August 20, 2008 by Avery Jenkins.

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August 20, 2008 by Avery Jenkins.

This lovely garden around our sign was created by one of my patients. It  is especially beautiful at night, when illuminated by the sign’s spotlights.

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August 19, 2008 by Avery Jenkins.

As you might imagine, the transition from two weeks on two wheels on the shores and islands of Scotland back to Litchfield took a bit more than a soft landing by the KLM pilot, a healthy meal and a sound night’s sleep. And like anyone else returning  to work from a holiday, I was not over-enthused about unlocking the office door on that Monday morning.

Oh, the paperwork! The bills! The inventory!

So  it was with some trepidation on Monday morning that I leaned my mechanical steed into the parking lot, slowed to a stop, and looked around. The first thing that I noticed was that the lawn was neatly manicured and the walk swept clean.

I unlocked the door and walked in. The dark blue carpet of the waiting room was the first thing that jumped out at me.  Usually this carpet is a bit of a mess, receiving a daily coating of dirt, grass clippings, and whatever else patients bring in with them (note to those starting their own businesses: Never, ever, ever use a solid dark color in public areas, never mind how impressive it looks. You will spend either half of your working life or half of your payroll budget keeping the darn thing clean.)

Today, however, it was spotless. I opened the door to the hallway, and was greeted by more clean carpeting, cupboards and countertops neatly wiped down, everything sparkling.

While it was tempting to attribute this to worker fairies who stole in during the night and plied their cleanliness magic, the truth was much more prosaic and important.

During my abscence, my ever-suffering office manager Teresa had taken it upon herself to make a clean sweep of the place and return it to the pristine condition that she knows I prefer.  She even pressed her sons into maintaining the premises outside, and although I understand there was some largesse involved on my part, it still went above and beyond what I could expect from an employee.  And it is true, Teresa is far more than an employee. She is part of what makes the Center a living breathing entity. She’s the first person that patients see and the last to say goodbye to them. To a large extent, my success as a doctor rides on her capable shoulders.

And I probably don’t say this nearly enough. Thank you very much Teresa.

After that brighter-than-expected start, I settled in to the business of being a doctor, which, in primary care, often involves seeing patients. And one after another asked about my trip, and said how glad they were that I had returned.  Slowly, my mind and spirit was dragged back — however unwillingly — from magical Dunedin, and not  only to the business at hand, but a slowly dawning recognition. Or, perhaps, re-recognition.

Over the years, I had begun to forget the magic that I represent to many of my patients, most of whom had unsuccessfully sought relief for their illnesses for months or years before landing on my doorstep. Somehow, I developed the reputation of being the house of last resort, which may be seen by some as a backhanded compliment — “Heck, nothing else works, might as well try Dr. J…” but which I’ve always felt to be an honor.  To some patients, I’m the guy who could fix what nobody else could.

The interesting thing is that, really, I’m just doing what I’m trained to do. Observing, listening, testing, looking for patterns…I just use a different map than most doctors do, and that map gives me landmarks and lesser-known paths that are obscured by the superhighways on other doctors’ maps.

Still, though, I had forgotten what an actual honor it is to be that person in someone’s life. Until, that Monday, when patients started hugging me.

I had timed several therapeutic interventions to launch and proceed through the early phases, where my assistance might be required, before I left for Scotland, and to conclude upon my return so that I could again assist on re-entry, as it were.

Happily, we were successful in all quarters, and my patients’ achievements were manifest. They were so happy and enthused over their success, and I reveled with them. And they thanked me, and to a man or woman, they each hugged me.

And with those hugs, I remembered that beyond the bills, the thieving insurance companies, the  mendacious pharma companies, and the tremendous forces levied against my profession — beyond all of that is the heartfelt thanks of one person to another.

And that, I remembered, is why 20 years ago, I embarked on a radical journey to become a chiropractic physician.

So, to all of my patients, let me say: Thank you. You are doing all the hard work, I’m just here to guide you along the way a little bit.  And thank you for trusting me with your health, and the health of your loved ones.

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August 11, 2008 by Avery Jenkins.

One of the reasons that I so enjoyed my trip to Scotland was because of the Scots themselves. I like them. They are unpretentious. What you see is what you get with a Scot.

And they enjoy some of the more famous stereotypes about themselves. I was standing outside of a pay toilet when a man walked up and said in the distinctive Scottish burr, “Is that thing working?”

I said, “Yeah, but you’ll have to pay 20p to get inside it.”

He snorted in derision. “That’ll be the day, when a Scotsman pays to go to the toilet,” he said.

We both laughed, and he ambled off, presumably to find a suitable facility in a less pricey neighborhood.

I’ve not quite figured out the whole relationship between Scotland and England, despite having read all I can find about it. Essentially it boils down to a thousand years of the two populations intermingling, beating the snot out of each other, exchanging royalty, signing treaties, breaking treaties, beating the snot out of each other some more, and then intermingling some more. Go figure.

There was not an individual I met who was not willing to stand around and chat, and some of my favorite memories of Scotland will be of the long, wonderful conversations I had there.

I spent a couple of nights in a hostel, and I must say that I loved it. The hostel was a gathering point for travelers, a bit of a community center, overtly friendly, and overtly counter-culture, minus the drugs. It almost made me think I was back in Berkeley. Again, far different from the hostels I have stayed in America.

The people of Scotland are more reserved than Americans, even the notoriously taciturn New Englanders I live among, and despite my shy and retiring nature, I could tell at times I was accidentally being the brash, noisy ‘merkin.

Such as the time I finally reached the top of a particularly nasty hill, after just hammering my way up, at which point I threw my fist into the air and let out a bit of a war-whoop. Nothing that I would bet 90 percent of the Americans reading this haven’t done before.

I also stopped to catch my breath, and a few minutes later, a man came out of the nearby lodge to chat with me. For the next 10 minutes he proceeded to very humorously bust my chops for my very un-British outburst. It was one of the funniest interactions I had there. (The ride down the other side of that hill was a hoot, by the way).

Finally, one of the things that consistently impressed me, was the ingenious use of technology. As an American, I’m used to thinking of my country as being the most technologically advanced in the world.

I’m afraid I had to re-think that one. It seems that the British have far surpassed us in their civic implementation of technology.

For example: Solar-powered parking meters that you can pay either by coin or by cellphone. Or traffic signals that are intelligently controlled by radar constantly monitoring traffic patterns. Or pay phones from which text messages can be sent as easily as making a telephone call. These weren’t big-city Edinburgh features, either. I found such innovation in small towns as well as large.

There are more, but you get the idea. We have some catchin’ up to do.

All told, I would go back to Scotland in the blink of an eye, and, in fact, I hope to do so. After all, I’ve only had the chance to explore one small slice of this most beautiful country.

Yeah. I’m going back there.

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August 10, 2008 by Avery Jenkins.

My trip to Scotland began with several days in Edinburgh, home of scientists, philosophers and poets. Today it is also the location of the Scottish Parliament. The city is ancient, buried layer upon layer, and you can cycle through succeeding eras, pedaling through time as you cross the city. If I were to make a comparison to an American city, Edinburgh was like Boston times 1,000.

Unlike Boston, however, Edinburgh is a city of hills, and some sights which you cannot miss if you are there.

The first is Arthur’s Seat (yes, that Arthur), a volcanic hill situated virtually in the center of the city. It is the first thing that you will see when your plane descends, and it is worth getting off the bike to climb to the summit.

Another path to follow would be the cycle/footpath along the Water of Leith, hilariously described here by the irrepressible Jacquie Phelan. This is a hidden gem in the city.

But one of the truly interesting thing for me, cycling through Edinburgh, was how cyclists are treated, both by the infrastructure and by other motorists. Edinburgh makes even Portland look like a shallow poseur in its treatment of cyclists.

First of all, the British in general are very polite. They somehow even manage to honk at you politely, as a few did as I clumsily adapted to the different traffic directionality. I thought their treatment of me, as I would make turns into the wrong lane to bear down on them head-on, or dart in front of them in a roundabout as I looked in the wrong direction, to be very appropriate.

And as I got better with the whole left-hand driving thing, I found that the motorists would invariable pass with a wide berth, expect me at intersections, and generally recognize me as a valid part of the traffic. Even the closest brush I had during the two weeks I was in Scotland was a mere whisper of what I face daily in Connecticut.

There are bike lanes. There are spaces at the head of intersections reserved for bicyclists. There are special traffic signals for cyclists. (Sometimes, these can get a bit confusing. At one light I counted no less than eight signals, not including the directional sign for the nearest gents’ toilet.)

But, most of all, there are cyclists! I counted more utility cyclists in an afternoon there than I have seen in an entire year here. Some in cyclist-specific clothing, some in their work clothing, some in whatever they felt like wearing. All of them, though, treating their cycles as their vehicle of choice. (As opposed the the utility cyclists I see here, most of whom are using the bicycle only because the court temporarily removed their access to an auto.)

Yeah. It was heaven.

I cannot help but to think that should the same environment exist here, the number of utility cyclists would skyrocket. Yes, build it and they will come.

The other thing that I must mention is helmet use. Here in America, helmet use is de rigeur for any serious cyclist, a standard to which I have adhered for many years. Yet in Edinburgh, in fact in most of Scotland, helmet users are by far in the minority. Even though these are clearly serious, daily cyclists.

So, when in Rome…

Don’t tell anybody but for two weeks, I left my helmet packed in my suitcase. The entire trip was done sans head protection, and, frankly, I will have some trouble re-conforming to the American standard.

Which was a sentiment which lasted for about 45 minutes of cycling in America. After two close brushes (less than 24 inches) and one extended honk, which clearly meant “Get off *my* road,” I remembered why we wear helmets here.

NEXT: The Scottish Character

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August 6, 2008 by Avery Jenkins.

While this is not quite in the theme of this blog, many patients have been asking me about my recent trip to Scotland.  So, herewith are some of my thoughts, written from the vantage point of the avid cyclist that you know I am…

Part I: Geography To Stir The Soul

First of all, Scotland is the most beautiful country in the world. I will make that statement despite the U.S., Canada, and Scotland comprising the entirety of my experience. Naysayers will have to accept simply being wrong.

For some reason which I have been unable to define, the hills of Scotland reached out and grabbed my soul like no other mountains ever have, except for the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Their barren, craggy peaks and steep green sides have an in-your-face grandeur that simply challenge you to best them. You could have thrown me off the train with my hiking boots and rucksack, and I would have been perfectly happy for months exploring those hills.

Except for the fact that I would have missed the shoreline. No namby-pamby white sandy beaches here, oh no. The rocks and the water rush to meet each other in a salty embrace both powerful as the waves hit and the spray flies, and gentle, as the water laps and gurgles around the well-worn curves of its partner.

Small villages wrap themselves along the shore, squeezing themselves in between the water and the hills, utterly unpretentious in their proud claim to this hard land. The architecture is ancient, strong and functionally beautiful. These villages have refused to debase themselves to the tourist dollar. Make no doubt, the tourist economy is important here and accommodations exist, but in only one case did I encounter anything even remotely resembling the typical American tourist town, and even that place had many saving graces.

Granted, the route I traveled was a bit off the beaten tourist path, and intentionally so. I wanted to avoid the hordes of cars and people that invade the prime tourist areas during this time of year, and was successful at it.

Oh, yeah. Scotland also has castles. Reams of them. Which makes the whole castle thing entirely ho-hum from a Scot’s point of view, but for me — even coming from New England, where structures which could at least reasonably be called old exist — something built six centuries ago, and not only still standing but still being lived in is absolutely extraordinary. If there is any warrior blood in your soul, seeing a Scottish castle perched on a rocky outcrop with a dark, brooding sky behind it will quicken your pulse and send your hand to your side searching for the hilt of your sword.

“How does this translate into cycling?” you may ask. Cycling in Scotland is not for the flatlander, of that you may be sure.

First of all, the road conditions. To listen to a Scot describe his or her roads, you would think that the pavement was nothing but a string of potholes connected by brief bits of crumbling tarmac. Accompanied by maniac motorists threatening your very existence.

This is not true.

The roads of Scotland are glass-smooth, and allow the tire to grip the surface like a baby holds its mother’s hand, every curve is banked and motorists defer to cyclists on each occasion.

OK, that might be a bit of exaggeration.

The truth of the matter is that the roads I rode were in most cases in better shape than the roads I cycle daily in Connecticut. There are no shoulders to speak of, and I also rode on many single-track roads, but the well-mannered British driver obviated the need for any sort of additional accommodation (more on that later).

The roads were hilly, to be expected as I was traveling in the southwestern end of the Highlands. But they were not hills as I am used to them in the foothills of the Berkshires. Here, I am accustomed to finding long, slow grinds of several miles in length, as you work your way from valley to ridge. Scottish hills are nothing like that. They are short, sharp, steep, lung-gasping climbs from loch’s edge to cliff’s edge, with sheer drop-offs to the sides and pitches that will pummel your legs, if only for a short while. Then a quick drop, and you get to reclaim that elevation, plus a little bit more, on the next climb, until you have reached the height of land.

In fact, I found myself on one hill that was so steep that my trusty recumbent bicycle was popping wheelies with each stroke. Not that he is the most sedate steed, but I’ve never felt myself almost pitched from the saddle in that way before!

In short, they are perfect hills for the sprinter, which I am not. Nonetheless they reward you with some extraordinary fast and fun downhill riding, with curves that will encourage you to test your handling skills and to answer the eternal question of just how far can I lay this bike over? All while gaping in awe at the majestic scenery all about you.

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