Scars usually have a story, don’t they? Some good, some bad, some happy accidents, and some heart-breaking stories. If you’re ever spent any time around me, invariably, I’ll utter the words, Keep Digging.
The following is the origin story of my scar on my left calf and my tattoo of Keep Digging.
It was a summer day of my senior year in high school. I was having a blast with new mountain bike in the summer sun. Up until I was miles away from my home. I jumped the bike off the sidewalk and in a downhill direction. As I landed, the plastic pedals shattered, and my legs jarred the asphalt hard as my groin slammed into the bracing bar. As I grappled for control of my bike, I crashed hard into a faded mustard yellow Ford Pinto. Without a helmet or any other protective gear, I blacked out on impact.
When I was conscious again, I startled myself again with questions I couldn’t possibly answer.
- What happened?
- How long was I out?
- What am I gonna do now?
After assessing the situation, I realized I was … in a word, screwed. I had a tank top, and bicycle riding shorts with nothing else. No first aid kit, no extra bike parts, literally nothing. My left calf was hurting as bad as the knot on my head.
I looked it. An arrow-head shaped piece of plastic shrapnel was embedded into it with blood trickling down. I knew it was a vein as I’ve been bleeding for awhile with a pool of in it my tennis shoe. I quickly calculated that I’m hours away from medical help, and the strong possibility of losing a part of my leg, I decided I tourniquet my leg just below the knee by shredding my tank top.
I propped myself with the ruined bike. No pedals, chain off, and the front tire bent in, meant I was pushing it back home. As I pushed my bike, and dragged my left leg, topless and not feeling good as I probably had a concussion, a passing vehicle stopped. It was a faded two-tone, mint green Ford F250 truck with a missing tailgate, and solid steel yet rusted rear bumper.
The driver might as well have stepped off the set of “Deliverance”. And the man bellowed out his window, “Say, boy, need some help?” I thought sarcastically that my answer should be self-evident. However, I simply said, “Yes, I’d love some help.”
He drove back to my house in relative silence, and my hand gestures for driving directions. He placed the broken bike in the front yard, and departed with the words, “Keep Digging!”
And he drove off, leaving me in utter confusion. Years later I heard it again while watching on TV my sports hero, Dale Earnhardt. Dale was complaining about the performance of his racecar. His race crew encouraged Dale by saying on the radio, “Keep Digging”. I thought if that’s good enough for him for motivation then it’s good enough for me!
Years later when I was in my 30’s, I was having a difficult time with my divorce. I needed some constant encouragement. I decided that a tattoo would be the perfect solution as it was permanent. In addition, I decided long ago I wouldn’t get a tattoo unless it reflected something I wanted to say: something personal, something profound.
So on a 4th of July weekend which celebrates life, freedom, strength, and encouragement in the face of adversity I tattooed Keep Digging on the back of my left calf. I had the tattoo artist place it just above the deep scar that almost killed me which symbolizes I choose life over death while I’m still alive.
Ever since that day, the phrase has grown into more than just words. It’s my mantra, it’s my philosophy, and a way of life for me.
So what’s your scar and the story that accompanies it? I’d love to hear it.
Until next time, be good like you should, and if you can’t be good, be good at what you do! Keep Digging!
Mic drop; bOoM
‘los
Summer 2016 – Let’s celebrate
