The aging rider: Every scar tells a story

On the outside of each leg are the zipper lines left by the surgeons who replaced my hips—wider on the right, because that one’s been replaced twice. On my left shoulder is the faint shape of the metal plate used to reconnect a splintered clavicle—with barely palpable knots where the screws are placed. At the base of my spine are surgical stitch marks that have made chiropractors recoil.

On the elbows and knees are discs of discoloration, where scar tissue from abrasions has chosen its own flesh tone. The hair on my head is thick enough to hide suture marks from half a dozen childhood headers. The slight cleft in my chin didn’t get there on its own, but was left there by a friend with a pellet gun.

Every cicatrix tells a tale, every scar a story. Race day at Bay Mare. Second moto at Indian Dunes. A very cold dusk near Burro Schmidt’s tunnel. Over the cliff into an unexpected washout in the desert. An unseen slick of oil on the PCH. 

Not all the injuries were self-inflicted. Two faint reminders of hernia operations were just bad luck. The spinal surgeons who left their tracks on my lower back said it was hard living, but my father and one of my brothers both required the same repair work.

But many of the others were, uh, lifestyle-related. I lived hard, worked hard, played hard. I took my pleasures where I found them, and wound up where they left me. Over the years I was a guest at ERs and ORs in a variety of locations, from Hollywood to Hong Kong. By the time I turned 65, I had gone under the surgeon’s knife 18 times. That doesn’t count the non-surgical ER visits, for the broken leg, the cracked ribs, for the two dislocated hips, one separated shoulder and assorted glitches requiring stitches.

Taking my lumps, I made comedy from what might have seemed like tragedy. On a lark, I bought an ancient wooden wheelchair from an antique store and installed it in my living room. This was a couple of years before my first hip replacement surgery. A friend joked that it was a good thing I hadn’t, on the same lark, bought an iron lung.

As the old cliché has it, if I’d known I was going to live this long I’d have taken better care of myself.

But, no. I wouldn’t have. As a young man I never thought, as the other cliché has it, that I would live forever. But I didn’t appreciate the ways in which I was adding complications to what I now call extreme middle age. 

Where could I have altered my behavior, had I known better, or cared more?

Ear protection: I now have significant hearing loss, partially as a result of too many years of racing and riding without ear plugs, too much damage from wind and loud motors. I wouldn’t think of riding now without something to protect my hearing and preserve what’s left of it, but it’s like locking the barn door after the horse has escaped — too little too late.

Eye protection: I never rode in the dirt without goggles, but I often rode on the street without something adequate to keep my eyes safe from dirt, debris, sand and sun. I didn’t use eye drops, either. Now, after two cataract surgeries caused partially by sun and wind damage, that seems almost as crazy to me as riding without a helmet. 

Skin protection: Most riders are fairly well covered up when they’re riding, but I spent a lot of time loafing in the paddock, lounging in the desert, and lying on the beach without the benefit of sunblock. The men in my family tend this way anyhow, but two skin cancer surgeries suggest I should’ve been more careful.

I’m not sure I could have benefited from this information when I needed it. I was a heavy smoker and hard drinker from my early 20s to my early 40s, when a complete physical and mental collapse delivered me not to the undertaker but into sobriety. This seemed like a terrible turn of events at the time, but eventually became a great blessing. 

After years of living under the thrall of addiction, I started eating right, hydrating properly, meditating and exercising. These unfamiliar habits became daily rituals. 

Twenty-five years later, they still are. Every morning includes a 20-minute meditation followed by stretching, some doctor-mandated physical therapy exercises, a soak in the hot tub and 20 minutes of laps in the swimming pool. Twice or three times a week, I play tennis. Periodically I ride a mountain bike. And, as often as possible, motorcycles.

My riding habits have changed, too, by choice and by necessity. I have discovered that, as I have aged, the surface of the Earth has hardened. It doesn’t bounce like it used to. Neither do I. I’ve become as brittle as a bowl of Rice Krispies, and I snap, crackle and pop where I once rolled and tumbled.

So I have to stay upright. That means riding slower and riding smarter. It means, as a riding buddy of mine’s wife always counsels him when he leaves the house, “no stupid stunts.” There’s no more, “Hold my beer while I try something.” There’s no more dangerous clowning for the Instagram feed. Well, less clowning.

But the result is a dramatically increased pleasure in riding, and the ability to ride more. In the last year, I’ve been on motorcycle jaunts in Iceland, Canada, Costa Rica, Baja California, the High Sierras (twice) and the Mojave Desert (too many times to count). For the longer on-road and off-road trips I’m on a BMW R 1200 GS; for the daily desert rides I’m on a Husqvarna 450FE. 

Because I no longer need to be the fastest guy in the pack, I actually remember the scenery from all those rides. And I haven’t had a serious fall in a while. So, on the calendar are dual-sport/ADV rides in Guatemala, Colombia, Baja California again and, I hope, an entire winter and spring of desert dirt riding.

But I’m not overconfident. There’s a drawer in my closet devoted to shoulder slings, knee braces, Ace bandages, and various nylon and neoprene wraps to support sprained wrists, ankles, and elbows. There’s an OasisSpace ice machine in the closet, and in the rafters of my garage are several sets of crutches and even a walker. I’m not throwing them out. Someone else may need them. I may need them myself. My history suggests I’ll be passing this way again.

For how long? I have friends who are still riding into their late 70s. Like me they are still enjoying what a Scottish friend calls “adventure before dementia.” 

But their riding has changed just as mine has. This one won’t ride dirt anymore. This one will, but only gravel and fire roads. This one won’t take his 1250 GS off-road anymore, but is happy to ride the desert on his 450 cc KTM. This one has downsized as well, and rides his 250 cc Husky very slowly. “Daisy sniffing,” he calls it.

Unlike many of my aging rider pals, I have had excellent training for being old. The injuries, surgeries and rehabs have schooled me. I know what it is like to ride at very diminished capacity, coming off some trauma or other, to ride very slowly, very cautiously, with strict limitations on when and where and how and how long I can ride.

So I know from that experience that I am able to enjoy any kind of riding, all kinds of riding, under whatever circumstances are allowed to me. The pleasure of being on a motorcycle was a gift to me on my first Briggs & Stratton-powered minibike. It still feels like a gift every time I ride.

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