Well, it's been a hell of a 9/11, 2026.
I left the house early, about 7:00 this morning, for my big trip into downtown Biloxi to meet with the surgeon who operated on my ankle. My appointment was at 8:45.
I took the electric trike with a fully charged battery and brought the charger along just in case.
I made it on time, but getting there was an adventure.
Biloxi sidewalks really, really suck.
There are slabs of concrete tilted every direction imaginable. They always look like they're going to be easy to get over.
They aren't.
To make matters worse, today was garbage day, so every garbage can that could possibly be sitting in the middle of a sidewalk seemed to be sitting in the middle of a sidewalk.
At one point I finally made it down by the beach water.
That felt good.
I was headed toward that same beach on the Fourth of July when I crashed the trike and broke my ankle.
Then today, suddenly, there's a city tractor parked completely across the sidewalk.
No way around it.
All I could do was stop, get off the trike and try to walk it through the sand and around the tractor.
That didn't go particularly well.
While holding onto the right handle I accidentally activated the throttle, and suddenly the trike and I were flying through the sand while I'm trying not to hurt my ankle again.
Then an angel appeared behind me.
A local guy riding his bicycle on the same sidewalk saw me struggling and immediately came over to help.
He dropped his bike, grabbed my trike and muscled the thing through the sand and back onto the sidewalk.
I never got his name. He was a nice-looking guy with a trim white beard.
I asked him how to get to the Memorial medical building across from the hospital.
He gave me directions.
Then he said:
"I've got your back."
And he meant it.
He followed me up the road, pushed the WALK button so I could get across a busy intersection, and pointed me toward the hospital.
We fist-bumped.
Then we went our separate ways.
My angel.
I locked the trike outside the medical building, went inside, and discovered I'd lost the piece of paper with the doctor's name on it.
It took a little wandering around, but I found the office.
I made the appointment at exactly 8:45.
Then they X-rayed my ankle.
It turns out the doctor I was seeing today was the same surgeon who operated on it.
She asked if I'd been keeping my weight off the ankle.
I told her, sure — between cooking, shitting and living, I was doing my best.
Turns out she was the one who had been insisting I keep the weight off it.
She didn't want her artwork messed with.
But she understood that I also have to survive.
She forgave me.
Then she gave me a new boot. Shorter than the old one, but solid.
She said:
"Wear it."
Okay.
When I left her office, my next plan was to walk across the street to the hospital and have my heart checked out because of the chest pains I'd had a few days ago.
Never made it.
At that point my main goal became getting myself and the trike home somehow.
What a fucking disaster that turned into.
Wrong turns.
Wrong directions from my phone.
And eventually I realized I had managed to ride myself into another city down the road.
That was enough.
I found a neighborhood tree, locked the trike to it, removed the battery, grabbed the battery and charger, and called my Uber-driving roommate Charlie.
Come get me.
He did.
I'm home now.
The trike isn't.
And after everything that has happened with that machine — including the broken ankle — I've made a decision.
I'm going to sell the trike.
If I can manage it, I'm going to find myself a cheap little car.
Maybe it's time.
Hell of a day.
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