I was conceived on a dark and stormy night in May or June of 1975 on Manitoulin Island in Northern Ontario (that's what I've been told anyway). January 27th 1976 amidst a horrendous snowstorm I was made my screaming entrance (or exit depending on your perspective) at a tiny hospital in Mindemoya on the Island. I spent most of my formative years on the Island with occasional trips out to see a bit more of our wonderful country.

It's an interesting place to grow up. Rural northern Ontario, lots freedom, fresh water, trees, rednecks, pick-up trucks, hockey players and snow machines. I have many satisfying memories of my time on the Island. A core bunch of guys that didn't seem to fit the local mold eventually became my tight circle of friends. After several years in Cubs and Scouts I had developed an affinity and respect for the outdoors and the starting of friendships that will last a lifetime. I had several amazing influences during this time, Dianna Shaffer, my enrichment class teacher, mentor and borderline insane visionary and my Scout leader George Mazurkavich, low-key, ultra-together nature lover. Also my extended family, Dan and Veronika Bingaman exposed me to hiking the wilds and cross-country skiing.

By the start of high school I was still relatively introverted and tired of being picked on by redneck hockey players so I spent the next two and a half years in the gym building up some self-confidence. I also found what would become my driving passion for the next half-decade during this time. I purchased my first real mountain bike, dropping my summer's savings for a fully rigid Haro Extreme. I skied but quickly made the leap to snowboarding when it was still a fringe sport, hated by ski resorts, I fell in love with these forms of activity and rebellious self-expression. I pursed them relentlessly, determined to make my mark on the world with them. Driven by an adrenalin addiction, and a refusal to grow emotionally I avoided any sort of relationships that were lasting or meaningful and struggled with the ones I did have. Instead I funneled all my energy into my bike and board, blocking and shutting out any sort of emotional growth. What now seems like very blatant and obvious signs to ease off the throttle and explore other avenues of growth, I chose to ignore them all and go full speed ahead anyway. After two brutal facial injuries, smashed teeth, a fractured kneecap and elbow, a broken ankle, torn quadriceps, separated ribs and numerous bouts of severe road rash I chose to tempt fate for the last time.

Having used up my nine or so lives in a hurry, on May 7th 1997, just after completing my second year of college, I straddled my newly built Stumpjumper at the top of a steep drop in at a sand pit in West Bay on Manitoulin Island. Getting ready for my second drop in I looked at my buddy and uttered what would be the last words of able-bodied Justin, "Fuck-it, what's the worst that could happen" and dropped in. Ripping down the steep sandy sides of the pit I reached the bottom in a few seconds and lined up to jump a big pile of sand. Realizing I had carried too much speed I attempted to keep grounded and tried to suck up the jump, instead I cleared the landing hitting the flat ground on my chest sending my legs over by head crushing and fracturing my T5 and T6 vertebrae. Instantaneous spinal cord injury. I tried to sit-up, confused and in pain, my buddy at the time, Ernie ran over and yelled at me not to move. I looked at him and said, "I can't, I'm paralyzed". Knowing that freaking out wouldn't help I laid there while my best friend Timothy Bingaman held my neck stable while the ambulance came. Not a scrape on me but I was lying on my camelbak full of tools right where my bones were crushed.

Moments later the ambulance arrived, the camelbak was cut off and I was slid and strapped onto a rigged plywood backboard and lifted into the ambulance. I was in and out of consciousness at this point and I only remember how much the backboard hurt as the ambulance lurched out of the sand pit and back to the hospital where I was born twenty one years before. News spread like fire as the worst news a parent could get reached them within minutes. The hospital was immediately packed with friends and family as my clothes were cut away and I was given massive doses of methelpresidone, a steroid to reduce the swelling in my crushed spinal cord. I went from on top of the world to hell on earth in the matter of seconds.

I wasn't at the Mindemoya hospital long before I was back in the ambulance, leaving a huge pile of emotionally distraught friends behind. The drive through the not so smooth back roads was brutal as I was still strapped to the backboard. I remember being sick but I couldn't sit-up or move at all. Finally we reached the airport where I was airlifted to Toronto and taken to Sunnybrook Hospital. I only remember bits and pieces during this time cause as I was in and out of consciousness. The doctors confirmed what I already knew. I had really trashed my spinal cord.

I had to remove my piercings while lying on the emergency room table. Next was the pleasant tube up my nose and down into my stomach. A couple of IV's and a folley catheder later, I was prepped for surgery. The doctors needed to stabilize the region of my spine that I had crushed to allow my bones to heal straight and prevent any further damage to my cord. Instead of Welcome to Sunnybrook Health and Sciences Centre, the sign should be changed to "Welcome to Hell". I still cringe whenever I hear ambulance sirens.

To get access to my spine, a twelve-inch incision was made along my back, cutting my tattoo in half. All my muscles had to be moved around to get two ten-inch stainless steel rods clamped to my vertebrae between T3 and T9. Each rod has sharp metal claws at the ends that clamp into your bones and are held in place with four wires that go thru one's vertebrae and down along the spinal canal next the spinal cord. I also had bone shavings removed from my hip and placed over the six vertebrae to fuse the entire area.

.................. to be continued!