Permanent Vacation

That time I nearly died on Martha's Vineyard. And that other time, too.

I WAS THE FITTEST I’D EVER BEEN, and I had reason to push it. I was in my early forties, after all, and had something to prove: I’m not dead yet! So I brought my road bike with me on our family vacation to Martha’s Vineyard. Early one July morning, while my wife and kids snuggled in their beds, I began pedaling Up Island for what could have easily been my last ride.

My goal was to complete a 60-mile round trip to Aquinnah and back, in preparation for a Century Ride I was planning that coming fall. But every time I accelerated, I felt a constriction in my chest, with a mortal heaviness impeding my progress. In my state of denial and arrogance, I blamed my bike, the salt air, perhaps a touch of exercise-induced asthma. But as I would soon learn, it was actually a 99% blockage in the left-anterior descending artery in my heart.

I’m so glad I didn’t die on that vacation. It would have sucked to miss the next two decades (except for the Trump administration).