Locked the keys in the truck? –>

“GOOD THING I DON’T HAVE ALLS-HIGH-MURZ !”

Tuesday was the sort of day when it was a challenge to find someplace out-doors to go for a run or ride and not encounter mud. Mud which would glom onto bike tires, or your shoes, and don’t even think about how much would adhere to the dogs. I parked in the East Spanish Trail parking lot. Experience had shown that after a precipitation event, this area was often the first to dry-out sufficiently for out-door jaunts. I walked over to a couple nearby trailheads, and, unfortunately, each had big gunky gloppy patches of slippery terrain within the first few yards. If you rode through even just one, THAT would make the rest of the ride a lot less enjoyable. I turned back to the truck, calling the two roaming dogs, and we would go someplace else.

I had locked the key in the truck. It was in view on the dash, safely(?) snuggled alongside the cell phone. I made an effort to try to pry open the rear windows, rattled at each door a couple more times, sighed, and, yes, I know what you’re thinking…

“at least I don’t have dementia” I said aloud to the empty parking lot.

I briefly considered waiting to see if someone else would pull into the lot and ask to use their cell-phone to call Betty to come with the spare key. The possibility of company did not seem imminent. Well, I was here for a work-out anyway. I would, in spite of occasional mud, ride home. I couldn’t go along the roads, due to loose zig-zagging canines. So, I/we (the dogs make me a “we”) would orienteer directly home, a “straight shot” (though meandering) across the desert. This was preferable to the presumed embarrassment of having to be “rescued.”

This was double the work-out I had planned, but what the heck. I’d go slow, pick-up or walk the bike through or around any mud, and I should be home in about an hour. (I was really tired at hockey that night.)

You may ask, why did I utter that statement aloud? The “dementia/allz-high-murz” thing?

B ‘n I spent last Thanksgiving with our son in Steamboat. His girlfriend and B were outside decorating the house with lights for Christmas, and he and I were drinkin’ beers watchin’ footbawl on the telly. Talkin’ some, commenting on the game, and he sez:

“you should go get tested for Alzheimer’s.”

Now, where did that come from? (Later he claimed his sister, my daughter, put him up to it. Yeah, right. As if he wasn’t worried about the same thing himself). I promised I would “get tested” as soon as feasible and we continued beer-sipping and watching the game.

My Doctor was on vacation but I arranged a visit right after he got back, a week-some later.  I considered talking about some other ailment or concern, then getting around to my son’s (and daughter’s?) request … but came right out and told him. Dr. G was quick to pull up what he said was a Standard Test off his computer, printed it out, and asked the first question:

“What is today’s date?” I didn’t right-off hand know. Off to a great start …

There were several (a few dozen) more questions – nothing too vexsome, such as “what floor of the building are we on?” and “make up a sentence about something you did earlier today” and “remember these three words: tree, flag, stop-sign”. A minute later he asked what the three words were and I remembered two of them. He then discussed the results with me.

I scored 29 out of 30 – which I suppose means a fair degree of presence-of-mind and cognitive function. I was, of course, surprised. Not only would my kids be disappointed … and he assured me that I would not “have to” take this test again. He paused, then added, “unless you take a lot of pucks to the head.” Yeah, that could happen.

Since then (about a month ago) it seems like I now have a LICENSE TO BE INCREDIBLY DINGY.

The following day at hockey I skated out onto the ice, and … realized I had not put on “the cup.” Although I had not been hit “there” in several weeks, this was asking for that to happen. I un-did my right-knee protective pad and slipped it into “the area.” (Yeah, I did take a shot there in the game – fortunately it was not as debilitating as it could have been.)

The day after that I got out of the truck out in the desert, turned the dogs loose, got the bike out, and … realized that my helmet was safely back at home. The ride was more cautious than usual. Not only these two incidents, but the locking-the-key-in-the-truck episode, and a few more which I won’t detail, per se.

As already mentioned, it seems the diagnosis that I don’t have to worry about losin’ whatever marbles may be left has, somehow,

made the marbles a bit more cantankerous and slippery ~