Every Bike Has a Story. What is Yours?

My first bicycle had two bald tires and one training wheel. Carlotta, our socialite neighbor, discovered it abandoned on Columbia Beach in Rogers Park and presented it to me as a special treat. I was a four-year-old tow-headed kid and it made my summer.

I’ve had about half a dozen bikes since that very first found-me-down. For the most part, I am just a casual rider. No long trips, no biking vacations, no daily use. I know I must have taken occasional bike rides with the kids, but have no memories of them.

The one exception to my limited riding was the spring of 1981 when I bike-commuted to my pathology residency — a ten-mile excursion from our townhouse in Niles to Evanston Hospital. But several flat tires and a low-speed bike-car collision that ended with me in the Skokie Valley Hospital Emergency Room of Skokie Valley Hospital put an end to that experiment after only a few months.

We were bike-free when we moved to our current Home on the Pond. When my 65th birthday “rolled” around Barb suggested I buy one. As many of you know, this was not the easiest task during the pandemic, with most bike stores vastly understocked and understaffed.

On a day off from work that we had designated as “Buy a Bike Day” Barb and I visited four local bike stores. None of the first three shops had a bicycle to try, buy, or be available before the end of the summer. But at the final store, a store closely affiliated with a bicycle manufacturer, we were told we could get a bike within about six weeks. Success!

The kid working the counter asked me how I planned on using the bike, took a few measurements, and using a formula based on the Pythagorean Theorem determined the appropriate model and size to order. We were set! And driving home that day I got the good news that the bike would be ready in three weeks instead of six. Even better!

The bike was available when we came back from our California vacation. We stopped in the shop to pay the final balance, buy a helmet, and arrange for delivery. I asked the sales clerk, another kid, for any bike maintenance tips but was told to just go and ride and have fun.

Since then, I have ridden the bike as expected — lots of trips around our Riverwoods neighborhood and a few careful rides through Deerfield. Some short jaunts with neighbors who share my riding patterns.

I have learned how to work the front wheel quick release and stuff the bike into the trunk of my sedan. Lots of friends have offered to go for slightly loner rides, and I supposed I would get to that too. In other words, I thought I was doing great. Until…

Last week I received an email from the shop telling me it was time to bring in the bike for a free check-up. I loaded the bike into the car and brought her in. I was sent by the kid at the counter to a severe-looking man with closely cropped hair and a Teutonic accent. This is how I recall our interaction.

“Why are you here?”
“I got an email saying to come in for a bike check.”
“How much have you ridden? Have you ridden hundreds of miles?”
“I-I-I don’t know. I haven’t been keeping track–but not that many. And the bike shudders when I shift gears.”
“Less than 50 miles? Then why are you here? Why did you buy a bicycle? It must be ridden. You should get up before the sun rises to ride. You should leave work an hour early every day so you have time to ride. You must do these things. You will be less tense. Now go out into the parking lot so I can watch how you ride.”

I took the bike out of his caress, put on my helmet, and rode a few laps around the edges of the tarmac. On my return to the shop entrance, I received the review.

“You don’t peddle hard enough, you are too lazy. And your tires are not inflated enough. Do you know anything? Come back when you have driven hundreds of miles. Now go!”

Does anyone want to buy a barely used bike? I will even throw in one training wheel.

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Write Something Nice Day — Here’s to you, Barb.

No, it isn’t Barb’s birthday or our anniversary. No special day in our relationship of 44 years. It just felt like a “Write Something Nice About Somebody Day,” and who better for me to write about than the person I know the best?

So here are 10 great things about Barb, in no particular order:

Barb has become a self-taught horticulturist of the first order. Her green thumbs (and most likely index fingers too!) have created a multitude of gorgeous flower explosions. Every view of our home — front, back, and side — pampers the eye with beauty. I think Barb recently joined the Chicago Botanic Garden just so she can teach them a thing or two.
No one is as thoughtful and successful in choosing presents as Barb. No detail of a gift recipient’s personality is ignored when choosing something that will perfectly compliment them. And the deed is not complete until the box is beautifully wrapped and a card that says just the right thing is selected.
Barb embroidered a special needlepoint canvas for me in 1978. It still hangs in my office. That talent lay dormant for many years, but more recently, Barb has created beautiful pieces that are framed on our walls, form pillows on our sofas, and adorn the homes of family and friends. Nothing pleases her as much as completing a piece that has taken her months to do –and shines in every detail.
If you are a critter, you want to live in Barb’s home. Her love of all creatures (stink bugs excepted) has helped provide a sanctuary for pooches from Murphy to Cooper, and cats from Jessie to Phoebe (aka Princess.) How many animal shelters have we visited around the country? And no vacation will ever replicate the thrill of our African Safari. Unless of course, we fulfill Barb’s dream of a gorilla expedition.
Perle Mesta was the original Hostess with the Mostest. Barb is her undeniable successor. Big event, small event, or no event, Barb knows how to throw a party. Great people, great food, perfect accessories. The pandemic gave us even more opportunities to share our home (at least the outside of it) with friends, and with the addition of a few heat lamps, she took advantage of it. And in Barb’s opinion, the party starts with the invitation. It has to be perfect, it needs to set the tone.
Talk about great food– Barb knows how to bring it. She has her classics but is always looking for something new — and rarely fails. Her Japanese Cole Slaw is a unique crowd-pleaser. It was a special mitzvah for Barb to recreate the recipe for my mother’s chocolate-covered pound cake at the request of our nephew. And I hear she mixes a good Cosmo, too!
Barb doesn’t shy away from a challenge. As part of the hardy group of souls who serve on our subdivision’s Home Owners Association, she works tirelessly to maintain a beautiful community while recognizing all points of view. Though Barb, I gotta tell ya, “it’s only a f**king sign!”
Although now officially retired, Barb is still the best hand therapist I know. The retinue of “Barbettes” she has trained through the years still serves in the community. And if you are a cashier, or a sales clerk, or just a woman on the street and you are wearing a hand splint, rest assured Barb will stop you, ask what the problem is, and offer some valuable advice.
Talk about loyal! Neil Diamond, meet fan #1. And Barb doesn’t care what show is on HGTV, she will watch it. Home Town, Love It or List It, My Lottery Dream Home, all have been on an endless loop on at least one of our TVs. not to mention those dreamy Property Brothers.
And of course, Barb puts up with me. My impending retirement, now visible in the Futuroscope, doesn’t seem to frighten her nearly as much as it frightens me. But I am confident that the best part of retirement will be getting to see even more of all the great qualities of my wife.

It’s good to have you, Babe.

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“Friends” Don’t Let Friends Skip Their Prostate-Specific Antigen (PSA) Test

There has been plenty of talk about the reunion of the Friends cast earlier this month. Maybe you were a fan of the show during its original run and wanted to see how the actors had aged, or maybe you discovered it online and wanted to see something new. In any case, it was good to see your friends hale and hearty.

But then news broke this week that James Michael Tyler has advanced (Stage 4) prostate cancer. You may remember that Mr. Tyler played Gunther, the Central Perk manager who appeared in more episodes of Friends than anyone other than the Big Six. Call him The Magnificent Seventh.

So as I do anytime the chance arises, I remind you, or your partner, or your father, brother, uncle, our second-cousin-twice-removed to please get screened for prostate cancer (PCa). PCa is by far the most common cancer diagnosed in men in the USA, and the second leading cause of male cancer death.

The Prostate Specific Antigen blood test is still the most common test used in prostate cancer screening. It isn’t perfect, there are false positives and false negatives, but it is inexpensive, readily available, and when used intelligently to guide the patient-physician relationship it is useful in alerting to the possibility of prostate cancer. And there are lots of other associated lab tests such as Free PSA and Prostate Health Index (PHI) that can help make blood testing more specific.

Suppose you and your doctor decide a diagnostic biopsy is needed. There are techniques now that greatly reduce post-biopsy infection, once the biggest risk of the biopsy procedure. MRI studies can increase accuracy by pointing out suspicious areas to sample. And pathologists are great at making the correct diagnosis.

And if you wind up told you have prostate cancer? Treatment options abound – including no treatment in certain situations. And as in other cancers, the ability to test your DNA for abnormalities in both your cancer cells and in your non-cancer cells have lead to new treatment paradigms as well as assessment of the risk of prostate cancer in other family members.

If you are Black, your risk for prostate cancer death is even higher. US Too, the Chicago-based organization fighting prostate cancer (I am on the Board of Directors) has launched The Black Men’s Prostate Cancer Initiative. Check it out.

To all my friends with prostate cancer (and there are many) keep fighting the good fight. To the rest of you, black, white, or brown, with a family history of prostate cancer or without one, get screened.

Mr. Tyler, thank you for this opportunity for me to speak out once again. I wish you the best, and know that you have lots and lots of Friends!

The above is the opinion of the author and not necessarily UroPartners LLC or US Too.

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Two Mind-Bending Treats. No Drugs Involved

Anthony Hopkins in “The Father” and Vincent Van Gogh Self Portrait

Hallways expanding and contracting. Time looping back on itself, forward then back, the forward again. Faces changing, personalities slipping in the blink of an eye. Cicadas chirping as they cover a screen.

Barb and I weren’t chewing on gummies or ingesting magic mushrooms this weekend when our minds were warped out of shape, not once but twice. First, Friday evening we sat home and watched Anthony Hopkins Academy Award Winning performance in “The Father.” Then on Sunday morning we drove down the Tri-State Tollway and Kennedy Expressway to the Sandburg Village area where we experienced the twisty “Immersive Van Gogh” exhibit at the Germania Club/Lighthouse ArtSpace Chicago. Between the two, our heads will never be wired quite the same way.

In “The Father” Mr. Hopkins plays Anthony, an engineer, who along with his daughter (Olivia Colman) is dealing with (or not dealing with) his increasing dementia. It is the more thought-provoking of the two experiences.

Do you think Mr. Hopkins playing a similar role in the 2005 movie “Proof” where his mental illness is the source of friction between his renowned professor character and his equally brilliant daughter (Gwyneth Paltrow)?

Think again. In “The Father,” by scene two, everything you thought you knew or expected has changed. Is Olivia Coleman the daughter? Who are these other people? Why does the furniture keeping changing in the hallway? Will someone be going to Paris? And for what reason do some scenes keep repeating, the same, but not the same.

Slowly we realize our point of view is that of angry, frightened, and demented Anthony. And we are left to ask ourselves–is this what it feels like to suffer from dementia. I fear that it is.

****

We know Vincent Van Gogh suffered from an unclassifiable mental condition. But that is not what made the immersive Van Gogh exhibit so twisty. The filmmakers have created a 45-minute video, screened on the walls of 3 large exhibit halls. We sit on the floor, our heads swiveling to catch the entire experience.

In the first few minutes, black cicadas cover the screens. Then selected elements from Van Gogh’s paintings–here a face, there a sunflower, a chugging train–appear, vibrate, explode. Music, mostly classical, pours from surround sound speakers. The artist’s self-portraits stare at us. This is true immersion.

As our brains reach full pickling, the finale fills the screen — swirls from “A Starry Night” splashing like fireworks against the sky. The music crescendos, and then dazed, the crowd staggers for the exits. It is only as we all pour into the inevitable gift shop that normalcy returns.

Hopkins and Van Gogh gave us mind-blowing weekend–no hallucinogenics needed.

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Have you eaten at a place like Hilda’s Hot Dogs?

It wasn’t a Rogers Park dive bar, just a dive. A counter with four bar stools. Five tiny tables lined up against the sidewall. A sizzling griddle for the burgers, a deep, oil-filled, bubbling, fry vat, and hot water to boil the hot dogs. A soda fountain and not much else.

Behind it all was Hilda, a woman of indeterminate age to my 11-year-old self. Her hair in a bun under a net, a white apron around her middle, and a gray cloth covering her laryngotomy site, Hilda ruled the tiny lunch place–a small hiccup on Morse Avenue between a laundromat and a barbershop.

We were a loyal bunch, the construction workers and the small gaggle of school kids living at the far end of the school district who had lunch each day at noon during the school year in the late 1960s. Forty-two cents bought a hot dog, french fries, and a small Coke. Most days I dug into my lunch money for an extra nickel, trading the wiener for a single patty hamburger. A piece of cheese was more than I could afford.

There were ritzier places down the block, places like Ashkenaz and Froikins. But you needed more than half a buck to eat at those places, and I carefully guarded the lunch cash stash my mother gave me so that I would have enough pennies to buy chocolate cupcakes at Davidson’s Bakery on Mondays and Thursdays. Or I would use that loose change for an extra-large Coke with my burger on a hot day in June.

In the 2020s it would be considered child abuse to allow a 10 or 11-year-old kid to eat alone or with classmates at such a place. But having lunch at school was not an option, and walking the mile-and-a-half home (a 3rd-floor walk-up apartment) and back during the lunch hour would have left no time to actually eat. Besides, my mother was a working woman, not a stay-at-home mom, so I would have hurriedly gulped a cold sandwich. Hilda’s was the better option, and in truth, I loved it.

I never learned why Hilda had a laryngotomy, though most of us assumed it was due to a history of smoking. And I never learned how the city inspectors allowed the less than sparkling joint to stay in business. I never realized just how filthy the place was until a teacher asked me to take a new student with me to lunch. He was a southern import, and I remember two things about that day. First, he asked to use “the lav,” and second, he never came back.

I may have had better hamburgers since those days, I may have had tastier fries, but I can tell you I have never had a happier 47 cent feast.

———————-

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This Doodle’s A Lover, Not A Fighter

I’m a labradoodle and folks call me Cooper.

I’m eight months old give or take a few, Sir.

I like my friends, how I like to kick it

At doggie day care, that’s my Monday ticket.

With Emma down the block I can strut my stuff

She’s a hot little doodle, I never get enough.

Through the yard we run, playing games of tag

Rolling through the grass as we zig and we zag.

All through the hood they all know my name

With a proud little bark, my presence I proclaim.

Give me a treat I’ll remember you’re a friend

And to you my good graces I’ll forever extend.

But my folks took me somewhere a few days ago.

“He’s getting so bored, with the old status quo.”

It was called a dog park and it was really creepy,

Supposed to be fun but I view it bloody bleakly.

Went through all these gates like being sent to prison

A place to enjoy that park surely isn’t.

With those cussing curs and a big growling hound,

I felt that the whole concept was certainly unsound.

I ran and I hid from my persecutors

I thought to my self “don’t want to do this.”

I got under a bench where the mutts couldn’t see me

Thought of me and Emma and something steamy.

My folks caught a glimpse of my predicament

They quickly saw that I was just sick of it.

They hustled me out to our waiting cool auto

And she said to him “Yeah, I thought so.” “

We never should have come here, it just doesn’t work,

Our Cooper is best when he sticks to his turf.

So if ever again I hear you suggest it,

The answer is no, don’t try to contest it!”

__________________________________

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The Good Die Young, but Memories Can Linger

Those of you who are long-time readers may recall that a few years I disengaged from a recreational tennis league with a less than glowing review for some of the players. If I had been giving a Yelp! review it might have read “1 Star — a hard bunch to play with and enjoy.”

But there were plenty of exceptions, people I had a good time hitting with and sharing a beer with after a tough set. Sadly, I will never again raise a lob or down a cold one with Julie, one of the delightful ones. Julie passed away this week succumbing to a battle with ovarian cancer.

Julie was quite a bit younger than I was, and I can’t say I knew very much about her personal life. But I knew we shared early January birthdays. On the first Thursday of each year, the two of us would treat the tennis league to a post-play dinner of submarine sandwiches. The sandwiches were always special favorites of the league, brought in from the restaurant owned by one of our fellow players–the caprese sub always went over big.

I learned Julie was an elementary school teacher. She taught at a school just minutes away from my Westchester laboratory. It was natural for her to invite me to speak at her school’s career day. I participated several times, though it is difficult to engage 7th graders about pathology.

The first time I spoke at the school was singularly memorable. As I droned on about blood tests and biopsy specimens and medical school, an odor — a quite terrible, offensive odor, began to permeate the air. It was worse than any autopsy suite. The students began to gag. They looked like they were going to retch.

Not having a classroom teacher with me, I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t familiar with school policy, I didn’t want to excuse the kids into the hall. I just kept talking.

Eventually, one of the boys slipped out and grabbed a real teacher, who came and cleared the room. The maintenance man eventually discovered the culprit, a blocked drain pipe. Julie and I shared many laughs about that episode. I think she was surprised I ever agreed to return to the school for more career days, but because she was so sweet I always did.

Julie was also a writer, spending summers in the Iowa Writers Workshop. We would frequently discuss my blogs, and she would share details about her sci-fi novel-in-the making. Sadly she never gave me any of it to read.

After I left the tennis league, our paths no longer crossed. I did hear of her cancer diagnosis and emailed her my best wishes. I am sure she responded, but I can’t find her letter. I wish I could. I am sure it was beautifully written.

So Julie, wherever you are now, I am sure you are playing a rousing game of doubles. And if the pipes back up again, just have a good laugh.

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