Last month, I was in Rhode Island to watch my son Ben compete in his first triathlon.
And, despite the fact that, after he finished, he looked like a dead man, he was inspiring to me.
A few years back I did the AIDSlifecycle ride, a nearly 600-mile bike ride to raise money to care for people with AIDS, in memory of my best friend Scott Riklin who died of AIDS. Then I got sick and couldn’t ride. My son took up the challenge and rode two years in a row. On our trip back from Rhode Island, we decided to do the ride together next year.
So Friday, I set off on my first training ride along the decayed industrial waterfront near where I live. 
I guess I was more out of practice than I knew because when I saw these tracks, I didn’t angle the bike correctly.
I fell over the bicycle with all my body weight onto my right shoulder, my sunglasses wedged into my eye socket. I have never been so grateful for my helmet.
A passing contractor stopped. He threw the bicycle into the back of the truck and brought me home. He was so charmed by where I live, he hung out here for a while and I took down his phone number so that he can attend the next bash here. Then my brother arrived to take me to lunch at The Ramp.
When the waiter got a good look at me,
He asked, “What the hell happened to you?” I told him. He responded, “Would you like a Vicodin?”
When my glass of wine came, it had along side it some pain relief. As the waiter set down the frosty glass and the welcome little pill he was looking at the sky, singing, “This isn’t happening. I’m not doing this. I don’t know how this got here.”
Almost instantly I felt much better, and have been better every day since, except the day I tried to get back on the bike. I’m going to have to wait another week, I think.
Sometimes I’m a little sorry I started this self-improvement campaign.