Timeless flight

Oh.  Introspection.  It's like a traffic accident, if you weren't a witness and you have no CPR skills, just move on by.

It's something I realise I've seen in friends, the belief that without doing the things I do with other people I have no value to them, there's nothing I have to offer, and I don't know what to do if I'm not walking, climbing, riding or kayaking. 

Like holding a mirror up, I know how shaken it's made me in the past realising a friend felt like this, felt that she needed to offer *fun* to be with people.  She didn't know what else to offer them, didn't know how to occupy her time either alone or with others, and was sorrowful as a result.  It jolted me, the realisation she felt that all her friends wanted her for was an adjunct, someone to go up mountains with.  And I took her away with a tent and beer to a place with music and pig roasting and laughing people for a weekend.  Because she's a friend.  How could she possibly feel like that, and yet I knew the feeling was genuine and that for once my vibrant lively friend was down.  And there's that mirror again.

For me, friends who I was meant to drive to have dinner with last week but couldn't because of the injury suggested that instead they came to me and brought food.  Humbled somewhat by the offer, and really wishing I could do something in return, I said yes.  Last night they came round, and it was wonderful to see them, and an evening of chatter, food and no alcohol took place.  The grateful good cheer I got from this, and the sparkle I saw in my friends reminded me that sometimes just people together can be enough. 

So, buoyed up by this I'm getting in touch with folk and asking them to tea ...

It's funny though, the temporary suspension of self worth.  That's not really who I am.  Is it?

And leaving you with my latest ear worm ...

Truth hurts

So every few days I get a bit more information, a few more facts, and the reality of my leg injury dawns on me. 

I'm bored of answering questions about it now, bored of speaking about it, bored of boring people with it.  Actually the third on the list should probably have been the first.  I don't want the attention the crutch brings, and I respond no better to pity than I do tough love.  Both make me want to cry.

For the record, the reality is I  have a partial tear of my hamstring and some calf muscle separation.  This has given a range of very pretty bruising behind my knee, and I can't put weight on the leg with the knee anything other than straight or approximating straight either on the bike or walking.

I am on the whole downplaying this.

I am not, however, doomed. 

There should be gradual improvement in the next few weeks, and indeed prognosis is full recovery; this depends on me taking the kind of care a religious zealot would give to the set of rules they operate within.  It's not just that doing things outside of the boundaries will delay healing, but they could actually create a more serious injury, which the prognosis for would be a lot worse.  Imagine that, stupidity could take me out of action and possibly into surgery.  So, the moral of this is don't be stupid.

At least I have facts.  I like facts.  You know where you stand with those.  

Waving goodbye in the spirit of realism to a few things, but it's transient, temporary, and in the words of the Persians this too shall pass ...

Words, Words, Words

How can a word like pulchritudinous actually have a nice meaning, and why does disingenuous have the opposite meaning to the one I think it ought to have.  Why would dyslexia have such a complicated name?  Who makes this shit up?

OK, I am going stir crazy.  Three sofa bound days, and now I'm on the third day.  I am no longer sleep deprived, the painful stiff leg having eased enough last night to let me sleep without discomfort and needing to change position, while knowing it hurt to move.  Unfortunately now instead of simply being tired, and in pain I've moved on to the proper trapped feeling.

It was strangely manageable while pain was ongoing, swelling was interesting and stiffness and knee giving properly limited me.  It was manageable through Tuesday sat behind a desk with ice pack and crutches, manageable Wednesday when the day was filled with a four hour dalliance at A&E, bearable Thursday when just walking the normal five minute journey to the chemist took hours to build up to and 35 minutes to actually carry out. 

Today though is misery.  I forget there is still a problem until I stand up, I want so much for it to be normal again that I keep trying and then I keep  yelping as the leg gives way or the pain reflex makes it double up and causes me to stagger or fall (nice bruise coming along on my right elbow as a result). 

A little bit of knowledge of my own internal brain mechanism helps but doesn't help at all.  I know that this exasperation and anxiety is lack of exercise.  The twitchy frustrated brain is messing with me, and no amount of attempting pull ups on the bannister is calming it.  However much I remind myself that it's simply a feeling, a transient emotion I can visualise passing by me, floating down the river, the feeling recurs and recurs and recurs.  I try distraction, I try revision, I try an online learning Spanish programme, I try TV, I try books, yesterday I tried baking, today I cleaned the wash basin, I sorted out van insurance. 

Where did I get this insanity, has that Quaker upbringing and ability to simply be still left me?  Be still brain, be still.  Be still.

Oh bother

I got broken.  Yesterday on the way to work I misjudged a corner, put my left leg out to steady myself and unfortunately it looks like I got it twisted by a slight hold up in some railings. It didn't feel cataclysmic at the time, it wasn't properly stuck, more just halted, and I wasn't going fast or powerful, but it twisted.  As I sat there on the wall by the railings waiting for the pain to abate enough or the still twitching leg to feel like I could take weight on it, it's quite funny the two things which went through my mind.

Firstly was oh shit, there's no way I'll be able to do the sportive on Sunday, the one I've been focusing on and looking forward to, the one I've been preparing for, getting in the bike miles for, and generally happily anticipating.  The second one was oh, this is going to put me out of action, I'm going to put on weight.  It's funny how telling the first thoughts are.  The weight one was an insight into me I hadn't really openly accepted and appreciated.  I hate my waist broadening. 

What's also funny is that although I couldn't put any weight on it, couldn't walk, there seemed to me, four miles from home and four miles from work no obvious reason at all not to carry on cycling to work one legged.  A year or more ago I suspect that wouldn't have been an option but it didn't even merit a moment's thought from me because it's obvious, isn't it, that the right leg alone is perfectly capable of propelling me along a mostly flat journey to work.  Except that in the early days that leg of the journey didn't seem flat at all, it seemed like a long drag uphill.  But now it's flat and manageable with one leg.  A circumstance I didn't even think about until late afternoon when someone asked me how I'd got in to work.

So I'm on crutches, my leg elevated, paying the PRICE (protect, rest, ice, compression, elevation).  And in honesty it really hurts.  Just moving my leg from elevated on the arm of the settee to elevated on a pile of cushions on a footstool today had me not just yelp with pain but nearly pass out.  Don't get me started on the stairs, getting on and off the toilet, putting on knickers, socks, and shoes, the whole lower body getting dressed was done while snivelling gently to myself along with the occasional involuntary semi scream. 

The swelling on the underside of the knee also looks quite, um, interesting.  This is not good, really not good. 

Ride of ...

Sunday I was in the area, so why not ride the newly rejigged trails at Gisburn Forest, particularly as the date coincided with the opening of the trails.  Rocked up at about 9:45 to realise it’s one hell of a popular place.  Cars everywhere with cyclists busy putting wheels in bikes, testing brakes, forks, adjusting clothing.  A busy old place despite the threatening looking weather.

For reasons best known to myself, I didn’t park in the main and spangly new parking area but chose instead to ran the van into an illicit side road parking spot.  Tucked away in the trees with privacy to change. Mind you, for that, I also have curtains.

The first stretch of riding took me along some disappointingly smooth and new single track to the main car park. I say disappointing just because it had that oh so new feel to it, a track which was worn by tyres in the centre but had that clearly man made grey hard core sides thing going on, and it lacked interest of anything up or down or feature other than a few small pumpy bits and an artificial meandering.  Still, things looked promising above the car park with riders accumulating in a gathering spot surrounded by hip height stone wall.

From there, it was into the forest. It’s not for nothing it’s known as Gisburn Forest.  Again, I felt some slight disappointment with the trails through the trees because they didn’t feel as though they’d been formed by riding them, but as though they’d been formed with imported materials and possibly a machine if not spade and shovel.  Almost as though the roots had been covered up to aid smoothness which kind of defies the point of a forest ride.

After finding the full sus brigade getting out of my way on the gently zig zagging downwards meander, eventually I found the trail going equally gently upwards, almost unnoticeably so.  That’s  a nice change from the trail centre norm of sending you climbing up fire roads though.  Then the first technical bit, a short descent of rock garden.  I climbed off.  And was rewarded for doing so by seeing the next rider fall off at the bottom.  He was fine, and I was relieved.

The trail got more technical after that, with again an unusual characteristic of some properly technical gnarly climbing, rocks and boulders galore, and for the trail centre hamster an unusual feature in that there were many more than one correct line, options, choices, blimey.  There were some freakishly natural features; a ford to cross, and climbs along hillsides which were in the most part not wide but singletrack.  There was a moorland crossing or two, some of which provided a number of options so that if you happened to be fast and held up by a slow moving obstacle such as me, you could overtake in a kind of polite fashion.  Not that there was anybody about by then because it was pissing it down with rain.

Lots more up, and some meandering descents.  And just as I started to despair of any kind of fun or gnarr on the descents it happened, interest.  In that there were bits of descent which were fast, exposed, narrow, bendy, terrifying and inescapable and I found myself riding things that if offered an escape route I would have taken it but with features coming at you quickly and round corners without warning or time to plan riding was the only thing to do.  Surprisingly survivable.  Surprisingly fun.

But, the gnawing question for me was this.  What happened to the profile of the riders at Gisburn?  I reckon I saw 50+ riders that day, only two were female and both were either out with their dads or sugar daddies or some other relationship, and of all the men I saw I would have to say 90% fitted into the age 30 to 45 age bracket.  What was all that about?  No kids, absolutely no kids.  Were they all on the skills area and pump track or had they stayed at home because of the weather.  What, indeed, is the world coming to ...?

Jam Hot

Two days of hard work completed this weekend.  It was all about the revision.  Or was it?  Hmm. 

I reckoned the way to tackle this exam in 10 days time was to take myself away from distractions and allocate blocks of time to pure revision where I couldn't find myself attempting to clean the house or whiling away time on the internet.  I needed wifi free space.

So off I went to Slaidburn.  Or thereabouts.  Found myself a campsite which sounded just the thing - it had a tap.  Actually, when I got there it was a pleasant surprise to find it also had one outside toilet too.  Perfect for a field with just me and a female couple in their teeny van.

The revision bit started well when I made contact with an old friend who lives up that way, and diverted I was to a local pub for a catch up beer.  He left my workplace maybe 4 years ago, and has really focused himself on what it is he wants to do, enjoying pushing his brain, connections and really pushing some boundaries in what he does. I didn't realise he does the occasional bit of DS work for Rapha. Sometimes I just look in disbelief at the kind of folk I socialise with.  It just seems a life so removed from any kind of reality sometimes, and yet it is my life, and it's kind of funny.  A more obsessive follower of cycling would be in seventh heaven with the rubbing shoulders thing, but I'm actually just in seventh heaven to be in the company of people I enjoy, and who enjoy being with me.  It really is that simple.  And it was a fab evening where I could have grinned endlessly just looking at how great his life is for him, how happy and changed he is, how lovely his girlfriend is, just so good to see everything going right for him.  Brilliant.

Saturday I had a bloody fabulous road ride.  Got myself up the Cross of Greet and over to the Bowland Knotts.  The Cross of Greet definitely goes down in my top three climbs ever list (for now).  It was just lovely.  Started with a gentle moorland meander on a quiet lane, where you could see some gently bending twists ahead, then as you gradually got into it, in the little ring, came round a corner where you could suddenly see the whole line of the climb on the hill. It looked intimidating and it looked beautiful.  The climb was a great one, variation of gradient, just enough rest for heart rate to come down a little, and enough time to get some breath. And push.  And a niggly little steep bit I saw another cyclist walking. And then the top was there, with just hills and air and the coming of the spring.  Superb.  Pootle round to the next climb, do that, get lost, only realise I was lost five miles after the junction, recalibrate, get to Slaidburn after four hours, knowing there's only 1.5 miles to go to the campsite and come up against a sign saying 16% incline.  Horror and pedal. 

Oh, and out of curiosity I attempted to see if I could hit lactate threshold.  Which meant I was trying bloody hard.  I didn't hit it.  My legs do not fry or sear or burn or any of that.  To be scientific I think I need a heart rate monitor.  The thing is, I climb sometimes with cycling coaches and sports scientist, and we were talking about arm pump.  For me, this happens at some point every indoor session, my arms become engorged, stiff and however much will there is, there isn't the physical possibility of exerting the same effort as earlier in the evening.  The thing is, with me, it doesn't hurt.  There isn't a build up to the pump, there's no muscle burn lactate issues prior to the pump.  I have never come close to feeling this in my legs. I thought I'd try, but no matter how I tried, I come nowhere near.  Post ride and cool down I struggled a little with walking but only in the way of feeling I'd done something.  Interesting.

And this one has been zooming round my head as I pedal because the cadence is cool.

Don't tell ..

It's been a guilty pleasure, the work commute on the mountain bike.  I mean, yes it seems ludicrous jostling through the city traffic on big knobbly tyres, with a hefty looking frame, some serious suspension and immensely huge handlebars.  It feels out of place, this thing which belongs with mud and rock and hillsides transferred to tarmac, kerb stones, drainage and hard metal lines not randomly dispersed trees or earthy banks.  It's slow too, I mean really, truly, grindingly slow.  The resistance of the tyres I guess makes it so.  Every roll of the wheels is driven by pedal strokes.  There's no let up, no rest, no free wheeling.  The bike appears to be charged with no momentum of its own.  No glorious swooping or air rushing past or the feeling of gliding, it's just one relentless push.

But you feel you've earned every solitary inch of every mile.  That journey has been well and truly fought for, made by you and the bike, not given to you.  The resistance training potential appears huge, and every acceleration is a moment of personal triumph, of glee, the feeling that yes, there is some push there hiding in these rather average legs.  The bike might be wider and not get through gaps between car and kerb without some serious potential of scratching paintwork, but in its favour it can get out of those situations by bouncing up kerbs.  It also tackles with some degree of fierceness potholes which the flimsy delicate road bike simply recoils in horror from, like a dainty ballet dancer horrified that she might get her pointy pink feet at all dirty.  The mountain bike just grins and wallops onwards, fearless and a little bit careless.  The road bike appears neurotic against the burliness of the MTB.

So yes, I feel guilty because the mountain bike although slow and hard work is enjoyable for a chance commute to work, it has none of the precision needs of the road bike, and I have to say not the same maintenance needs, the road bike currently being nursed through a shifter breakdown at the local bike shop.

And this ambivalent feeling of guilt and disloyalty to the bike has been brought to you by 10cc ...

"Don't tell your friends about the two of us".  Because shhh, it's a secret.