
Essay 1 September 23, 2024

Not The Man I Was - I Am The Fall Guy
It felt incredible to be running again for the first time since 2017.
Being back in Portugal brought back these memories of my previous visit. I had just recovered from a long stint in a cast after my horse, Lindero, had an unexpected jump off the trailer and landed on my foot. The memory was both nostalgic and empowering, reminding me of the resilience it takes to overcome challenges. Each step felt like a celebration of my journey back to health.
The boardwalk at Praia de Armação de Pêra is a hidden gem, winding gracefully between the stunning sapphire sea and serene dunes. Unlike typical boardwalks, this one offers a smooth, uninterrupted path, perfect for a nature walk or a refreshing run.
After my first exhilarating experience, I couldn't wait to curate my “Portuguese Playlist” on Spotify (jdpowell65) for the next morning's run. As dawn broke, I laced up my neon green running shoes. I set out, accompanied only by the sounds and sights of fishermen preparing their boats, ready to embrace the rhythm of Fleetwood Mac, Burt Bacharach, and Radiohead—until a rogue board brought me crashing back to reality. The first fall.
I got up, walked the rest of the boardwalk, turned around, and started running back home. There was no fall. It was just what happened to a man who had not run in many years. I had a stumble. Shake it off.
As you journey east, the Algarve transforms into a rugged landscape where the cliffs rise majestically. In May, I moved from Armação de Pêra to Benagil, perched high on the cliffs along the stunning “Seven Hanging Valleys” trail—a breathtaking seven-mile hike that soars 1,200 feet above the coastline. Instead of my usual runs, I embraced the trail daily, often pausing at this little café in Praia de Carvoeiro for breakfast. There, I would eat my eggs and pound a San Pellegrino, take my iPad out of my pack, and write while soaking in the beauty around me. These days were the first time I felt good since 2017, when my best friend and boss e-mailed me, telling me my job was being terminated. Ironically, I was in Lisbon when I got that email. That feeling of defeat. The low-grade depression lingered even though I had a great new job that would eventually lead to being included as a contributor to a New England of Medicine article; it was only when I was back in Portugal in 2023 that the mist of sadness lifted.
Like many people, I gained some weight during COVID-19 (I'm being kind with the term "some"), and that melted away. I felt great, but there was one problem driving me crazy. I couldn't sleep. I would take Advil PM and drink gallons of camomile tea, but there would be days when I might only get an hour's rest.
Some nights, I'd walk up to the roof and stare at the sea. I had never been alone like this in a foreign country, and I loved it. But the lack of sleep was getting to me.
It was early Saturday, May 13th. It was another beautiful morning. I put on my Tevas, packed my iPad in my pack, and headed out to the hiking path right outside my door.
Most of the hike is easy, but the trail has some challenging parts. I had just come up a cliff where you had to use a rope to haul yourself up. I had done it several times, and just like any other day, I made it no problem. It was when I was walking on the flat ground when my leg came out from underneath me. I fell hard onto the rocky ground. Behind me was a couple who ran over to me. I was on my feet when they asked if I was okay.
I told them that I was “absolutely fine” as the blood dripped from the cut on my hand that I used to break the fall. The cut was minor. When I got to the café, the owner gave me a Band-Aid. I was fine. But it was then that I decided to call the doctor. The lack of sleep was fucking with me.
The next day, a young doctor came over (they do house calls there), and I explained that I had taken sleeping pills before, I didn’t drink alcohol, and I had stopped drinking coffee.
He asked if he could examine me. I said yes. He listened to my chest, tested my reflexes, and started taking my blood pressure.
“What happened here?” he asked, addressing the Band-Aid.
“I fell while hiking yesterday,” I told him.
“And what is this?” he asked, looking at my thumb as it twitched.
“It does that,” I said, “I saw a neurologist about it.”
“So, you have a doctor who treats your Parkinson’s?” he asked.
“I don’t have Parkinson’s – I have a tremor, is all,” I said.
Then he prescribed some sleeping pills.
“You know the falling, as you explained it. Insomnia. They are symptoms of Parkinson’s Disease. But the way your thumb moves that is a tell-tale sign.”
He was just so matter-of-fact about what he said to me. He was not rude. No, he was a nice guy. He handed me the prescription and told me to call if I needed anything else.
Like many, I’ve seen Michael J. Fox. I’ve known family friends who have had it. I was not like them – not at all. So, I fell a few times. I was in the end part of my 50s – that happens hiking or when you try to run again after a 6 year gap. Right?
I thought about it. But after getting a few nights of good sleep, I was fine. My hand barely shook after I had gotten a few nights of sleep.
By June, the Algarve was buzzing with people. It was hotter than Hell, but the wind from the Atlantic would cool me off, so it was still my daily exercise. My friend and horse trainer Laura was flying over for a week. We’d spend some time in Lisbon before she flew home, and I’d return to Bengal and come home in July.
We had a blast and wondered how my riding would improve when I got home. I had been struggling with some fundamental dressage skills. I could canter a 20-meter circle to the right but not to the left—odd. I’d been riding for years, but something was changing. I had been going to doctors about all these crazy symptoms I was having when I was back in New York. Nothing helped there, but here on the Algarve, I was strong, healthy, and living a stress-free existence. We both agreed my riding would be better.
Two days before we left for Lisbon, I went out early in the morning with my ginger tea, stood on a cliff, and looked at the ocean. It was early. I fell while I was doing nothing – not even a baby step. I just tipped over.
Later that morning, while Laura and I were waiting for our Uber to take us sightseeing, I blurted out that I would come home with her. It was too hot now, I said. Besides, it would be fun. And it was fun. We had a blast in Lisbon.
But I was not coming home because it was hot. That morning’s fall did more than bruise my hip; it was like a sewing machine that stitched together my tremor, diagnosed ten years ago, with the poor riding, the falls, insomnia, and the words of that doctor, “Who treats your Parkinson’s disease?”
I still didn’t believe it, but I did on some level because I was afraid to be alone for the first time in my life. It was the most uncomfortable feeling for a loner like me.
Next Post:
Falling All the Time.




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