No One Gets You Like the People Back Home
Two decades ago, I flamed out of New York City and came crawling back to Illinois
My cousin Denny, the only son of my mom’s brother Ron, is six months older than me. We grew up together in Mattoon, Illinois, and I think it’s fair to say there is no one on this planet I have known longer (other than my parents). We used to spend whole weeks at each other’s house, I’m pretty sure 35% of our first 1,000 baths were taken with each other, we graduated from high school together, and we’ve driven across the country together twice.
Denny and I are very different people in myriad ways, but here’s one: He’s a professional motocross racer, and I believe the only good thing about motorcycles is that they give life to millions of people in need of organ transplants by killing their riders at a remarkably consistent pace. Seriously, my nurse mother once told me how people on the waiting list for transplants often stay near the phone on particularly sunny days because so many motorcyclists will be out, and thus crashing and dying, and thus available at a moment’s notice to give up whatever body parts they no longer need. Motorcycles!
