My son discovered the luminous blue bicycle on his fifth Christmas, next to the tree. That cold morning, I led him along living room and dining room circuits as he got the hang of riding on two tires, with a lot of help from training wheels. He was still years away from any possible attempt at the Tour de France...and his only performance-enhancing drug was the exuberance of a little boy.
As I look back at my summer memories, I wonder why certain situations are vivid in my mind while others I'm not able to recall. When I have conversations with my sister and brother about our childhood, some we can reminiscence to the very minuscule detail while other stories... there is no recollection.
I have started my own practice of saving my treasures in my bottom right desk drawer. When I get an email from an overwhelmed surgical resident, thanking me for the lifeline one of my blog posts has given her, it goes in the drawer. When one of my patients reminds me of why I went to medical school, it goes in the drawer. Pick a drawer. Take the time. Start the practice.
Playing sports is "hard wired" into the male species. We are born with the drive to be competitive and to win. We are obsessed with being the fastest, the strongest, the nimblest and in the end the best. Playing organized sports has always been the easiest way to do just that... But as we aged, our ability to play sports at a highly elevated competitive level changed.
There's usually no specific reason. It's just an accumulation of things, little bits of information and tiny injustices, news and facts and stories and, well, it just gets to be too much. I head for the solace of my bed, under a fluffy blanket, a stack of books and magazines and my TV remote nearby.