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Sometimes You Just Gotta Ride... Disclaimer: The following may not be suitable for those among you who may have delicate sensibilities. For the rest, I hope you find the same dark humor in it that I do. One of the many plagues which has been visited on me through the years is kidney stones.  This entitles me to a state of heroism which equates me with women whom have delivered unto them a child - you know how they like to play the LABOR card?  Bring it. I can go toe to toe with labor survivors any day of the week on issues concerning pain and the tolerance thereof.  Besides, I have it on good authority from a close friend of mine who has experienced both that a kidney stone is worse. I was managing a project in China in a town called Baoji just south of Mongolia when a kidney stone began its epic march from the kidney to the bladder.  The last thing I wanted to do was submit myself to the horrors of a Mongolian Chinese witch doctor so I was going to have to ride this one out.  Now, the Chinese people are not at all bashful and since I’m not either, I found myself at a urinal in a bathroom right next to a cleaning woman who was trying hard not to stare too obviously at the large Viking-looking American while we went about our respective business.  Their curiosity is understandable because deep in communist China they don’t get to see Americans very often.  Anyway, that was when the stone I nicknamed Ghengis Kahn in honor of our location made its final “drive to the ocean.”  I screamed.  The cleaning lady freaked out, dropped her stuff and hauled ass out of there.  I would pay money to know what she was thinking. Another time I was waiting for the big one and it began to move while I was at work. I gathered the necessary supplies like an empty wastebasket and headed for the men’s room.  Someone was in there so I paced outside waiting for the coast to clear.  The guy finally finished whatever he was doing and left so I entered the handicapped stall (I felt I qualified) and assumed the kidney stone launching position with feet firmly planted and a firm grip on the handrails.  Just as I felt a fresh “wave” coming on a meeting let out and the bathroom quickly became populated again with a host of fellow employees talking and joking around.  Great.  Just great.  All that chit chat came to an abrupt halt when I began the requisite moaning and carrying on.  Believe me when I tell you that it’s impossible to pass a stone in silence. Then I barfed (hence the wastebasket) and the crowd quickly vacated the premises in complete silence.  Pretty funny, really, but nobody even bothered to ask “Hey buddy… you okay?”  Well, that one required a trip to the emergency room for a laser blasting session.  Afterwards a stent was put in and I was told this would protect the plumbing while it healed.  For those of you who don’t know, a stent is a semi-rigid plastic tube about a foot and a half long they put in that runs from the kidney to the bladder and is tied to a string that hangs out… well, you know… for later retrieval.  I had to put up with this thing for a week and I’ll go on record as saying the cure is worse than the ailment.  It was uncomfortable and I was passing blood the whole time.  Healing?  What healing? But the real discomfort came when I decided to cowboy up and take the old Ironhorse out for a ride.  It became immediately apparent that this was a very bad idea and when I rolled over some railroad tracks I could actually feel that stent sawing back and forth on my insides.  I had to ride back home with my butt kind of off to one side to prevent further irritation.  My week wasn’t up yet but I had had enough and took the damn thing out myself much to my doctor’s horror since I wasn’t following orders and much to his delight since he didn’t have to do it.
April 11, 2013
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ORGANIZATION ORGANIZATION OWNERS OWNERS For All American Ironhorse Motorcycle Owners
Fat Max
© 2012-2017   American IronHorse Owners Organization Use of AIH Logo Licensed by American Ironhorse, LLC 
Sometimes You Just Gotta Ride... Disclaimer: The following may not be suitable for those among you who may have delicate sensibilities. For the rest, I hope you find the same dark humor in it that I do. One of the many plagues which has been visited on me through the years is kidney stones.  This entitles me to a state of heroism which equates me with women whom have delivered unto them a child - you know how they like to play the LABOR card?  Bring it. I can go toe to toe with labor survivors any day of the week on issues concerning pain and the tolerance thereof.  Besides, I have it on good authority from a close friend of mine who has experienced both that a kidney stone is worse. I was managing a project in China in a town called Baoji just south of Mongolia when a kidney stone began its epic march from the kidney to the bladder.  The last thing I wanted to do was submit myself to the horrors of a Mongolian Chinese witch doctor so I was going to have to ride this one out.  Now, the Chinese people are not at all bashful and since I’m not either, I found myself at a urinal in a bathroom right next to a cleaning woman who was trying hard not to stare too obviously at the large Viking-looking American while we went about our respective business.  Their curiosity is understandable because deep in communist China they don’t get to see Americans very often.  Anyway, that was when the stone I nicknamed Ghengis Kahn in honor of our location made its final “drive to the ocean.”  I screamed.  The cleaning lady freaked out, dropped her stuff and hauled ass out of there.  I would pay money to know what she was thinking. Another time I was waiting for the big one and it began to move while I was at work. I gathered the necessary supplies like an empty wastebasket and headed for the men’s room.  Someone was in there so I paced outside waiting for the coast to clear.  The guy finally finished whatever he was doing and left so I entered the handicapped stall (I felt I qualified) and assumed the kidney stone launching position with feet firmly planted and a firm grip on the handrails.  Just as I felt a fresh “wave” coming on a meeting let out and the bathroom quickly became populated again with a host of fellow employees talking and joking around.  Great.  Just great.  All that chit chat came to an abrupt halt when I began the requisite moaning and carrying on.  Believe me when I tell you that it’s impossible to pass a stone in silence. Then I barfed (hence the wastebasket) and the crowd quickly vacated the premises in complete silence.  Pretty funny, really, but nobody even bothered to ask “Hey buddy… you okay?”  Well, that one required a trip to the emergency room for a laser blasting session.  Afterwards a stent was put in and I was told this would protect the plumbing while it healed.  For those of you who don’t know, a stent is a semi- rigid plastic tube about a foot and a half long they put in that runs from the kidney to the bladder and is tied to a string that hangs out… well, you know… for later retrieval.  I had to put up with this thing for a week and I’ll go on record as saying the cure is worse than the ailment.  It was uncomfortable and I was passing blood the whole time.  Healing?  What healing? But the real discomfort came when I decided to cowboy up and take the old Ironhorse out for a ride.  It became immediately apparent that this was a very bad idea and when I rolled over some railroad tracks I could actually feel that stent sawing back and forth on my insides.  I had to ride back home with my butt kind of off to one side to prevent further irritation.  My week wasn’t up yet but I had had enough and took the damn thing out myself much to my doctor’s horror since I wasn’t following orders and much to his delight since he didn’t have to do it.
April 11, 2013
Want to contact Fat Max? email Fat Max ...
ORGANIZATION ORGANIZATION OWNERS OWNERS
Fat Max