By all conventional and external standards, John Kitchin was a success. He had a thriving neurology practice, he had a big house, a V12 BMW, a Ferrari, lots of stuff, a wife, a son, an exotic animal farm. There was only one glitch: he was miserable, self-described “asshole,” working himself to the bones, supporting a level of affluence he was too busy to enjoy. When his deteriorating eyesight started to affect work, he saw an out. He did what most people would do in his position: he quit his practice, cashed in all of his chips, moved to San Diego and devoted his life to perfecting slow motion inline skating.
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