One of the perks of living in Orlando, Florida is the close proximity to Daytona Beach. And every March, I am fortunate enough to get my badass groove on and head over there for Bike Week. Motorcycle enthusiasts from all fifty states and some from abroad converge in Daytona for one week of chicks, beer, classic rock, races and rallies.

Although I can’t ride a bike for painfully obvious reasons, that doesn’t stop me from being a true biker at heart. I like the smell of leather. I like to wear black. I like cool shades and have tattoos and piercings. I’m a nice guy with bad boy tendencies. I dig the whole biker culture. I dig Harleys so much that if Harley-Davidson ever made power wheelchairs, I would definitely be the first in line! Heck, I fit right in, and had a great day!

It is no secret that I have been in quite the funk lately, which is totally unlike me. Well, I suddenly realized that the only way to snap out of it was to do something I really enjoy. So, today I decided to toss my computer and negative thoughts aside and go snap some pictures! It has been a few months since I last took my trusty Nikon D90 out for a spin, but this was the perfect opportunity to get some shots and reverse my mood. I have always found peace behind a camera, as it places me in such a zone that all of my troubles fade into the shadows for a little while. Photography is my therapy, and today it certainly did the trick. I am back!

A funny thing happened to me at the U2 concert the other night; I ran into my cardiologist in the parking lot! Eighty thousand people at the show and somehow I connect with Dr. Chapman of all people. I didn’t even know he was a U2 fan. Here was my doctor of about fifteen years, the man whose high expertise helps keep me alive, and the man whom I trust to no end coming towards me out of the blue. What were the odds? The timing had to be perfect for this to happen, and all of the planets had to be in proper alignment. You would need a Harvard physics professor to figure this one out! Both of us had to leave our seats during the first song of the second encore. The speed of my wheelchair had to somehow synchronize to his walking pace. He had to dodge people along the way. I had to dodge even more people along the way. I had to navigate my way to the elevator and descend as he followed the spiral cement pathway to the ground level. I had to encircle the entire stadium, and we had to enter the parking lot within minutes of each other. I had to avoid exactly three exiting vehicles, reach my van, wait for the ramp to deploy, and turn my chair around at the precise moment when Dr. Chapman was strolling by. He suddenly spotted me, smiled and came fast approaching. I didn’t even recognize him at first since the parking lot was dimly lit and he wasn’t wearing his customary white lab coat. He quickly identified himself and we briefly exchanged pleasantries before going our separate ways. I sure am glad I chose not to drink during the show because having alcohol breath and being under the influence in front of your cardiologist is never a good thing. Anyhow, we both enjoyed our improbable chance encounter. I am not certain whether to consider this a good omen or what, but it really is comforting to know that my physician and I have something very cool in common – U2.

I was growing bored with virtual bowling with friends on Facebook, so I decided to hit the actual lanes again the other day following a 6-year absence. I took out my old bowling ramp and ball, and finally went back to Brunswick Wekiva Lanes, the place where I had enjoyed years of triumph and glory and personal satisfaction from achievement. This was my house, my church and my comfort zone in those days, and I realized just how much I missed the place the second I entered. It looked and smelled exactly the same! I felt as if I had fallen into a time warp. And it felt really good to be there! I hadn’t bowled a single frame there since my good friend and bowling partner, Chris – who had cerebral palsy – passed away. It was a weird feeling to be on the lane without Chris. We were teammates in a league sponsored by the Paralyzed Veterans Association. There were ten teams, each comprised of one disabled and one able-bodied bowler. But we were the exception, as we were the only totally disabled duo out there on the hardwood. League day was every Tuesday, but Chris and I would meet on Friday afternoons to practice and motivate each other. Chris loved to make little five dollars side wagers with me to see who would score higher. I always took him up on them, knowing that I could easily kick his ass! Often, I purposely blew a few frames to give him a slight lead and a glint of hope before destroying him in the final three frames to win the five bucks. Or I would occasionally let him win to have his confidence force the next game into double-or-nothing stakes, blow him away, and then blow him away again in the inevitable rubber game to win the five bucks.

After three years of intense league competition, the Kingpins – as we called ourselves – had reached the pinnacle. Chris and I won the trophy! We dominated the league all season long! All those Friday afternoon practice sessions really paid off. Of course, I never actually accepted all of my cash winnings from Chris during practice. After all, we were friends as well as partners, and all we cared about was working together as a team to become champions. No wager could ever replace the satisfaction of our grand accomplishment.

The league dissolved at season’s end, yet we still would meet weekly to bowl and hang out. Several months later, Chris died suddenly of an apparent heart attack, and my entire bowling world came to an abrupt halt. I missed my friend and our time together, so much that I just couldn’t bring myself to bowl without him. But the other day, I could have sworn that I heard Chris’ voice telling me to go bowling again. And I listened. At the bowling alley, I chose the exact same lane that we used to practice on, positioned my ramp in the usual spot and released my ball. It curved down the lane, right into the pocket as always, but could only muster a dreadful split. I ended up with an open frame, which was something unheard of in my game back in the glory days. Many more splits and open frames followed and I barely broke 100 for my final score. I bowled two more games with similar results and fell way below my average. Six years away had certainly taken a toll on my game, but I didn’t cry over it. It was just nice to go bowling again. With regular practice, I know the average will shoot right back up. And I know that Chris will be there in spirit to cheer me on!

I made it over to my friend Kevin’s house for the first time the other day. A hobbyist who restores classic cars, vintage jukeboxes and pinball machines in his spare time, Kevin greeted me with a big surprise. He told me that I would be playing pinball in a few minutes. I was puzzled and began thinking that this guy must be certifiably insane. Pinball? Me? Doesn’t this dude see that I cannot lift my arms or that I can barely manage to wiggle my fingers? Doesn’t he see the huge wheelchair carrying me around? I mean, hello? Then I suddenly remembered that Kevin does, in fact, see everything. As the father of a teenager with Duchenne muscular dystrophy, Kevin certainly knows a thing or two about debilitation. He has watched his own young son gradually lose the ability to walk and dress and bathe independently. Kevin realizes that numerous other struggles await his son in the coming years. He understands that this demon called Duchenne is stubborn and will not go away. Kevin can accept disability as a brutal fact of life, but he will never allow himself to acknowledge inability, and that is what makes this man truly special. Fortunately for me on this day, Kevin’s inability to recognize inability would ultimately lead to what I consider as somewhat of a miracle.

Kevin stepped into another room for a moment and emerged with a fistful of wires connected to a couple of tiny switches. He told me to pick one of his several pinball machines and proceeded to open the front panel and fiddle with the interior electronics. He attached his homemade switches to the inner circuitry and placed one in each of my hands. The switches were so sensitive that all it took from me was a mere feather-light pinch between my thumb and forefinger to activate the flippers of the machine. Here I was, about to play pinball for the first time in 30 years! Unfortunately, the switch in my right hand was running hot enough to scald the flesh on my thumb! Kevin tried a different type of switch that he just happened to have to replace the faulty one, but it took too much pressure for me to operate. I had no choice but to abandon one flipper. So, we ended up becoming the very first tandem pinball team in the history of the game. I was activating the left flipper while Kevin handled the right. It was such a rush for me to be able to spin that little silver ball, something I thought that Duchenne muscular dystrophy had prevented me from ever enjoying again. But Kevin thwarted the disease through his electrical knowledge and sheer determination. He made the seemingly impossible quite possible, and for this I am truly grateful.

Remember the 1969 rock opera, Tommy, by The Who about a young man with severe physical impairments who masters the game of pinball and develops a cult following? Well, one song from the movie called Pinball Wizard contains the lyric, “That deaf, dumb, and blind kid sure plays a mean pinball.” After my recent experience with pinball, I now want to become that pinball wizard, except for the deaf, dumb, and blind part of course. All I need is Kevin’s switch assembly and my own machine to practice on. So, if anybody out there wishes to let a poor, crippled, artificially ventilated chap borrow their pinball machine indefinitely, please contact me right away and let the dream begin!

Scenes from Tampa Bay Buccaneers training camp: