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 that's above it.
It was a summer day of my senior year in high school in 1994. I was having a
blast with my 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 my calf. 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 to 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, and I was 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, did 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 coping 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.
And with that, y'all, (yes, you guessed it) keep digging!
‘los
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