Fast Cars and a Straightaway Going Anywhere

 
My favorite European sports car has long been the Jaguar XK-120. There's something about the bulbous front end with bug-eye head lamps and split wind screen that spells c-l-a-s-s-i-c. It got the designation "120" because its top end speed was 120 mph, according to racing driver Alain de Cavenet's Speed channel series on classic motorcars. In 1954, the last year of production, you could obtain one for about $2000.00 -- today, you'd need to be comfortable handing over 50 times that price.
At one time, my father and I could have gotten hold of a couple for $1200.00 a piece. They were parked at a local service station within walking distance of my house. I was in my early teens and enthralled with sports cars, having seen the film Grand Prix twice and gotten the racing bug. In those days, twelve hundred bucks was a lot of money and since we had none to spare, the cars remained at the garage and I have no idea what became of them.

We owned a 1959 Chevrolet, 1966 Ford pickup truck, and I'd just gotten my driver's license. Since neither one was fitted for anything besides street driving, it was hard to satisfy my rising testosterone levels, especially since both had automatic transmissions while I yearned for a manual clutch and stick shift. Nevertheless, we sometimes have to make do and so that's what I did.

An irrigation canal ran for miles in our part of the country and along its bank was a single lane, rutted dirt road that turned into a quagmire after a rain. When someone had to run an errand to the grocery store, I was eager to volunteer because I could make a detour onto this makeshift track and charge hell-bent-for-leather the half mile home. It wasn't particularly dangerous unless I met a car coming the other direction which only happened once, and I'm sure I scared the other driver as badly as I did myself. There was no contact and I squeezed by him as quickly as I could, averting my face lest he identify me, inform my father, and thus bring a quick and sudden end to my racing career.

I remember telling dad about these forays into fantasy years later. He only smiled the half-smile that was his usual precursor to laughter, shook his head, and said, "It always took you a little longer to get home than you needed. I figured you were doing something." Was I ever.

I haven't outgrown my affection for Grand Prix and the older Formula One cars that were little more than gas tanks on wheels. Nor have I outgrown my affection for back country roads off the police radar. I still don't own a sports car but that's on the horizon. Since I'll probably be paying off medical school debt for the rest of my life, an investment in a used four cylinder, stick shift, rag-topped British remnant of my youth won't make much difference. It probably won't be an XK-120 -- I'm not completely irresponsible -- but a Triumph TR-IV would be fine. Heck, if I can fit my 6'4" frame into the cockpit, I don't much care what it is, as long as it runs fast and there's a straightaway going anywhere.




(Creative Commons image by Sherlock77 via Flickr)

O Canada! (And Her Kids)

I've got to hand it to the Canadians, they did a tremendous job with the Olympics. The visual effect of the opening ceremonies was uniquely beautiful and the closing ceremonies struck me as their way of saying goodbye -- oh, and don't forget to write. From start to finish, they magically transformed two weeks of international competition into something that almost resembled a gigantic family outing. Maybe it's because of the kind of people they are and then again, maybe we're entering a new era and they simply had the good fortune to be in a position lead the way.

In Star Trek: First Contact (1996) Capt. Jean-Luc Picard says, "In my time we work to better ourselves." It almost seemed that way in Vancouver. Seriously, I can't recall an Olympics where more emphasis was placed on the idea of a personal best. And not merely in the cases of those athletes who weren't medal contenders. With few exceptions, I got the overall sense these Games, win or lose, were about achievement for its own sake.

That this could even have been possible, stems from the nature of the athletic field and those who populate it. For the most part, these are persons born into a post-Cold War world. They have no personal memory of "games instead of guns." Furthermore, theirs is a generation, as I've said before, joined at the hip. Cell phones, group dating, and social networking sites are the stuff of daily life. The rugged individualism of the early to mid-20th century isn't an integral part of their thinking or lifestyle.

As a consequence, a relationship such as that between Lindsey Vonn and Maria Riesch is free to develop. Best friends, they spend Christmases together and yet, on the slopes, they are determined competitors. J. R. Celski is close friends with a skater from another team as well. The mistrust inherent in a purely competitive environment is being overcome by individuals who capable of looking past the flag on a sleeve.

We talk about eliminating boundaries and integrating the spirit of the Games into international relations but I don't think that's really been attainable until now. In a real sense, we've needed a generation that can conceptualize relating on multiple levels and is accustomed to bracketing differences for the sake of something greater. It is, perhaps, the unexpected legacy of the Woodstock Generation that their children don't merely give lip service to diversity and are willing to try bringing opposing thoughts together to consider both at once.

Canada may come to be seen as having been the ideal venue for the 2010 Olympics, despite the snow. The value she has set upon her First Nations peoples suggests a willingness to embrace and celebrate diverse beginnings and ways of being. It's a lesson we've talked about again and again but rarely laid hold of. God willing, fifty years hence, we'll look back and say to ourselves, Vancouver is where it all began to change.

2010: The Eve of Closing Ceremonies

It always makes me sad to see the Olympic flame extinguished and that's what will happen this evening during the closing ceremonies. I know, it's the signal for the party to begin, kind of like taking the tree down after Christmas in anticipation of New Year's. But, like Christmas, the Games never last long enough for me to grow weary of them. This year has been especially meaningful because, for the first time, I've written about my impressions and posted them here.

While that's not daring, it is risky. Sharing what you think, especially in a public forum, means you've got something to say and aren't content to keep it to yourself. It involves considering how you want your ideas received and whether or not you want them appreciated. Sometimes I say things in the first draft that come across to me as ungenerous or harsh, and that's where editing comes in. Even if I have strong opinions, I don't want them to alienate before they've even left the chute, so to speak.

Some writers rant, hoping someone else will identify with their rising column of steam. Most of the time I'd rather get people thinking in new ways or looking at themselves and the world differently. If you'll permit me an occupational hazard, it's kind of like preaching. A good sermon shouldn't make you walk out of church feeling worse than when you came in -- unless, of course, there's a good reason for it. The preacher talks about honesty in business dealings and you're cheating your customers. In that case, you ought to feel worse.

Generally, however, the point is not to moralize but to stimulate. Get the wheels turning, make you ponder alternatives, clarify what you believe. How does all this apply to the Olympics? Well, someone may not agree with my assessment of the athletes. What I find inspirational, they consider commonplace. Then again, one might take a look at Kim Yu-Na and see her struggle as a mirror of their own. In that case, how she copes might help them cope more effectively.

I suppose I could be accused of idealizing the people I write about. And the truth is, like humorist Will Rogers, all I know of Apolo Ohno's personal life, for instance, is what I read in the papers (or on the web), and I don't pay a lot of attention to that, anyway. Because he's human, I know he has to deal with some of the same issues that frustrate me. He's far from perfect but he doesn't have to be in order to skate well and exhibit true sportsmanship. The fact that he demonstrates integrity in his work tells me that, despite any flaws he may possess, he's basically a decent guy, and that's what appeals to me. Would I like to have a beer with him? As a matter of fact, yes, a beer or cup of coffee would suit me just fine.

So, on the eve of the closing ceremonies, when USA takes on Canada in hockey -- and with all due respect to my Canadian-born medical school pals, I'm hoping for another miracle on ice -- I feel enriched by the past two weeks. It's been great, seeing "old friends" again, and making new acquaintances. I've bookmarked their websites and I'll check in with them, periodically, to see how they're doing. It's going to be fun. Who knows? Maybe I'll write and maybe they'll show up here, checking in on me, too. That would be a nice turn of "events."


(Creative Commons image of Vancouver Olympic Flame by photojesse via Flickr)

Joannie Rochette: The Results Don't Matter

It was a sunny June morning in 1997 when I received a call from my father, saying my mother had been hospitalized and wasn't expected to live. At first, I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly; I'd seen her a couple of weeks earlier and she was fine. Apparently, she'd choked on some food at home, he'd taken her to the ER, and during the night she aspirated fluid into her right lung, and was now in the ICU with a rapidly developing case of Respiratory Distress Syndrome. A few days later, she was gone, and the following week I found myself performing her memorial service.

All of this came back to me when I learned of the unexpected death of Olympic skater Joannie Rochette's mother from a heart attack one week ago. My first thought was, Why now of all times? She's in shock, what's she going to do? Of course, as you know, she skated anyway and went on to win the Bronze medal last evening in Women's Figure Skating.

The past few days I've been writing about athletes who've inspired me in one way or another because of their mental balance, integrity, or their willingness to engage competition in spite of the odds against them. In Joannie's case, her greatest obstacle wasn't the presence of a world class field of women skaters, but rather her own grief. Ordinarily, I cheer for the Americans; this time I wanted to see Joannie on the podium, very badly.

What impresses me about her is the way she presented herself. She didn't attempt to draw overt attention to her distress but neither did she bottle up her feelings as though they were unimportant. She was entered in an event that meant a great deal to her as well as her mother and she knew the day would come when she would have wished she'd skated if she did not. This is an extremely mature way of thinking and it demonstrates her insight, realizing the pain of the moment would only become complicated by the pain of regret if she withdrew.

Following the medal ceremony, she said the results didn't matter, "I'm happy to be on the podium. It was a lifetime project for me and my mom and we achieved that." I think she's an amazing young woman. Whether she continues to compete or chooses to finish her education, she's already established herself as someone possessing a depth of character that far exceeds her years. As for me, I can hardly wait to see who she reveals herself to be in four years. I'll be cheering then, too.


(Quote via Associated Press; GNU Free Documentation image of Joannie Rochette at the 2009 Skate Canada International via Wikipedia)

Isabel: Doing What You Love

Well-meaning neighbors suggested she be put down. Since she was blind and would require assistance, it might be the kind thing to do. She'd been a sled dog, a member of a team, and it was assumed her disability automatically precluded the life she'd always known. At the advice of their veterinarian, her owners tried to make her the family pet, but she'd been a working dog and in its absence, eventually refused to eat or drink and became listless. Putting it in clinical terms, you'd say she was depressed.

Through a happy set of circumstances, it was discovered she was still interested in interacting with other dogs and eager to harness up with them. Her owners decided to give her a try and found she did quite well, following the other dogs' cues. Five years later, at age nine, she's retiring at last and it's anticipated she has another four or five good years left.

If you watched the Olympics last evening, you may have seen Mary Carillo's segment about Isabel, who's story proves once again, that disability often exists only in the eyes of the beholder. I'm mentioning this story today, not only because I'm a dog owner and lover, but because I think it says something about Olympic competition.

I've heard some suggest the Games ought to be considered a venue for the best of the best. As such, those individuals who have yet to prove themselves on the world stage ought to be excluded from participation. I have a problem with that, as you might imagine, and it stems from my belief that, while the Olympics are about excellence, they also go beyond it, raising athletes, coaches, and the rest of us to a higher plane.

What I mean is, we've gotten to the place where winning is measured in hundredths and thousandths of a second. In terms of performance, there is virtually no difference between athletes at this level of performance. Measured by the clock, yes, of course there is, but in terms of ability and training, how do you quantify it? Under these circumstances, there has to be something else to this kind of competition, something that gives significance to every effort, win or lose.

Athletes I've known (including at least one Olympic hopeful) tell me it's the awareness of having been a part of something that encompasses, and then transcends, personal interest. Maybe this is experienced especially by those who go home empty-handed, without a medal to validate all they've endeavored to accomplish. But like Isabel, they want to do what they love, giving everything they have. In some ways, that is as meaningful, if not more so, than any piece of metal they could hope to wear about their necks.

Olympics Skeleton and Me?

I think Luge would make me lose my cookies before they were even out of the oven. I don't mind the idea of flying down the track at 90 miles an hour, but doing it feet-first makes me queasy. It's too easy to imagine crashing into a wall and collapsing like an accordion. The next thing you'd see is a helmet resting atop my shoes as they waddle off the track, imitating a cartoon character who's been walloped with a mallet the size of Nebraska.

Maybe Skeleton would be a better choice -- at least it's more like sledding and you can see where you're going from the top of the run to the bottom. I'd have to beef up my paraspinal and cervical muscles (the ones that support the neck), though, because your head doesn't rest on the frame. You have to hold your neck in an extended position and the G forces can be so strong as to drive the chin into the ice on the way down. Jay Leno would have trouble there, I suspect.

Another good thing is, Skeleton seems to be flexible about participants' ages. The oldest member of the Japanese team at this year's Olympics is Kazuhiro Koshi and he's 45. Make no mistake, he's not doing this on a whim or because he wants to be an inspiration. "I'm in it to win it," he says, "I'll show you all what an old man can do -- you wait!" In the final statistics, his average time was a little over six seconds off the leader, but he competed and finished in the top 20.

Okay, then, what about the danger? Skeleton riders claim it's the safest of the three events that use the bobsled track. For one thing, the sled's steering mechanism is more subtle and refined than the one used in Luge, so there's more control. When you crash in a bobsled, you've got 500 pounds of metal to worry about; on a Skeleton sled, you just keep on sliding until you stop, assuming it's not a wall that stops you.

Naturally, there's the concern that we break more easily as we get older, but this is partly predicated on the notion that physical fitness has to decline with age. That's not a myth, it's a downright misconception. Fitness can be achieved and maintained at any age, depending on one's willingness to work at it. It may take a little longer to get there when we're older, but it doesn't mean we can't get there at all.

All of this is not to say you're going to see me at the next Olympics trials, clad in a skin-tight body suit, and sliding down the track. For one thing, I'd have to do a great deal in order to look good in one of those outfits, though I suppose that's not the point. But the last thing you want to do is look bad in one, so there's that. And there's also residency, but Eric Heiden's experience demonstrates the virtue in taking a calculated risk. I suppose any residency committee would look pretty seriously at a guy my age who'd at least tried out for the Olympics. Mm, well, you never know. If I could find a body suit that went well with my eyes, maybe I'd give it a try.


(Creative Commons image of Kazuhiro Koshi at the World Cup via Zimbio)

(Citation from "Japan's skeleton master makes no bones of age barrier," by Alistair Himmer via Reuter's)

Eric Heiden: Making Your Own Way

I really liked it best when I was a nobody. ~ Eric Heiden

There was a time when an Olympic athlete could pretty much vanish if s/he wanted. Opportunities for fame and fortune were relatively limited unless you participated in high profile sports like figure skating or downhill skiing. If you played hockey, there were always the pro leagues, but you couldn't quite count on being mobbed by Madison Avenue for your face on a Wheaties box. Of course, a lot of that changed in 1980. That was the year the Winter Games were held in Lake Placid.

I wasn't there but I watched with tears streaming as the American team entered the outdoor stadium, wearing cowboy hats and western-style leather jackets. Waving and smiling, they were having the time of their lives and the crowd went absolutely crazy. It had been 20 years since the Winter Olympics had been held in the United States and we were hungry. The American hockey team was a group of college students facing down European professionals. It was the year of the Miracle on Ice, when our guys won gold.

It was also the year Eric Heiden became the only athlete in history to win all five speed skating events in a single Olympics and take gold in each one. If it had been 2010, he could easily have become wealthy through endorsements. My take on him is, he tends to go his own way. He didn't much care for the limelight, and having apparently accomplished his skating goal, he finished college and went on to medical school. If he'd followed the typical career track, the next step would be residency. But like I say, he seems to go his own way.

Instead of residency, he took time off and tried his hand at professional bike racing, becoming a founding member of the famed 7-ll cycling team that included names like Davis Phinney and Lance Armstrong. Following an injury that eliminated him in the final days of the 1986 Tour de France (American Greg LeMond's first year on the victor's stand), he finished his medical training.

Now Dr. Eric Heiden, he's an orthopedic surgeon and specialist in sports medicine, practicing near Salt Lake City. He's still not one for notoriety but he's gotten more comfortable with his Olympic accomplishments. You may have noticed him in a segment about speed skater J. R. Celski who was injured last September; Eric is his doctor.

It takes a lot of nerve to follow your own sense of direction. Aside from the fact that he's a colleague, although we've never met, I think this is what I respect most about him. Rather than beat his head against a wall trying to turn his skating career into wealth, he got an education. Taking a break between medical school and residency is risky from the standpoint of competing for training positions. Nevertheless, he wanted to race bicycles and so that's what he did. He's made his own choices and he's made his own way. From where I sit, that's not a bad way to go.


(Image of Eric Heiden at the 1980 Winter Olympics by Sarah -- licensing unknown)

Chris Del Bosco: It's About Perseverance

When I was a kid, my favorite parts of a movie were typically the action sequences. I still feel that way, though to a lesser extent. I've grown to appreciate the stories behind the characters and therefore, what it means to them to be participants in the action. Their passion gives it significance. I feel the same way about the Olympics. The personal interest segments that interrupted my childhood absorption in the events, are now the very things I want to hear about most.

Ordinarily, these involve a family member with a chronic illness, the loss of one or both parents, a family overcoming financial difficulties and making sacrifices to drive hundreds of miles one way so a child can practice their sport. They're about people you'd like to have for neighbors, relatives, and best friends. People you talk about over dinner and wonder how they manage to do it all. Chris Del Bosco's, however, is one you don't generally talk about. Chris Del Bosco's story is about addiction.

He was fourteen when he had his first drink. At 17, he was kicked off the U.S. Ski Team for testing positive for marijuana. Over the next few years, he was arrested three times for driving under the influence and might have died one evening when he fell into an icy stream in his hometown of Vail, Colorado. A passing stranger saw him, called emergency services, and he awoke in the hospital with no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there.

Eventually, he got into treatment and has been sober the past three years. A chance encounter between his cousin's wife and a representative of the Canadian Ski-Cross team led to an offer and now, at 27, he's at the Olympics, his life beginning again, one day at a time. Keep in mind, there is no "ed" at the end of recovery, only an "ing." The process is ongoing with the end never in sight. But don't feel sorry for Chris; recovery isn't a burden, it's freedom. For the first time in a long time, he's in a position to address life on his own terms, not those dictated by alcohol.

Endurance measures how much we can take. Perseverance, how many times we get back up after we've been knocked down. Chris fell during his final run in the ski cross last night. As John Lennon said, "Life is what happens when you're making other plans." Not so very long ago, he might have resorted to drinking. That's no longer an option, not if he wants to live, and it looks to me like he does.

Recently, he said, "People were there when I needed help and told their stories. I'm in a place where I can help." Considering how far he's had to come, simply being in the Olympics is huge. Winning can be inspirational and falling at the critical moment heartbreaking, but that experience gives him just one more opportunity to get back up and show us we can do the same. It's another way of helping.

Perseverance. That's what he's about now. Go, Chris.



"For ski cross racer Del Bosco, new sport offered a fresh start," by Vicki Michaelis, USA Today, January 14, 2010, www.facesandvoicesofrecovery.org)

Apolo Ohno: A Good Sport

Image via Wikipedia

I must have been around eleven years old and starting out on the horse show circuit, when my father took me aside and said something I've never forgotten. "What you're doing is a privilege. Always congratulate whoever gets first place and, even if you don't win a single thing, be sure to ride out of the arena with a smile on your face. It will make you look like a pro and people will respect you for it."

Kids notice a lot more than grown-ups give them credit for and I noticed that not everyone had gotten my father's message. Not even the adults were consistent about it, but I knew there was a difference between those who were and those who weren't, and I liked the former better than the latter. They just seemed happier.

I don't know if Apolo Ohno's father ever gave him similar advice, but I was proud of Apolo last night. Paired against two Canadians (brothers no less) and two Koreans, he was on his own for the 1000 meter speed skate. It was one of those times I wished I'd been on the team if only to run interference for him. As it was, despite finishing in medal position, what happened off the ice impressed me more than what happened on it.

He'd just covered his skating blades and was exiting the arena when a reporter caught him and asked about the race. He smiled, said he was satisfied, and had "left it all out on the ice." Later, he explained he felt he could have done better, but was happy with the outcome. The reporter mentioned that he now exceeded Bonnie Blair's previous Winter Olympics record for the number of medals won by an American, but Apolo seemed more interested in his performance in this particular race, one which he'd never won previously.

During the interview, he didn't blame the other competitors nor did he berate himself or indicate a bronze medal was somehow beneath him. He was gracious and every bit a pro. As much as I admire the snowboarders' ability to maintain perspective, I also admire Apolo's maturity and determination to be professional, especially when he might have every reason to feel disappointed.

The Olympic broadcasts are selective. There's only so much air time available and it has to be carefully budgeted so as to highlight the elite athletes. We're accustomed to the instant debriefing in which private thoughts and impressions are made public; inquiring minds want to know. When someone like Apolo responds with gratitude for his opportunities, acceptance of responsibility for his mistakes, and a gracious appreciation for what he's received, it raises the whole process to a higher level. It reminds us that we're never so accomplished or successful that we can opt out of being a good sport. Someone is always watching.


(GNU Free Documentation Image of Apolo Ohno at the 2006 Winter Olympics via Wikipedia)

Living in a Big Universe

It's the sense of irreversibility that brings despair. What has been said can't be taken back, what has been done can't be undone. There's no going back, only looking back as words and deeds, tossed like rocks into the stream running behind my house, ripple away with the current. Reason whispers, let them go, and we wish we could, but we can't. There's neither reason nor rhyme to regret.

I thought I was done with Lindsey Jacobellis yesterday but there's something about her experience that hangs on. It's the idea that she could have done things differently four years ago, and her spontaneous move to grab the board was to blame for her poor landing. Well, what if it wasn't? What if her landing would have gone awry no matter what she did? I don't recall anyone asking these questions.

Am I saying she was destined to slide out of bounds momentarily? Trust me, I'm not that foolish. But I am suggesting that sometimes we search for explanations when there are none to be found. What happens, happens, and there may not be any satisfying way of saying it doesn't have to. Among the billions of conceivably possible events, determining which will occur may truly be out of our hands.

We can take turns with our conscience, blaming and criticizing ourselves for failing to anticipate, failing to know. Yet there are only so many places we can be and it's not everywhere at the same time. Even when all the signs are in our favor, the universe is a pretty big place. Learning to live with a mistake entails accepting we can't control nearly as much as we like telling ourselves we can. We prepare to the best of our abilities and then take our chances.

It generates a feeling of vulnerability, knowing there is much that lies outside our influence, but if we allow it, it can create a feeling of serenity as well. We don't have to predict every outcome. I think regret gains much of its power when we forget we can only act within the boundaries of our knowledge and capability at any given point in time. If you think about it, it's probably good that we can't take back some things because many of us would get so caught up in trying to redo them perfectly, that we'd never move on to what's next. And then we'd really have something to regret.


(Creative Commons Image by Xanetia via Flickr)

Lindsey Jacobellis: In the Public Eye

"I make my living off the evening news, just give me something -- something I can use, people love it when you lose, they love dirty laundry." ~ Don Henley

My heart goes out to Lindsey Jacobellis, the snowboarder who, the media tells us, was seeking gold in this year's Olympic Women's Snowboard Cross in order to redeem her failure in the same event in Torino. According to one commentator, she's had to endure four years of questions about why she celebrated her apparent victory too soon, slipped, and came in second, instead. As if the experience itself wasn't enough, she's called upon to relive and then explain or justify it to one reporter after another who believes they're going to uncover something we don't already know.

Following her accident yesterday when she struck a gate in the same event and was disqualified, the announcer said, in effect, there goes her opportunity for redemption. And now she'll have to cope with questions about that loss as well. I suppose it's the price one pays for being in the public eye, but that's often said by those who never take such risks to begin with. It takes a lot of nerve to put yourself forward, especially when you might fail and the whole world is watching.

I imagine there must have been times recently, when she wished there was a witness protection program for people who make simple mistakes. I've not only felt that way, I've been grateful no one from NBC or CNN was around to chronicle some of the one's I've made. It's bad enough wishing the ground would open up beneath you without having to dig for explanations you're not sure you can even give yourself.

I don't know what Lindsey wanted out of this year's Games, but it only seems reasonable that she might have liked to compete, do her best, and enjoy herself. I hope she's back in 2014 and able to forget the medals, the questions, and the expectations that don't matter anyway, and for a few shining seconds, sail down the mountain at break-neck speed, doing what she loves, with hope in her heart and wings on her heals. That would be sweet to see.


(Image of Lindsey Jacobellis at Vancouver by Getty Images via Daylife)

Canada: The Gold and Beyond

We really are different countries, the United States and Canada. Before you say, "Well, duh!" let me tell you what I mean. While watching the opening ceremonies of the 21st Olympiad last night, I couldn't help but marvel at the emphasis placed on the role of Canadian First Nation aboriginal peoples. The entire show was incredible and the creative dance depicting a young man soaring over the plains of Saskatchewan had me in tears.

I love the Olympics, particularly the winter games, and am an unabashed fool for heroism. Give me a story about someone overcoming the odds knowing full well they'll likely accomplish only a personal best, and I'm on my feet, cheering. Show me a medal winner overcome by emotion and I have to reach for my handkerchief, no matter which country they're from. John Denver said it, "There's a fire in the heart and it feels like a hunger, the spirit is burning consumed by the flame, to be one of the best of the best in the world is its name."

But as I watched the First Nations dance and celebrate their wide-ranging heritage, I couldn't help but think how difficult, if not impossible, it would be to have a similar presentation in this country. To begin with, America is very much a melting pot, to borrow a well-worn phrase. Most of us, at some time or other, have come from somewhere else. And, at the same time, our history, with respect to Native Americans, is complicated.

The settling of the American West was accompanied by encroachment onto tribal lands and the subsequent outbreak of war. Although I hesitate to use the word, "conquest" does seem applicable. Manifest Destiny -- the belief that America was destined, even divinely ordained, to expand to the Pacific -- provided sufficient justification for eliminating interference by native cultures. As a consequence, I think it's safe to say our national identity is not substantially rooted in the contributions of those who were here first. And certainly not in the ways Canadians demonstrated in Vancouver.

My intuition tells me that a similar broadcast in the United States would require some alteration of our national consciousness, lest it appear as little more than entertainment. While films like Dances With Wolves go a long way toward enlightenment on a popular level, we need to pay closer attention to what our children learn. If education can be the magic bullet, then the history of Native Americans should comprise more than a few pages in social studies. By the time a student graduates from high school, s/he ought to be familiar, not only with who lived where, when, how, and why, but who they are today and how they define themselves, for themselves.

That nearly all of us can trace our ancestry to another place and time, doesn't change the fact that we are here, now. Who we are as a People is marked by two hundred plus years of slavery, a Civil War, and our country by several thousand years of habitation by individuals who, at one time, also came from someplace else. This land was their land, to borrow from Woody Guthrie, and in many ways, it still is -- theirs and ours together. It does us all well to honor that relationship

(Creative Commons image of the statue of Ilanaaq the Inunnguaq, mascot of the 2010 Winter Olympics via

(The Gold and Beyond, words and music by John Denver; This Land is Your Land, words and music by Woody Guthrie)

Until the Cows Come Home

If there's a book you want to read but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it. ~ Toni Morrison

Every now and then someone asks me why Lynn Smith and I wrote a book in the first place, and it really comes down to a desire to read. In his own way, each of us had thought about how mind and body interact to produce illness, but neither had discovered an explanation that was really satisfying.

Now that we're getting down to the wire and I'll actually hold a copy in my hands fairly soon, it's all starting to sink in. We really accomplished something, but why this particular thing? Well, for years, Lynn had done research, asking why some people recover from surgery rather easily and others, having had the same procedure, experienced ongoing difficulty. Sure, we're talking about people, not Chevys, but there's enough similarity under the skin that we don't have to rewrite the text on anatomy every time we do surgery.

For my part, I was fascinated by the ways in which the body served as a metaphor for what was going on in the mind. A therapy patient complaining of tension headaches, for example, might describe their boss as a "pain in the neck." There wasn't always a direct correlation between psychology and physiology, but the concept was intriguing and I felt something was afoot.

A chef knows the best recipes may result from accidents in the kitchen. As much as science likes to present itself as a deliberate, linear process, it can be just as unpredictable. You never know what's going to come out of the oven.

And that's what happened with us. We were two guys bouncing ideas off each other like pasta thrown against a wall to see if anything would stick. Our shared experiences told us something was happening that didn't fit neatly within the usual disease classifications and clinicians were forced to treat symptoms instead of the underlying cause. If we wanted to read the book on mind-body illness, we had to do more than talk about it.

The truth is, all of this makes me want to blush and cover my face, it really does. Describing the mechanics of writing and the quality of the friendship between Lynn and I is one thing. Give me an opportunity and I'll bend your ear about him, especially, until the cows come home. But the rest of it reminds me of a scene from the film Chariots of Fire. Harold Abrams has just won the 100 meter sprint in the 1924 Olympics and his closest friend wants to toast his victory. Another character restrains him, saying, "Listen, Aubrey, one of these day's you're going to 'win,' and you'll find it's pretty difficult to take." I think I'm figuring out just what he meant.
(Creative Commons image bye r j k p r u n c z y k via Flickr)