the bike normally takes only 3 or 4 minutes, but I found I had to rest often and long between trips out to load Mary. It took me over 30 minutes just to load up, but I kept telling myself that once I got back down to sea level in California, all would be better. Another call to my nephew and still no answer. Now what do I do. I don’t know where he lives, I can’t tell him when to meet me or where, so I guess I am faced with stopping intermittently all day and attempting to call. He knew I was coming today. Perhaps the desire to strangle him will drive me on to complete this 500 mile day.

I climbed on Mary, buttoned my jacket, put on my helmet, and was beginning to fasten the velcro straps on my gloves when I had a strange sensation, not unlike an electric shock. I had evidently closed my eyes for just a second and when I opened them I felt a little dizzy and realized that I had urinated all over myself. What the heck was happening to me? For the first time I was more than tired, I was concerned about riding the bike. I was faced with another long period of unloading the bike, stripping down, taking a shower, digging out clean clothes, then loading back up again. At least another hour in my present condition. I finally had to throw in the towel. To be so close to the end of my journey was disheartening, but I was too scared to continue. I wanted to be home with Macy, safe and comfortable. After all, I didn’t even know if Brian would meet me or how we would contact each other. I started up the bike and headed east, back toward home. I had not eaten since lunch the day before, but my pride would not allow me to enter a restaurant in soaked pants, so I was off, running down the highway, flapping my legs like I was doing the ‘Chicken Song’ at 80 mph. As soon as I was back on the road I immediately felt much better. Just sitting on the bike with nothing more strenuous than twisting the throttle and adjusting the electric windshield for maximum air to the vents in my helmet was a great relief.

After about 150 miles, as I neared the New Mexico border, I felt I was dry enough to stop for lunch. The past ten miles had presented road signs advertising Gauncho’s Authentic Mexican Restaurant, where their claim to fame was chilli and fryed bread. Not knowing what fryed bread was, I decided this was the perfect stop. I would not know until later that it was God’s hand that guided me to this little roadside eatery. I parked Mary and removed the helmet and gloves, once again the center of attention for some local boys, then went in and ordered a little of everything. I felt a little dizzy while ordering, but figured once I got my jacket off and sat down all would be fine. I took my tray loaded with soft drink and nachos, and just as I sat down on a padded bench I felt the mother of all electric shocks. I was out like a light. When I first awoke, I heard the voices of the teenage workers whispering to each other, "Is he dead?", "I don’t think so, his eyes are fluttering", "Oooh, this is too weird". Then as I opened my eyes the first thing I saw was salsa on the ceiling, thinking it was an odd place for salsa and not realizing I had put it there. A man in his thirties came out to show the girls that if they ever see someone have a seizure like this to give them orange juice loaded with sugar. When I sat up, they asked how I was and of course I said I was OK. Stupid pride. Right then and there I decided to never again let pride stand in the way of my health care. They asked if an ambulance should be called, and since I was 2000 miles from home with no one to call I figured an ambulance would at least get me a blood pressure check, sugar level check, and maybe some oxygen. When the three paramedics arrived, they took their time and treated me with respect, even though I had urinated all over myself again. I was hoping that the soft drink would act as a cover for this. They offered to take me to the hospital for a checkup, and slowly convinced me that it was the prudent thing to do since I was riding a motorcycle. This is where God showed his hand once again. The hospital was 40 miles away in Gallup New Mexico, and leaving Mary unattended was a concern. Then I learned that normally there were only two paramedics assigned to an ambulance, but the third was along because his unit was in the shop for repairs. In addition, he had his motorcycle certification and volunteered to ride behind us to the hospital so I would not have to come back to retrieve it. Upon arriving at the RMCH emergency room in Gallup, the staff not only attended to me quickly, but also kept me appraised of test results and my condition. Dr. Fronterotta, one of the nicest men I’ve ever met, informed me that the upper chambers of my heart were dancing around like crazy and he felt I should at least stay overnight. I guess they have a lot of stubborn people in the area because he seemed to be doing his best to ‘sell’ me on the idea, but I immediately agreed, telling them I would abide by whatever they decided. A couple of hours later I was in a room all wired up to monitors with an oxygen cannula on my nose. I slept like a baby, ..... for a while.

2:00am

I awoke in my hospital bed with the strangest feeling. As I opened my eyes, I saw 4 nurses standing around me, intently peering into my face. When I asked, "What’s going on?", they would only say they were checking my vitals and I should go back to sleep.

4:30am

I awoke again, but this time to the bright lights of the hallway and the view of ceiling tiles rushing past my bed. I realized that Eenie, Meenie, Minie and Moe were pushing my Serta Sleep System down the hall at high speed with tubing and IV’s following close behind. I again asked what was going on and my favorite nurse replied, "Oh, Dr. Fronterotta thought you should spend the rest of the night in ICU where they can watch you a little better." But the look on her face was one of relief, and seemed to say, ‘I’m sorry, but the lawyers told us to never diagnose’. Now I may be a little slow, but I’m not stupid. I know that you never, ever, call a doctor at home at 4:30 in the morning unless it’s real important. But I was too tired to pursue the questions running through my head and just enjoyed the ride. As I arrived at ICU, four more nurses took over and changed all the leads stuck to the hairiest parts of my body, (ouch), and then began to apply two large foil patches about the size of my hand, one to my chest and the other to my back. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that they were designed so they could apply the paddles from a defibulator without worrying about the grease you see on TV. My new nurse, Sabrina, was not afraid to at least tell me that I had some heart ‘irregularities’ during the night and Dr. Fronterotta wanted me in ICU. Boy, was my HMO card getting a workout.

Around 7:00 am Dr. Fronterotta showed up with his smiling face and informed me that my heart had actually stopped during the night for a period of 8 to 10 seconds. It must have really shook up the nurses, but the Dr., while concerned, merely treated treated the news as a point of interest. Then once more, God’s hand showed up. Dr. Fronterotta said that although Gallup was only a town of 20,000 and a cardiologist was not available, there just happened to be a specialist there this morning from the New Mexico Heart Institute to see another patient. Dr. Fronterotta asked if it would be alright if the cardiologist examined me. (Duh, what a no brainer.) After a few minutes with the cardiologist, he suggested that I get to Albuquerque as soon as possible and asked if I was willing to go. Again, I couldn’t believe these people were trying to sell me on taking steps that would save my life. I was later to learn that many of their patients are either poor or Native Americans who either do not have money, insurance, or may trust their local tribal doctor more than the established medical community. I wasn’t looking forward to 4 hours in a poorly suspended ambulance, but I agreed. Well, it was time for God’s hand again. Within 10 minutes of agreeing to make the trip to Albuquerque, I heard what sounded like a windstorm and a loud humming outside my window. As I looked out, a Dassault Medivac helicopter was touching down on the roof a floor above my window. It seems that the helicopter, which is based in Santa Fe, just happened to be in the area on practice maneuvers and was able to respond immediately. Thank you Lord. This type of transport must have been rare for the little hospital with such caring people, because although they had me on my way out in just minutes, they had a heck of a time getting the right code and key combination to allow the elevator to go to the helipad. I have a feeling that there will be an ‘in service’, (informational class), concerning air lifts in the near future.

I generally don’t care for helicopters. I have no fear of flying and in fact have a whole 12 hours in my logbook, but the reason I prefer fixed wing aircraft is because I understand helicopters. I know there are literally thousands more moving parts in multiple transmissions and shafts which must operate perfectly to deliver you to your destination with the exterior still shiny. But this crew of two nurses with a bunch of letters behind their names made me feel at ease. I was later to find out that our pilot formerly flew Marine 1 with President Reagan for eight years so I guess I was in exceptional hands. The windows on the helicopter were below my line of sight, so I was treated to a beautiful view of the New Mexico desert as we skimmed along below the mountain tops across the desert at 175 mph, arriving in Albuquerque 45 minutes later. This hospital was amazing. It is gigantic like most hospitals, but all they do is hearts. Again, the hand of God showed as I learned later that it is one of the best, if not the best, in the country.

To Be Continued.

As I was rushed into the hospital something very strange happened. As they rolled me through the doors, a nurse called out, "He’s here!". Then another echoed the announcement and a group of 3 nurses took possession of me and my belongings. I was being treated like a celebrity, or at least I thought so. I should have had a hint when one of the nurses looked at my pile of gear and said, "Hey, Joe Rocket Ballistic with Kevlar", but I was too slow to figure it out. It turns out that almost all the Doctors and most of the Nurses at this hospital ride motorcycles. They all have Harleys and even use this fact in their advertising. One ad evidently shows them all in the parking lot on their bikes with the caption, "We want you to live life to the fullest." It seems that to the staff I was kind of a hero. One of those BMW guys that can ride across the country with nothing more than a canteen and a bologna sandwich. Harley riders may be a tight knit group, but I have always found they respect BMW’s and their riders. All of a sudden the talk of Fatboys, Flch’s, Springers and the rest of the Harley Davidson language stopped and everyone moved with quiet professionalism. One of the nurses told me that the Chief of Surgery, Dr. German, (no, I’m not making it up), was on the floor and was going to take my case. I had no idea why he would choose to take my case himself, and when I found out why I couldn’t help but be amused. When Dr. German appeared, we went through about 10 minutes of questions and answers, at which time I learned that my heart was now operating normally so they would watch it overnight. The theory was to avoid operating if the irregularity could be controlled by medication. Then what followed was the important part of the interview. Dr. German informed me he had not one, but two Harleys in his garage and was wondering about long distance touring. The questions went something like this:

Do you just carry a towing card or do you carry a repair kit for flats?

Does your kit use the goopy string or the mushroom plugs with a gun?

How do you know the mushroom plug is seated in the hole?

After repaired, how do you air the tire back up, CO2, hand pump, 12 volt pump?

After Dr. German left, I talked to Macy and finally convinced her that she should not come out to New Mexico. I never could have done it, except with God’s help again, Macy had a terrible cold and was told my everyone she knew that flying out to me might complicate my condition. It was decided that my daughter Jamie would come out, (no one could stop her), and take care of me. I fought it at first, but what a blessing she was. She arrived in the late afternoon and really made life easier. Little did she know how difficult the trip would be for her.

I woke a few times to the nurses and Jamie peering over me during the night, but in general, rested well as long as I was sucking oxygen. This morning when I awoke, Jamie seemed very tired and stressed, Before I could question her Dr. German came in and informed me that again, twice during the night, my heart had stopped. My pulse had dropped as low as 22 beats per minute, and the oxygen saturation rate in my blood was a pitiful 77%. A dual pacemaker was called for but they could not put it in until later in the day because they were quite busy, as they always were during the Balloon Festival. It seems that hundreds of thousands of people descend on Albuquerque for the festival, not realizing the altitude is quite high. Anyone with heart problems will find the altitude stressful and quite a few end up at the Heart Institute. After the Dr. left, I found out the reason for Jamie’s haggard state. Each room in the hospital is filled with the latest heart monitoring gear, so not only did Jamie hear the erratic beating of my heart all night, she also heard the alarms when my oxygen level dropped too low, and worst of all, she heard me ‘flatline’ when my heart stopped. She was a nervous wreck but didn’t let it show and I’ll always be grateful for my little nurse from home.

The rest of the day was uneventful since I slept all the time. With such a low oxygen level I was incredibly tired. They didn’t even disturb me for meals since I was on clear liquids in preparation for the operation, so I slept until around 6:00 in the evening when I learned that I was scheduled for the pacemaker at around 7:00. Dr. German came in to do the surgery and did a great job. The surgery crew was first rate and although I was not ‘knocked out’ for the procedure, I felt comfortable enough to fall asleep during the procedure. By 8:00 I was back in my room where they had a dinner ready for me with a desert of two Percocets. Good night all.

Dr. German visited for the final time this morning, conveying the news that I could already feel, the pacemaker was working perfectly. My heartbeat had remained at a normal rate thanks to the firing of electrical charges from the unit and my oxygen saturation level was at 97%, achieved entirely on my own without the help of the 4ml level of oxygen I had been living on the last few days. Although the incision site was sore, I felt like I was 15 years younger. It is amazing to me that I had been so sick for so long and did not realize the problem was with my heart. For years I had been unable to walk any distance at all, and stairs were to be avoided at all costs since they required that I take one at a time by pulling myself up with the handrail. I had always assumed that my fatigue was due to getting older and my excessive weight, but the lack of oxygen was killing me. I now realize that the entire trip was arranged by God. When I asked if I should not have the pacemaker put in at home, I was surprised to hear the answer that I would never make it back to Evansville alive. For 2,600 miles on a motorcycle traveling at highway speeds, God had kept me from passing out or having a seizure. In all those motel rooms where no one would have found me until the following day, God kept me alive. In fact, the doctors said I might have just quietly died in my sleep in the next six months had I not come to a higher altitude which brought all my problems to a head. God has given me some more time. As Macy says, I guess He’s not done with me yet.

Oh yeah, what about Mary?  Another blessing.  It seems that as soon as my friends in the  Bavorak Riders heard of my condition they formed a posse.  The Three Musketeers, in the form of Steve Shoemaker, Dave Edwards and Dan Dunlap, decided to go on a little road trip.  Did I say little?  These three great friends hooked a trailer to Dave's Yukon on Friday night, took turns driving, drove 1200 miles straight through to Gallup, loaded up the bike then turned around and drove straight through to get back by Sunday evening.  Over 2,400 miles, rotating drivers, just so I would not have to worry about Mary.  How could you possibly find friends better than these three.  Thanks Guys.

Sorry for the lack of pictures from Day 7 and after, but it never occurred to me what great shots it would have been from the helicopter and of the hospital staff.  My only defense is that I was much more concerned with my next breath than my next picture.

Dr. German understood that I really wanted to be home in my own bed, so with the promise that I go straight from the plane to bed for a few days rest, the gang at the New Mexico Heart Institute rushed to release me in time for an afternoon flight home. I had been treated so well by all the medical staff at both hospitals, little did I know the only terrible part of the trip was to come.

American Airlines, Customer Service Department: