Five days in the psychiatric ward.
You spend that much time anywhere, you get to know people. The ward had its own ecosystem — its own rhythms, its own social rules, its own cast of characters. I want to introduce you to some of them.
The General
The General did not speak directly to staff. Or other patients. Or, as far as I could tell, anyone in the facility who was not his designated caregiver, who I can only describe as his Lieutenant.
The system worked like this: The General would issue orders. The Lieutenant would go off to relay them to whoever needed to receive them. The Lieutenant would return and report back on the outcomes. The General would consider the intelligence and issue further orders.
It was an efficient command structure, and I have no notes on it.
What I will add is that The General was also a streaker.
This was not announced. It was simply something that happened occasionally, with the same calm authority as everything else he did. You can say what you want about the man's methods — his commitment to the bit was total.
Nothing lightens the mood on a psychiatric ward quite like a naked general.
Joan
Joan was lovely. Genuinely warm, pleasant company. She spoke to the staff with total coherence — normal conversation, appropriate responses, good eye contact. A model patient.
The moment the staff left, something shifted.
Joan would turn to whoever was nearby and begin speaking in what I can only describe as Parseltongue. Not nonsense exactly — it had the rhythm and cadence of language, the musicality of it. It just wasn't a language that existed anywhere outside of Joan's head.
She seemed perfectly content. We nodded along. It seemed like the right thing to do.
Steve
Steve was, by some distance, the nicest person in the building.
He also had a perfect memory. Not in the loose, complimentary way people say someone has a good memory. A genuine, clinical, total recall of everything he had ever experienced.
He would tell stories — seeing Paul McCartney live, seeing Crosby Stills Nash and Young with his brother, the details of each show vivid and precise decades later. He was wonderful company. And then, quietly, he would allude to his brother's death, and how he relived it every day. Not the memory of it fading gently with time the way grief is supposed to work. The full thing, every day, as raw as the first time.
If you've ever caught yourself thinking I wish I could remember everything — think about Steve. The ability to never forget means never being released from anything. Every loss you have ever experienced, every mistake, every moment you wish you could take back — still there, still fresh, on permanent rotation.
Steve was kind and thoughtful and clearly carrying an enormous weight. I hope he's doing okay.
John
John had been in the system for a while. You could tell because John had developed a very precise social philosophy, which he expressed primarily through the phrase "Don't disrespect me."
He deployed it liberally. But here's the thing about John — underneath the posturing, he was genuinely useful. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of long-term care facilities. Which ones had good food. Which ones had good staff. Which ones had programs worth being in. He functioned, effectively, as an informal patient advisor, helping other people figure out where they were going next.
We had a good conversation one afternoon. He'd been a DJ. His career highlight, which he mentioned with real pride, was opening for Skrillex.
I told him that was legitimately impressive. He told me not to disrespect him.
I wasn't. I meant it.
The Graduate
There was a patient who was always on the phone.
Always pacing the corridor, phone to his ear, having an extremely detailed and intense conversation about getting into a graduate program in Israel. The conversations covered admissions requirements, program structure, faculty, timelines. The level of specificity was remarkable.
Nobody was entirely sure whether there was anyone on the other end of the call.
Either way, he was thorough. I genuinely hope he got in.
Aya
Aya had the kind of energy that fills a room the moment she walked into it. She wanted to talk to everyone and had two main topics.
The first was her polyamorous relationships and the logistics involved in maintaining healthy communication across multiple partnerships simultaneously. I'll say this: she had clearly thought about it more carefully than most people think about their one relationship. It sounded, also, absolutely exhausting.
Her second topic was her Bipolar treatment, which she discussed with the same openness and matter-of-fact clarity. We had good conversations about it. She was generous with her experience.
And then there was the piano.
Any piano in the facility — and there were a few — Aya would sit down and play. Perfect pitch, real talent. She'd go from dissecting the communication dynamics of a three-person relationship to playing something genuinely beautiful, without breaking stride.
She was a lot. She was also one of the more memorable people I've met.
Braintree Split
He nearly died in a car accident on the Braintree Split — hence the name, at least in my head.
He had a metal plate in his skull and was very, very proud of it. He would bring it up whenever the opportunity presented itself, and some opportunities he created himself. He also had a video on his phone of the news coverage from the night of his accident, which he would show anyone who expressed any interest, and several people who hadn't.
He brought it up a lot. I watched the clip more than once.
I understand it, actually. When something that dramatic happens to you, it becomes part of how you understand yourself. The plate in his head was proof of something. Proof he'd survived. Proof it had been real.
I get it.
After five days, I was released.
Jen picked me up and took me to the Galway — our place, the one that feels like decompression just walking in. We sat down and I started telling her about the ward. The General, Joan, Steve, John, the graduate on the phone, Aya at the piano, Braintree Split and his video.
She wrote all of it down.
When I was done, she looked at me and said she thought I should write a play about it. Something like Assassins — a collection of characters, their stories intersecting, the full strange humanity of the place.
I thought about it.
Then I decided to write my story instead. This one.
This was the start of my recovery.
What followed was three years of neurologists, psychiatrists, psychologists, and physical therapists. Three years of check-ins and adjustments and setbacks and progress and patience — more patience than I knew I had.
A few weeks ago, my care team gave me the okay to start riding again.
Jen and I are planning some easy rides to get the 2026 season started. Nothing heroic. Nothing at 10,000 feet. I'll keep you posted on how it goes.
— The series continues.