Chapter Two: Written by Rosko Dameron

Name: Rosko Dameron
Age: 34
Occupation: Conference Service Manager
Location: Lawrenceville, NJ

“PANDEMICALLY CHALLENGED”

Reflecting on a selfish 2020…Social media’s suction cup…Reading Rainbow…Miles: the grind & the glory…Practice???

Palm trees, white sand, warm breezes, tanned and wrinkly old faces about. January, vacationing at Fort Myers Beach, Florida is where the 2020 adventure – or, soon to be, lack there-of – began. Laying in a reclining chaise with my sweaty back sticking to the vinyl straps and staring out at the clear blue Gulf with an unread book stowed in my New Jersey Devil’s knapsack at my side in the sand. Many years have passed since I picked up a book or read anything outside of sports writing or daily news; however, I had been gifted Acid For The Children by Flea for Christmas. While catching rays and listening to the squawks of gulls I finally decided to put down the phone and give the book a gander. Immediately I was consumed and addicted.

Fast forward to BC (Before Corona) in the early stages when naturally I thought the media was doing what it does best: instill fear into the public and drive them to consume. Then the severity of the issue gained momentum. As a hotel events manager I started fielding a mass surge of emails from rightfully concerned clients about upcoming contracted events. Panic & economic worry ensued, causing quick decisions to be made to avoid cancellation fees, postponing events to later in the year because this whole ordeal certainly shouldn’t last past the spring or summer at the latest. Right? Wrong. As the weeks turned into months the hotel staff withered away with no business to justify employment. Somehow I managed to stay in the fold throughout the year with the main job function of moving contracted events further and further back signing off robotically with ‘stay safe & take care!’ But enough about work. Work sucks – pandemic or no pandemic. If you played your cards right you may have found some selfish silver lining in this dumpster fire of a year.

Social media bloomed a new generation of radical activists. The keyboard warriors. Sucked in. Battling the meme wars for justice and science and peace and everyone wants to be 100% right and if you’re on this side and not on my side than the digital line is in the sand, pal, got it? Good. Here’s a meme. The thing is I don’t have the answers to the world’s problems – I have my own problems. Why not just do what I can control – the little things. I may not attend a rally but I will always be kind and courteous to anyone I bump into. I don’t want to pick a team - I can find something to appreciate in almost anyone, even the assholes. Respectfully I declined to engage in the social media war games circa 2020. But the memes were amazing… the memes were in fact so amazing that they were starting to take over. Hours spent scrolling mindlessly through picture after stupid picture searing imprints of words and images into my skull. Sucking me into long periods of useless time. Luckily my rediscovered infatuation with reading started to win the take-over. Gradually I was spending less time on the ‘gram and more time in the books.

Fiction, non-fiction, biography, essay collections, poetry, manga, classics – I will read pretty much anything. 56 books polished off this year and counting. So far everything by Benjamin Myers has been fantastic. The brutality and descriptive prose in his novels just pull me right in. Also a big fan of his lack of punctuation in some titles because sometimes I don’t see the point of a comma too. Some books are a total drag to get through but I started to keep a few books to read at a time. I cycle through them like changing channels on the TV set. Getting bored with the biography of John D. Rockefeller Sr.? Then I switch it up and open up the art collections of John Kirchner. Change it up and keep it fresh. No sense in bearing through a boring book straight through (although I really enjoyed that John D biography).

As much as I enjoyed lying in my bed, reading, doing my part as a decent American citizen by staying indoors and stopping the curve (!) I needed a little more. Unfortunately mountain biking season was still a bit away because of muddy trail conditions so I started to get active in another way – a way that I loathe with a passion – running. I loved the fact that I could just toss on some kicks and get a quick run in! Outdoors, fresh air, brand new running shoes to pavement is just what I needed. Wrong. Running is awful and if you ever hear someone say they get a ‘runner’s high’ they are full of pig shit. David Goggins must just hate being at home. I slowly and I mean slowly built myself up to about 3.5 miles a day a few times a week. Each and every time was absolute misery. Heavy breathing, shins and calves on fire, muttering incoherent curses through panting breaths, ready to stop and lay on the paved path for vultures to come to pick my aching bones clean. The only satisfaction I found in running was when it was over. There is a triumphant sense of accomplishment after enduring a few miles of the worst kind of suck; a nice reminder that no matter what happens your day can’t get any worse than the 30 minutes or so of running.

Reading, running, memes, and remote work was keeping me occupied through early spring BC when another old interest reared its dusty neck. My white Fender Stratocaster had been sitting for years in my room basically as decoration and suddenly was urging my fingers to touch it. So I took her for a spin. And it did not go well. The strings were corroded and needed replacements which was addressed; but, the real issue was I never really gave playing a real shot since I’ve owned it (a stellar Christmas present when I was about 11). The thing about guitar is apparently you need to practice A LOT to make that confounded instrument produce the magnificent sounds of the music gods and I never gave it the time. So I picked her up again and again. Built up some callouses. Made the time. A few books later, some quality hours of practice, and the great Marty Music have got me to a point where I still can’t play but I can at least fool an untrained ear.

As the greens flourished and the rains abated my true love began her annual calling. Few things will I find in this world that bring me joy like the sounds of rubber tires crunching over dried leaves and broken sticks; kicking up dirt and debris in my wake. Tunnel vision as I zip down a single track trail with blurred trees in my peripheral, root and rock compromising my suspension, holding on and avoiding the constant threat of a crash. Huffing and puffing uphill while my quads and lungs tell me ‘enough’ but once at the summit I am always compelled to go down it straightaway and as fast as I possibly can. I have mountain biked for years and have to thank the pandemic for allowing me to log more miles than ever this year. Socially distancing myself mile after mile in the woods – the ‘green cathedral’ as Ben Myers has perfectly put it. The spring-summer-fall blurred together with bright greens, thick humid air, dry red dirt; changing into brown dead leaves, cool biting air, red runny noses, all the while pedaling and keeping cadence.

In a flutter of a wasp’s wings this yellow jacket of a year went by. I will need to look into a new bigger bookshelf, a fresh pair of running shoes, and some major maintenance on my bikes. Maybe next year I’ll be able to make Eddie Van Halen smile down from rock heaven. With a small arsenal of hobbies I navigated through 2020 without much issue. Awoke old passions and interests - breathed new life into them. Put down a couple godforsaken miles on the feet – ripped up a lot more epic miles on the wheels. Tuned out the world and worked on bettering me. Little by little. Call me selfish. At least I’m not staring at my phone 24/7.

 —Eldridge Park 12/17/20