Two miles of hot, dusty gravel road. One mile, at least but it felt like much more, not riding my bike, but forcing it up the hill beside me. We weren’t even five miles into our ride and I was experiencing a new “first”. I was not having fun. My cyclometer wasnt recording my mileage. I was carrying the Camelbak water pack; something I hate doing because it adds another five or six pounds to the already large amount of weight that is my body on the bike. Sweat poured off my body like water in my morning shower. Dust coated everything; my body, my sunglasses, my contacts, my bike tires. I wondered, feebly, what kind of effect this dust was having on my chain, crankset, and derailleur. I knew this meant work cleaning my bike later; a necessary inconvenience, but one I wasn’t in the mood for. A quick glance at my sketchy cyclometer says it’s 105 degrees. It’s really about 95, but it feels every bit of 105 today. “Why am I here?” I wondered to myself. ” This is not fun.”
I told my son I needed to stop and rest. By this, I did not mean get off my bike and haul it up The Hill Of Death. I was already doing that. I really meant I had to stop. Completely. Sit down. Take my helmet off. Breathe. Clearly something was wrong. I never, ever have to stop. Not on a ride. Not like this. And never, ever this early in. I was tired. I was depleted. I was mostly very, very hot. I can ride in rain and cold, if I have the right gear. I can ride at night, usually without much gear at all. The one condition that stops me still on my bike is the heat. I’m not talking about just a warm day that seems bad until the air from riding your bike cools you. I’m talking about that still, heavy, oppressive heat that makes even breathing hard. Regardless of the temperature on the thermometer, when this kind of heat hits, I simply lose all power. Of course, it doesn’t help that I’m at the age where, most of the time, I’m experiencing my own personal summer anyway. So, when the weatherman says it’s 95, I’m experiencing 115 degree temps. I simply melt when this happens.
We rested for about 15 minutes then we muddled on to another location, where there was a rock I could sit on in the shade. This location was a hundred feet from the start of the Payette Trail around Applegate Lake. We practically crawled to the start of the trail, me spewing misgivings the entire way when, usually, I am the one encouraging everyone else onward. We ventured forth, deciding to tackle the singletrack trail for a little while, then turn back.
Immediately, I knew I was in trouble. I was riding my brakes almost entirely on the descent which characterizes the first half mile or so of this trail. My bike didn’t feel stable under me, but I think that was due to the fact that this was very rocky single track and I have become accustomed to the solid asphalt of the road. I was already tired and in no mood to exert the required effort that manhandling a mountain bike on a downhill requires. Further, I wasn’t exactly excited about packing my bike up that hill, especially after the hill I already climbed. I let my bike roll for a few more yards, then I called out to my son, who’d disappeared from view. A few moments later, he appeared below me, his bike and his youth handling this trail with far more success than I. I told him I wanted to go back and he, surprisingly, agreed with me. We turned our bikes around, rode back up as far as we could, trudged the rest of the way to the top, then rolled down the dusty road that we’d just walked up.
Later, while lounging in the sun at the swimming hole that we discovered at Applegate Lake, we were reflecting on this experience. Last year, at about this time, we made this very same ride. Sure, we had to walk up that initial road, but I don’t remember feeling quite so spent at the top of it. I also don’t remember feeling nearly this apprehensive when tackling the downhill. We have done this ride twice, with minimal mishaps. Last year at the end of the ride, I missed on a switchback, landed on my back wheel and tacoed the thing. This cost me two days of ride time while my bike was in the shop. Not something I was especially thrilled about, but neither was it a traumatizing event that left me scared to ever attempt this ride again. We speculated about the heat, the fact that we’ve become used to riding the road, the fact that on a day like today, the swimming hole looked far more inviting than the trail. There are any number of reasons for today’s ride fail. All of these factors could have contributed to the dread I suddenly felt heading down that hill. I don’t know. I suspect, more than anything, I am not in the same mental and physical place I was last year, and something deep within me knows this. Somewhere inside, I sensed I wasn’t up for the challenge of this trail. I was too tired. I would likely make mistakes that even I, as a rookie mountain biker, would know not to do. I was afraid of the consequences of such mistakes. I’d spent enough time in surgery this year. I wasn’t about to sign up for another visit. Maybe I’m still experiencing a wee bit of radiation fatigue. Admittedly, this week is far better than last, and last week was better than the one before. I’m feeling like I do have more energy every day and I am accomplishing more, though not nearly what I hoped and planned to accomplish by this time in the summer. More than the physical drain, I just mentally didn’t have the strength and the determination to make that ride today and I knew it. Deep in my psyche somewhere, I knew I couldn’t handle it. I’m not sure what that’s about or why. It could be I just like the smooth flying sensation of the road as opposed to the adrenaline-driven jarring ride of the singletrack. Maybe I’m just getting old.
Whatever it is, I am okay with it.
My son and I spent the rest of our day enjoying the water. That was much more fun.
I love cycling. Cycling is easier than walking. Walking or jogging or running (should I actually get to that speed) is slow, tedious, laborious, and painful. Cycling is easy. I just get on the bike and keep the pedals turning. Steady, continuous, effortless, fast. Well, until that roadie on the expensive Felt wearing the aerodynamic helmet and fancy kit zips by.
There’s not a day of the year that I don’t look forward to getting on my bike and taking her out for a spin. I don’t care where. I don’t really even care about the weather, as long as I have the right gear and as long as it isn’t icy. I might stay in if there is pouring rain…and standing water. Water does make the stripes on the road awfully slick. I’ve ridden in the mud, pouring rain, over fallen trees, on single track in the middle of December. While I’m not exactly a beast when it comes to singletrack or downhill, I’m certainly not anything close to a fair weather cyclist. My mantra, and the mantra of The SO (Significant Other) and My Son is, “Even a bad day on the bike is a pretty good day.”
But lately, I’m ill, and I know I’m ill because I just don’t wanna.
I just don’t wanna ride.
Actually, that isn’t entirely true. I do want to ride. I just don’t want to do what it takes to get in the saddle and I’m not up for anything more than collapsing after I roll up into the driveway at the end of the ride.
While I’m on bike, though, I’m golden.
All those 50-year-old aches and pains disappear. Any drama or stress I’m dealing with dissipates, because, seriously, I can ride 40+ miles in a day and want to go for more. Problems? Issues? Really? There aren’t many people my age, doing what I’m doing and even fewer women. Let’s talk about strength, endurance and ability to mentally persevere. Yeah, you go try to take that two mile hill without coming off your bike, Mr. Financial Pressure and see how you do. You go and try to keep pedaling at that rate Ms. Whatever Might Come Your Way. I can take you you on.
That’s the thing about cycling…at least…for me.
When I ride, it’s better than any drug, not that I was ever a druggie type. (Just watch your baby-sitter get wheeled out of your home on a stretcher because of an overdose and you’ll never be tempted to even experiment with any kind of narcotic. Trust me. And, no, I’m not making that last bit up. It was terrifying, and the best drug awareness education I could have received.) But I digress…
When I’m on two wheels, wind blowing past my face, feet clipped in, sun on my shoulders… I’ve become one with the bike. I am truly invincible.
On all counts, I’m stronger than most anything life dishes out, on and off the bike, specifically because of my efforts on the bike.
Exercise, according to my surgeon and my oncologist, will cut my risk of recurring cancer in half.
Even if that weren’t documented by research, I’d love cycling because of how strong I feel when I’m riding and how I can note my progress with each mile, each hill, each ride.
So, what’s up with the “I don’t wanna” mentality?
I’m guessing this is just a side effect of the radiation treatments. They warned me. They told me I would experience fatigue for a while after the treatments were done. I’m hoping that’s all it is. I mean, it isn’t that I don’t want to ride, but I just don’t seem to have the energy it takes to do all the prep and the after work. Thank God I have people in my life that do that for me or I’d never ride these days. I’d just sleep. (Which, I hear, is probably not a bad thing either.)
But, I’m still a little worried.
What if this fatigued feeling doesn’t go away? What if this is the new normal? What if? What then?
I think I would start by crying.
I can’t even think of it.
I muster up the energy for another ride.
After all, once I’m on the bike, I’m golden.
And when I’m on bike…really…nothing else matters…I’m still strong and healthy and that is everything.
It’s one of those early summer days, just perfect for wasting. It’s a warm, clear, zero-percent-chance-of-rain day in Southern Oregon. It’s the kind of day that results in a greenway full of young lovers walking hand in hand, dog owners meandering back and forth disregarding the posted “Keep to the right” admonitions, and cyclists of all types rolling through. I should be among them. But I’m not.
Instead, I’m home…which I don’t mind…wandering listlessly around the house trying to find some project or task that can both absorb me, and for which I will have the staying power to complete. The Significant Other is off at his part-time job. (Yes! He finally got a steady part-time job!) All my kids are gone, for the moment. The youngest just headed off to her dad’s for Father’s Day weekend. The college student is away at college and won’t be coming home in between the end of her term and the beginning of her internship in Portland this summer. The recently graduated child is off being recently graduated, enjoying her friends and working. The son will return later, at which time, I’m hoping I have the energy to go for a bike ride. Until then, it is just me, here, alone. I love being alone. I love being in my home and alone. I almost never have a problem finding something to engage in. In fact, I am the one who is most likely to be voted “The Person Who Has Too Many Things She Wants To Do To Have To Work.” Today, something is definitely wrong. I find myself feeling almost…not quite, but almost…bored.
It isn’t that there aren’t plenty of projects to be done. There are. Even as I peck these words out on my laptop from the upper deck of my town home, I hear the S.O.’s voice in my head suggesting laundry as a top choice to become absorbed in. It is, in fact, overflowing, and it does, in fact, need to be folded and put away. Then, there is the garage, most of which, I’ve gone through, tossing decades worth of paperwork that no longer has any meaning in my life, but which I just never took the time to toss. I’ve worked the overwhelming pile down to a box and two 2-drawer file cabinets that I must go through and organize into a useful filing system. There are several bins of school paperwork that managed to just get tossed into bins over the course of the year rather than being filed in the appropriate binders. (I find there are binder people and there are file people. I am most definitely not a binder person. Give me a file and let me flip through it, please. Binders, for me, always end up in bins or buckets…or files. I’m far to busy to take the time to carefully open the rings, select the pages I want, get them copied, then return them. Forget that. I’m the type that grabs the file and plans on the go. When I’m done, it all goes back in the file ready to be pulled out again and used next year, this time with added notes and comments about what did not work. If I really had my way, I would have neither bins nor binders nor files…I’d have an iPad. It would save me so much time rummaging through the paper pile. It would save space: good-bye binders and files. It makes sense. It is also a pipe dream for me, right now, as I look at the fairly large amount of medical bills I have yet to pay, combined with the expenses associated with now having two children in college.) Organizing the garage and the remaining files would be a worthwhile project for an afternoon such as this. So would reading a book, going to get some tomato plants and beginning my veggie container garden, or going for a bike ride, or working on developing any one of my many blogs which I’ve neglected over the last couple of months.
There are any number of tasks that could absorb me. The problem comes when I begin to consider my energy level. There’s not a task here, including this blog post, which I think I’ll have energy to complete and I hate the idea of creating yet another unfinished project in my life. I hate unfinished projects. Just yesterday, my Mac crashed. It’s possibly a video card going bad. But it is something I now have to deal with, which I can’t because it will cost money, which I just don’t have. Another unfinished project. I hate this. I hate how life can sometimes be going along swimmingly, in fact, perfectly, if it weren’t for all the loose ends.
Yesterday, I had my three month follow-up appointment with my surgeon. I always enjoy meeting with this man because, besides being a personable sort, he has this way of rendering highly technical medical information into easy-to-understand packages for me. Yesterday, he took a bit of time discussing what I might expect in the months and years to come. He suggested that I’ll probably be feeling much better in the next couple of months as far as energy levels are concerned, but that I should expect it to take a year, maybe more, before I feel like this is finally behind me. In short, I need to give myself permission to feel tired and to rest when I just can’t go on.
I wonder…is today’s almost bored listlessness just another way the fatigue is manifesting itself?
I told you I wouldn’t have enough energy to even finish this post. I’m going to go take a nap.
The first weekend in April was a three day weekend for me due to a school reduction day. It was also projected to be very nice weather so Saturday morning the SO and I were rolling out by 10:30. I had a plan in mind. I wanted to try to ride a hundred miles in three days. I wasn’t entirely sure we were going to be able to make it. After all, we hadn’t really ridden for a few weeks since my last surgery and I have a way of biting off way more than I can chew.
We rolled out. I’d made arrangements for us to meet up with the Southern Oregon Velo Club for our first group ride ever. The plan was that we would meet up with the Slo-Mo group (average pace of 9-12 mph) at 1:30 that afternoon. I thought it would be a good opportunity for us to learn to ride in a group without the worry of us getting dropped from the ride for being too slow. The problem was that the scheduled ride was not going to be long enough for us. So, the plan was that we’d just ride south toward Ashland on The Greenway watching our time in order to time our arrival back at Bear Creek Park (a large centrally located park in the area) in time to meet up with the other Velo Club members.
It turned out that this was a great plan. We rode on the greenway to Exit 19, at a nice leisurely pace. It was, after all, my first lengthy ride since my last surgery. Two weeks out of the saddle is too long. Once we got to Exit 19 we figured we should turn around if we wanted to make it back in time to meet up with the club members. We made it back in plenty of time and enjoyed a nice ride with some other cyclists. The pace this group rides is just a little slow for us, but it was a great opportunity to meet some other cyclists in the valley. After all, we’d only been club members for almost a year, but hadn’t ever done anything with the club. It was time.
Halfway through the ride, everyone stopped at the Bad Ass Coffee Company at the downtown location. We stopped along with the rest and had some refreshments. Instead of heading back to the starting point with the rest of the club members, we decided to head on back toward home. We had our 40 miles in for the day and were feeling great.
The next day we put in 37 miles, again, on the greenway. On Monday, my son joined us for a shorter, but brisker ride of 27.63 miles. My son took the pull home in some pretty strong headwinds. That was really fun. We clocked an average pace for the ride back of 16 to 17 mph. We were sore, but happy. 100 miles in three days. If I can keep up that pace throughout the summer, we should really be able to stack some mileage on.
Unfortunately, the rest of April wasn’t nearly as glorious as this one weekend was. We ended up riding 205 miles in April. Not bad for only being able to ride on weekends and for also starting radiation treatments. It is an improvement over March’s 129.59 miles. I’m definitely anticipating a better month in May.
One of the things I love about Southern Oregon is the mild winter weather. On one of these delightful weekends, the weather was warm, reaching the low 60’s at times. I took advantage of this wonderful winter climate and managed to log 63 miles on the Fun Wheels. We normally spend our time on the greenway, but yesterday, I wanted to try something different. We headed for the open road. On a bit of a whim, we decided to see if we could ride all the way to Jacksonville and back.
The day dawned bright and clear, but soon clouded over. A quick check on The Weather Channel’s app told me that rain was likely beginning at 3:00. We decided to get in gear and get a move on before the rain prevented us from heading out. Our anxiety was wasted; we experienced mild weather and got in a great ride. We even stopped along the way for lunch.
On another such weekend ride, we headed in another direction over some hilly terrain to another nearby town. It was a windy day and there were moments when we wished we’d just stayed on the greenway because it is so much easier than the hilly stuff we experienced that day.
Most of the time, though, we stay on the greenway, mostly because we don’t really have to think much and our biggest decision is how far we can go in the time have. I’m sure this will change as time goes on and as we become stronger riders, but for now this works for us.
Lately, I’ve noticed that every ride is different, even if the route is the exact same as the day before. Some days the ride is mostly effortless and I can ride forever. Even as we end the ride I feel as though I could go another 10 miles. On other days it is an effort to keep a 9 mph pace (slow for us) and it seems to take forever to settle into the right cadence. On other days, I never can find the right gear, though this happening is less and less. This Every-Ride-Is-Different phenomenon is exactly why I love cycling instead of heading to the gym. I like the gym. Don’t get me wrong. Strength training is important and I definitely need to do more of it. A trip to the gym always makes me feel a little like the hamster on its exercise wheel. When I’m on my bike, even a bad ride, makes me feel carefree and strong. Rolling out on two wheels helps me clear my head like nothing else does. I’m hoping my health and fitness last so I can enjoy My Life In Gear for a long, long time to come.
March 11 was the last day I rolled out without kids in tow. It was the day before my last surgery. Kids on a ride, while enjoyable, slows the pace significantly. My 17-year-old son keeps up very well, but he doesn’t always pay attention to his use of the path. It can be alarming the way he weaves around. He’s also been known to stop without warning. I hate that. My 11-year-old daughter, can’t keep up. With her, we slow the pace significantly and we shorten the distance. She’s able to make a 20 mile ride, but it has to include lots of stops, a plodding pace, and the promise of a park with a playground somewhere along the way.
Since my surgery, I’ve been out on a couple of rides, but they haven’t been long ones, because the kids ended up going along. The weather has also been nasty and, while I ride in just about any weather, pouring rain is one forecast I’d rather not encounter on my bike.
On Saturday, there was a break in the weather and I was able to get out and ride to my heart’s content and until my legs gave out. It was the most mileage in a ride ever. The SO and I logged 42 miles in 3:34:00. That’s a pretty steady 11 mile an hour pace. It’s not the fastest we’ve ever ridden, but considering it was my first long ride since surgery and in a month, I don’t think that’s too bad for an ole gal getting back in gear.
The fun thing about this ride is that it also included our first group ride with the Southern Oregon Velo Club. We’ve been members since last May, but have not felt confident enough in our riding skills or in our endurance level to attempt a group ride. A month ago, I found out that there is a group that rides shorter distances at a slower pace so I got on the email list in order to be notified of upcoming rides. Yesterday it finally worked out that we could attend a ride. The only problem is that the ride scheduled wasn’t going to be nearly long enough for our purposes.
To remedy that, the SO and I got up early and headed down the greenway on our own. By the time we met up with the other club members, we had almost 27 miles in. We rode 10 miles with the club, and then after an enjoyable stop at the Badass Coffee Company, we parted ways and headed home. It was a very positive first group ride experience and we learned some cool stuff. We also learned that as soon as we are able to get those road bikes. We’ll be ready to join the group that rides a little further at a bit faster pace. Without the road bikes though, we will slog behind the faster group.
By the time we got home, the SO’s legs were cramping up. I’m doing fine so far and am only mildly sore. Just lucky this ride, I guess, because that’s not always the case after a long ride. I hope we can head out for another long ride again today. Putting in 80-100 miles on a weekend would be a new milestone to celebrate.
As much fun as the surgical party was, the time spent convalescing wasn’t nearly as smooth this time around. More pain, more fatigue, less weather that cooperated with me getting out on the bike, and more of the daily stuff of life that can just get in the way of feeling 100 percent. That being said, I’m sporting a pretty wicked looking 4-inch scar. I can, at least, still proudly announce that I do have all my original body parts. I’m certainly glad that it wasn’t worse than it was.
Two days ago, the weather relented, and I ventured forth on my first ride after this last surgery. My significant other, my son and I logged 17.04 miles in an hour and 26 minutes. Not too bad for a first day out. The SO kept asking how I was doing and telling me not to push too hard. After my typical sucking air for the first 10 minutes, I was fine. After the first 30 minutes, I was fully warmed up and having a great time. The weather was perfect. Of course, there are some who would not consider overcast and sprinkling weather as perfect, but I was ecstatic to be on two wheels again, with the wind in my face. The ground was mostly dry, large puffy clouds scudded across the sky, every now and then we were hit by a few sprinkling drops of rain, but nothing significant. Fruit trees are beginning to blossom and trees are beginning to leaf out around here. It was beautiful. I was disappointed only by the fact that we started out late and due to time constraints had to head back much earlier than I wanted.
It was good we headed back when we did, though, because my body was screaming at me for going out that far and that hard after two weeks of complete inactivity. I was pretty grateful for a few of the remaining pain meds that night.
This week reminded me of one of those That’s Good, That’s Bad” comedy skits from the variety show Hee Haw I used to watch as a child. The routine begins with one person asking the other how things are going. The person responds to the question with a statement about a disastrous event that just happened. The first person reacts with horror, “Oh no! That’s bad!” The other person then replies with “No, that’s good because…..”, and he states something good that came about because the bad thing happened. Then this first person says, “Oh, well, that’s good,” to which the person then mentions something bad that happened as the result of the good thing happening. This elicits the response, “Oh that’s bad!” and so the skit goes to its humorous conclusion.
This was my life this week.
First up, I returned to work (that was good). But the ex also decided that instead of bringing our daughter home according to our agreement, he was going to keep her. Without planning ahead and indefinitely. (For the record, his reasoning for doing this was not so off the wall, but the manner in which he did it was what created the stress. Stress is not what I need as I’m recovering from surgery and returning to work.) That was bad. This did, however, give the Significant Other, and I some time together without the kids around. That was a little unexpected treat. I was able to get the family paperwork and finances done, also good. But because of the Ex’s bully tactics, I decided to seek out the advice of my attorney. That event gets mixed reviews. I love talking with her, because beyond being a fascinating person, she is so very reasonable, and has a great deal of life wisdom. The downside: it cost money at a time of the month where things begin to get tight for us. (Sure wish the SO could find decent paying work!)
On the way down to another appointment I had this week, something terribly wrong happens to my car. I barely get it parked, call the SO to come have a look-see and head up to my appointment. The SO gets the hood opened but has no idea what is wrong. Of all his fantastic qualities, vehicle mechanic is not on the list. Miraculously, a mechanic walks by, takes a look, and diagnoses a blown water pump. That’s really bad! Fortunately, my mechanic was able to come get the car and get it to his shop. He was able to have the vehicle repaired in less than 24-hours and $466 later, I have my car back. He was able to allow me to pay over two months, which definitely eases the strain that an unexpected mechanical problem can place on the budget.
In the midst of all this, after going back and forth with the ex about what exactly our divorce document means and him changing things at will, I had no confirmation from him that this self-appointed parenting time he’s taken the liberty of giving himself will ever end. I finally received confirmation and a pickup time and location is decided. 12 hours later, I receive texts from him wanting to bring the daughter back early. A full 24-hours early. It’s crazy-making but I’m certainly not complaining that I get to have my daughter back for which, it now turns out, will be all of Spring Break.
As all the rest of this is happening, I’m plugging along at my first week back after surgery, too exhausted to work out each evening. It’s also raining, so I can’t ride. In the midst of it all, the SO gets the word that his teaching credential was finally granted (a process that took almost an entire year) and the very next day, he receives a job offer at a wonderfully classy dining establishment (read tips and discounts on great food, ca-ching!). He can substitute and work this job so he will have work all year long. Very, very good news. He’s been out of work for a very long time.
Yesterday was the last day of work before Spring break, I packed the family up and headed north to pick up the oldest to bring her home. We planned a special night at Chuck E. Cheese. It is, after all, the closest thing to Disneyland in state and probably safer too, since I’m not sure my stomach can handle the rides like they used to.
For those who are not familiar with Chuck E. Cheese, let me explain briefly this bizarre dining experience. Chuck E. Cheese is an arcade place where parents spend a small fortune for a bunch of gold-type coins imprinted with a rodent’s smiling face. These tokens are then used to play the arcade games which, in turn, earn the kids tickets. These tickets can then be traded for prizes at the Cheesy Store. The pizza is just pretend. I believe it is really cardboard masquerading as pizza.
For my oldest kids (21, 18, and 16), Chuck E. Cheese was an opportunity to revisit some of their quickly fading childhood. My youngest was ecstatic. The SO was the most amusing. As serious as he sometimes comes off as being, it was surprising to see him enter into the fun. At one point, I heard the girls calling my name and I look over to see him on a mechanical horse race game. It was crazy hilarious to see this guy, nearly 50, on an arcade horse ride game. I do have a video, but out of respect, I won’t post it.
Chuck E. Cheese, however, was not such a good plan for me. Looking back, scheduling an evening at Chuck E’s after teaching 4th graders who’ve checked out for Spring Break (that’s not bad, but it isn’t easy) and driving 3 hours (usually not so bad, but my body was in pain) was probably taking on a bit much just two weeks after surgery. By the time we arrived at Chuck E’s, I was feeling pretty ragged. By 9:00, I was in pain and exhausted. And we still had a 3 hour ride home. My kids’ enthusiastic gratitude helped ease the pain, but by the time we got home my body was screaming in protest at the discomfort of the crowded Durango seating. I was exhausted. Probably not the smartest thing to run myself into the ground like that.
This morning, I planned to attend a ride with the local Velo Club. It would have been my first ride with a group larger than three. I’d been looking forward to it all week. As my head hit the pillow last night at nearly 1:00 a.m., I decided not to set my alarm and take my chances with waking up in time for the ride. Upon waking this morning, I felt energized…for about three minutes. I gave it my best shot. I actually got up, got in my gear, checked the weather, then checked email. Due to the “iffy” weather they cancelled the ride. Personally, under normal circumstances, I would have ridden in this kind of weather anyway, because I try to ride whenever I can except in pouring rain or when it is so cold there might be ice on the ground. Today, I took the excuse offered by the wimpy weather, the cancelled ride, and decided to try listening to my energy level by making today an easy, lazy day.
That was such a good decision, I might just try it again tomorrow.
This last Monday I headed backed to one of the local hospitals for my second excision biopsy. There were several names this particular procedure has been called and, since each time a nurse came in to talk to me or polk me with a needle or I-V,I had to repeat what procedure I was having done, I got really good at pronouncing all the hard words. I was in for my second wire-isolated lumpectomy…except what we are dealing with are not lumps…they are micro calcifications. They are so tiny they cannot be seen by the naked eye, thus the wire. The surgeon has to do his best, by going into the body guided only by my radiology images of the wire placement and of the wire itself. To make matters even more interesting, the new section they discovered is resting deep at the back of any tissue, right on my pectoral muscle. All this means is that I was up for a day of good times at the hospital. I was,if nothing else, pleased to receive my second pair of purple slipper socks! This time, at least I knew what to expect. It shouldn’t be too bad. Or so I thought.
Since I knew I was in for a bit of a wait, I decided to take advantage of the fab new hospital fashion they have going these days. Gone are the old threadbare cotton hospital gowns that cover nothing and expose everything. They now have paper hospital gowns. That’s right, folks, save a cotton plant, kill a tree.
The nice thing about these paper gowns is that they are lined and they do provide good coverage even for my large, lumpy, old carcass. The best part is that these gowns come with their own climate control. They just hook into this shop-vac type tube which hooks into something behind the bed somewhere. Then you turn on the tube and set the temperature for either warming or cooling, as you desire. Last time, I wasn’t quite looking forward to the process like I was this time, so I didn’t take full advantage of all my hospital accommodations. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I hooked up the shop vac and turned it on full force.
Now, I’m sure this situation is just ripe for euphemism and innuendo, but since this is a family friendly forum I’ll leave the strangeness of this type of modern fashion device to your imagination. I will say this, the air from shop vac going into the gown was not in the least bit flattering to my figure and it did absolutely nothing for my already very fragile body image. It wasn’t long before I was pulling the hose out of the gown and begging the nurse for an early dose of sedatives. In all honesty, I can see some value to these gowns. At minimum, if one were incontinent, they could use the warm air from the hose to dry things out before their surgery. Not that I’m speaking from experience or anything.
The best part of the day was when I got to go to imaging. The same techs were there this time that worked on me last time, so we got all the small talk out of the way. It wasn’t long before they were telling me their darkest secrets. Okay, I’m just kidding about the dark secrets part.
If you’ve ever had a mammogram or have had one described to you, then all I can say is that this wire placement process was like having the mammogram of all mammograms and having it last for.ev.er. Imagine having any certain tender part of your anatomy stretched and twisted and smashed between two flat plates of glass while you strike some freakishly bizarre America’s Next Top Model pose. Then imagine Dr. Radiologist has to leave the room to consult with Dr. Surgeon in order to determine the best wire placement possible while you hold that pose, in compression, the entire time. Then imagine they are discussing this situation for nearly 15 minutes. It may have been more, I stopped worrying about it when my arms went numb.
Now, lest you think I am complaining and that I’m implying in any way that any of the fantastic medical professionals who treated me were anything less than incredibly skilled and competent, let me assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. I’m very pleased with the care I’ve received all along the way. This instance being no exception. The most stressful aspect of my kind of cancer is getting ALL of it. Remember, my surgeon, who truly is amazing, needs that wire to be accurate and he needs accurate images. They were actually discussing whether I needed two such wires, and if so, what was going to be the least obnoxious and most effective method of inserting said wires. My attitude about this is “Please take all the time you need and while you’re at it, how about another round of those sedatives?” The professionals handling my treatment are so compassionate and wonderful. They truly were concerned for me and my comfort. (I must have really looked ridiculous!) All I can say is that I think everyone is going to be very pleased when medical science develops “softer” means of getting images of all our softer body parts.
In any event, while I was in the room attempting my pose for my audition for America’s Next Top Model Senior Edition, my eye wandered over to the window sill. Lo, and behold, there on the windowsill was a spatula. Okay, now that was weird. Well, me being me, I just had to ask. I just couldn’t let that much weirdness go by without comment. Again, because this is an attempt at a family friendly forum I’m not at liberty to give you all the specifics. Yes, they do use the spatulas in the radiology department. No, they are not making cookies. I did get the specifics from the techs, and the story was so fascinating I didn’t even notice that the needle and wire had been inserted. While, I can’t exactly say that part of my day was over before I knew it, I can say that great fun was had by all. Furthermore, I now know that the kitchen spatula is truly a multipurpose tool.
Of course, after imaging is when the real fun begins. That’s when I get to meet up with the anesthesiologist and plan my cocktail for the afternoon party in the surgical wing. I was fortunate enough to have the same Dr. Cocktail as the last time, and since last time was such a great trip with no nausea on the back end, I opted for the same recipe. I was good to go.
Moments later, I was being wheeled into surgery. I remember greeting everyone (it was a big party they set up just for me) and someone making a comment about the surgeon’s choice of music. They strapped the massaging leg warmers on me and as that I-V cocktail began to take effect, I remember closing my eyes and going to my happy place. I was riding. Effortlessly. Fast. Free. On that $8k S-Works Specialized road bike I saw in the shop this last weekend. I wasn’t dreaming about work this time, like I did last time. The wind in my face felt fantastic! The climbs were effortless. Life was good!
And the next thing you know, the party’s over. They’re handing me my regular clothes, telling me not to make any major decisions or bathe for the next 48-hours and sending me off with nothing but a big patch on my chest and prescription for pain meds. Kinda makes me wonder if it was something I said.
It was shaping up to be a disappointing Saturday. Face it, during the school year, for a teacher, the best and most wonderful day to ride is Saturday, weather permitting. Sunday rides have to be shortened due to getting ready for the week. Rides during the week must be shortened due to running out of daytime.
This Saturday, was beginning to look like it was going to be a wasted one where riding was concerned. The weather was perfect, but the night before, my Significant Other broke a spoke on his back tire. We both thought one or the other of us had hit a rock, but no, it was his back wheel. It shortened our ride that evening significantly. Since we were six miles out with no other transportation available he rode the six miles home on it. On the return trip I watched his rear wheel wobble more and more with each mile. We definitely needed to head into the Bike Shop for that repair.
To make matters worse, my bike was creating all sorts of annoying rattles, creaks and squeaks. In particular, there was this loud and very irritating click, click, click on every down stroke of my right pedal. My bike most of the time, is entirely silent when I ride, so I was fairly worried that it was complaining so loudly to me on this first ride off the trainer.
The combination of these woes, cut our ride short on Friday night. It also meant that our first objective Saturday morning was to get the bikes into the shop to see what and how serious the trouble was. We feared the worst, that our bikes wouldn’t be back out of the shop until Monday.
I can go into all the details of what exactly was wrong, but that’s boring for most people and I don’t yet have all the vocabulary to adequately convey what was wrong. In the end, what we thought was going to mean missing a weekend of riding really only ended up delaying our Saturday ride, by a couple of hours. The guys at Marty’s Cycle and Moore literally dropped what they were doing and fixed both our bikes right there on the spot. They didn’t have to do this, but we are so grateful they did. About an hour and $47 later, we were walking out the door with our bikes healed.
We wasted no time getting on the road, since we heard rain was on the way. I figured we still had about 20 miles to go to make our hundred for the week, so we needed to get on the road quickly. After some waffling about whether to take it easy on the greenway or hit the hilly road and head out in the country, we opted for the road. We definitely took the more difficult option. The roads between Central Point and Gold Hill are not for the weak. In fact, there are several really intense, long hill climbs on Old Stage Road between Scenic Avenue and the I-5. These climbs weren’t made any easier by the presence of a very strong headwind and the fact that we were riding hybrids instead of road bikes. Even in our marginal fitness condition, we would climb those hills faster on a road bike. Which, makes me really want a road bike very soon. This in turn depresses me, because I don’t believe that will be my reality for at least another year. But I digress.
We inched up those hills at a whopping 5-6 miles per hour. It was the toughest 5-6 mph I’ve ridden to date. Every muscle in my legs burned (this is good), I was fighting for every breath, and I even felt as though I might vomit at one point (yeah, that’s probably not so great). Then suddenly, about halfway up the climb, I hit the right gear and, crazy as it seems, I was able to almost rest while I climbed. I was still pushing hard, but I caught my breath and kept going. I felt a small amount of comfort when after glancing back I realized the Significant Other was suffering just as much as I was.
The downhill on the other side made it all worthwhile. Except that the headwind slowed our descent significantly. We were still having to push even when going downhill.
It was a crazy ride.
Upon arriving in Goldhill, we stopped in at a little dive bar called the Longbranch Saloon. It clearly was the place to be on a Saturday afternoon. We tied up our mechanical horses and stepped into the local watering hole to quench our thirst and gear up for the ride back.
Instead of coming back the way we came (read, we chickened out and tried to get out of facing those hills again) we opted for the Blackwell Road route home.
I’ve heard that one of the cycling rules of the road is that you always have a map and a repair kit with you. At minimum, you should know where you are going, shouldn’t you? We had the repair kit, but we had no idea where we were going. All I knew was that if I took Blackwell Road in far enough it was going to come out somewhere near I-5 and Central Point and I could probably find my way home from there. The SO was following me blindly, trusting that I knew where we were going. Little did he know…
Blackwell Road proved to be just as challenging as Old Stage Road in its own way. The climbs weren’t as steep, but they were longer. Trying to avoid the work, and really wishing by this time that we had some more level terrain to deal with and no wind, we turned onto Tolo Road. Around the corner, there it was, another hill and beyond that one, another. At this point, my entire body felt like mush and I wondered seriously if we were going to make it home without having to get off and walk…or call for help. Just as we wondered if we should turn around and head back we saw Scenic Avenue in the distance and knew we were within 3 miles of home. From the intersection ahead, the ride was going to be a nice downhill ride leveling off once we reached town. We knew we were going to be okay.
We rode the hardest 25 miles we’ve ever ridden since beginning our cycling adventures. We hit our highest speed on a downhill of 29 miles per hour, which means we were flying on our bikes, and dead if we’d fallen. We returned home tired, but happy, because we’d pushed ourselves way out of our comfort zone and succeeded.
We stepped up to a new level in our riding. Hill work is now going to be a regular part of our riding. It has to be. There’s nothing more painful at first, but it is so rewarding when you crest that hill knowing you still have gears left to shift and energy left to ride.
When we got home, I turned to the SO and said, “You know, that was a really hard ride. How many people do you know that could have stayed with us on that? I think, other than the guys at the bike shop, I know about two. Those two would have dusted us, but other than that…I can’t think of anyone who could have done 25 miles uphill both ways like we just did.”
Not too bad for an ole fat lady pushing 50.