There’s this Suicidal Tendencies song—”You Can’t Bring Me Down”—and that opening riff hits like a punch. I’ve been listening to it since the 90s, but last year it hit different.
I was riding Brown’s Ranch after the surgery. My chest was tight, but not because of the climb. It was tight because I was nervous. The world had spent four months telling me to slow down, be careful, don’t push it. Surgeons, cardiologists, my wife—everyone with very good reasons for me to pump the brakes on what I used to do out here.
The Diablo boulders came up. Technical section. Loose stuff. A line I used to roll without thinking. I stopped. Stared at it.
The song was stuck in my head: “You can’t bring me down.” Not because I’m unbreakable. But because being a guy in his 50s dealing with heart stuff who’s choosing to be here, choosing to push, choosing to ride—that’s the quiet version of unbreakable. That’s the version that doesn’t have anything to prove.
I dropped in, focused on the line, not the fear. Made it clean. And for the first time since the surgery, I felt like myself again.
The world wants you to believe that in your 50s, especially after what I went through, you should be grateful for the couch. Trade the heat and the dirt for safety. Be realistic. Slow down. Good advice for some people. Fuck that for me.
When I’m out there in the Phoenix heat, sweating through a climb, feeling my heart do its job under the load, that’s when the noise of the world actually stops. Not because I’m ignoring it. Because I’m choosing something louder. I’m choosing the effort. I’m choosing the discomfort. And that choice is the only thing that’s ever made me feel truly solid.
“You can’t bring me down” isn’t about being tough. It’s about knowing that the pain and the effort and the choosing to ride when the world says to quit—that’s what keeps me standing. That’s what makes the rest of life manageable.
The mountain doesn’t know about my scars or my surgery. It doesn’t care how old I am. It just demands focus. And that demand? That’s the only thing that’s ever saved me.
