Farewell to 2008

Well - its been a bit of a year - what with splitting up with my partner and being run over by a truck - but more positively - the two week cycle through Spain with Julian and the solo month in Cuba pedaling and studying Spanish were trips that many people could only dream of. And what better way to see it out than an hour at the Royal Infirmary Physio dept - with yet more exercises added in - and a further three physio sessions at home - just for 'fun'.

Today I couldn't resist - and pushed the physiotherapist for answers - which of course she couldn't provide. How long might it be, I asked, before I could get back into my flat. She had seen my notes she said - the injury is serious - and we don't know how long its going to take. She talked about 'furniture walking', the use of one stick, semi weight bearing. Strangely she mentioned cycling - that could help get you round (in the future) she said, instead of walking - less stress on the leg. I was lucky she said - being a cyclist. Hadn't occurred to me of course - particularly as every time I see a cyclist on the road now I feel their vulnerability - wonder how they have the courage to be out on the road on a winter evening - wince as we overtake them - no matter how safe they actually are.

And then we got onto the subject of Chris Hoy - and his knighthood - and his three gold medals - and what he represents - for Scotland - for sport - for common decency - and of course for every single one of us that cycles just for the sheer pleasure of being out in the elements, wind in the hair, hurtling down hills, sweating up them, self propelled, independent, just a little bit righteous, and more than a little anarchic.

But all that seems a long way off - because now my days are filled with discomfort and frustration - and keeping chipper is difficult, despite the enormous support I get from professionals and pals. How do other people do it, summon up the mental energy to get out of bed every day, doing exercises where the gain can be measured only in millimetres? What stops them just lying down and giving up? I puzzle over this often, having far too much time to think about it. Why do I get up in the morning? Is it simply biological - an inate need to do everything possible to heal? Perhaps that explains part of it - but I think its more complex - also to: please my family, demonstrate to my physio that I'm worth her effort, show my consultants that their work wasn't in vain, live up to the expectations of my friends who keep telling me I'm determined enough and strong enough to do this - and for myself - not to fail, especially not to fail.

My horribly wrecked bike, a precious little blue moulton recognised by half the cycling community of Edinburgh, is in the shed outside. We are waiting for the insurance assessors to come and inspect it. I havent had the courage to look at it yet. I guess my new year's resolution has to be to crack on with this sodding physio - replace that bike - and somehow get back on the pedals to bounce over Edinburgh's cobbles with the wind in my hair, and a victorious wave for the throngs of people both within and outside the NHS who made it possible....

Ablutions and moonboots

There are a number of things they don't tell you when you leave the hospital - like how to get washed properly when there is a high step into the shower, and how to sleep with a moonboot on without rubbing your heel red raw...

So, unbelievably, I still haven't had a shower since my accident - around 6 weeks. And the near future isn't looking too promising either. First was the problem of the cast. Couldn't get it wet. It is possible to buy a waterproof sleeve - but reports varied on whether it would work or not. And being a canny Scot, I wasn't keen to risk my cash. However, once the cast was swapped for the moonboot (easily removable) I thought I might be in with a chance. Until I stood in front of the shower - with my crutches.

My carer popped a plastic chair into the shower. Now all you have to do, she said encouragingly, is to hop backwards upwards (presumably naked) with your crutches into the seat... And then when you have finished, just launch forward (naked and wet) back out again. Needless to say - I am still washing myself at the sink every day, towels, soap and crutches asunder as I attempt to make myself respectable for my physio visits....

Going to bed (and then sleeping) requires the imagination of Heath Robinson and the patience and stillness of a meditating Tibetan monk. The ritual starts one hour in advance - with the little blue pill. Next stop the physio (see below), then the bathroom (per above), and 2 teaspoons of the dreaded senna liquid (don't ask). While in the bathroom my carer organises the bed - 2 pillows for the head, one for the right leg, and the final one for the edge of the moonboot - this has been cunningly devised as a crevasse for the heel to rest in. Under or beside the pillows for the head - the borrowed ipod, the sock for the good foot and the dressing gown (for night trips to the toilet), the phone (for emergencies), and a stash of food for the strange hunger pangs that come around midnight (tea biscuits, banana and yoghurt).

Once prepared - I hop in - remove my clothes (partly aided by a crutch), haul on a nightie (the first time I've worn one since age 12) and then lie down in the only position possible to keep my right leg raised, my heel pressure free, my donor site comfortable and my right hip (badly bruised) relatively pain free. Essentially this is on my back - in a position perfect for snoring although I guess only the cat will hear. If Im lucky - that's it until the porridge turns up around 9 hours later - courtesy of the ever patient Richard... Even sleeping requires a plan when you are in recuperation.

Physiotherapy

I write this 36 days after my main orthopedic operation (what my consultant once referred to as 'just guddled around a bit and got lucky'). A number of people mentioned 'physio' in hushed and slightly strained tones. I knew it would be good for me - I knew I would have to do it - but somehow couldn't quite imagine what it would entail. In retrospect this was probably just as well...

The first 2 physios I met were in St Johns. The first ten minute session was to teach me how to walk on crutches - and the second entailed hopping up the stairs. No exercises were mentioned. I figured I had got off lightly. Three days later, having been discharged - I met my third physio - again at St Johns, but this time a foot specialist. My right foot had dropped a bit and we would need to work it to bring it back. I was issued with a blue strip of rubber and a handwritten sheet of exercises. These included the dreaded 'foot pull', the slightly less dreadful 'knee press' and the hideously hard 'leg lift' to work the thigh muscles.

Back in Pathhead, my carer and I tackled these with cautious gusto - 2 days later we had clearly overdone it - excruciating night pain meant 10 sleepless hours. I bleeped the physio the next morning and explained. 'You should have started with 5 repeats, not 10..'. she said So lesson learned - do not overdo the physio - we duly cut back - a couple of gentle pulls 2 or 3 times a day.

Two weeks later I get the appointment for the community physio - at 9am on a Monday. Ever tried to do exercise first thing in the morning - noted a certain stiffness in the muscles? Indeed - and this is why, when I perched on the treatment table, my leg wouldn't do a damn thing - and to add insult to injury - it hurt as well - so much that I nearly fainted. The physio was kind - said she would like to see me a couple of times a week but had a heavy case load so once a week might be all that was possible. Issued with a couple of new exercises I left, bitterly disappointed at my poor performance, but still not anxious about the physio.

In the meantime. I had obtained an extra appointment with the consultant to talk to him about pain management. I duly arrived at OPD 6 at the Royal Infirmary. According to the whiteboard, my consultant was to see 26 people that afternoon, including me. I joined the masses (after an arduous journey around the hospital trying to find a wheelchair. Apparently the wheelchairs are £600 each and there are simply not enough of them. There were none at the back entrance, the closest entrance to the car park. There was no signage to the door to OPD 6 which would have meant no wheelchair was required at all.)

My name was called. Off to another waiting area. My name called again - this time for an X Ray. A further 20 minutes and again my name called - wheeled almost into the consultant's room - but no - not allowed in because of my plaster cast. Would have to go to the plaster room. Another wait - and then we are in.

On the treatment bed a nurse advanced towards me with large blunt scissors and attacked the bandages. I blanched - 'keep away from the skin flap'. She continued 'I've done this a thousand times'. 'Not to me you haven't'. She relented and changed tack. The bandages and cast were removed and the consultant examined my foot. Then all hell broke loose. Apparently my foot had dropped far more than expected - he hauled it into what we now know to be the 'neutral position'. I wept. People gathered round - physios, nurses, a medical student, possibly a junior doctor although I was never introduced, and an othoist. Between them they examined and stretched and pulled at my foot. The pain was intense. But the planned conversation about the pain became a lower priority - my foot had to be sorted - we could worry about pain later.

The consultant decided I was to wear a moon boot. This instrument of torture (black velcro and plastic - a bit like a backless ski boot) was fitted by the orthoist. Similar to the concept of a brace for sorting out teeth the moonboot pushes the foot back into the neutral position through sheer brute force. I wanted to head home. No - off to the physio again. I was wheeled into a small office. The boot was to come off and I would have a few more stretches. 'No' I said - no more. They relented. Showed me a couple more exercises involving a towel, booked me in for several more appointments, and I was off.

The boot hurt - a lot. Pain killers didn't help, nor did my wimpering. But, with my carer (handily also a yoga teacher) we followed our instructions. On Christmas eve the next day, we were back for the final appointment before the holidays. I had the physio room all to myself - and 2 physios. To my astonishment, almost half of the session was spent massaging my leg - in an attempt to stop adhesions under the scars. The final foot exercises were uncomfortable, but free of tears - until the physio put my foot back into the moonboot - the pain in my calf was searing and sudden - but over in a minute. We left, almost jubilant.

Since then we have followed instructions to the letter. Four sessions a day, two involving the massage, all involving discomfort, and all requiring major input from my carer. We can see the progress. My foot is coming up towards neutral, the swelling has receded from the toes and (horrors - sorry folks) - the dead skin is falling of the sole- ably helped by litres of almond oil. Next week I have another three appointments, where the work will continue. And of course once my foot is in position, the next phase starts, working my foot beyond neutral - there is no end to this, simply more beginnings. And the toughest bit of all - not to accept pain from others (eg, the physiotherapist) but to inflict it on myself four times a day so that I can learn to walk again at some date yet not determined...

How to have a 'free flap ' operation - ten 'easy' steps

The following should not be taken as gospel - or indeed fact. I have not read my medical notes or researched the Internet for the sciency stuff. This is simply my recollection.

1. On my first night in St Johns I have a visit from my surgeons - Mr Addington and his (I think) senior registrar. The latter is tired and pale but did her PhD on the technique I will undergo. She is kind and reassuring. Mr Addington explains what will happen. They will look for a donor site on my body - starting first with the left thigh, and if that isn't suitable, consider other sites including my back. They will then patch the hole on my right leg with the donor tissue - which will include the blood vessels - so not just a case of grabbing a bit of skin and moving it, but connecting all the blood vessels up to the ones in the leg. This, in the trade, is not a skin graft, but 'a free flap'. The operation, he warns me, could take up to 12 hours. I will wake up with lots of tubes and drips and the dreaded catheter. I ask him what my role will be - what I should I do to make it all go OK. Nothing he says 'leave it to us'. This is the wisest advice I have ever had - and heeded. I ask them politely to have an early night. I am first on the Sunday list.

2. My next visitor is the anesthetist. I am to have an epidural, not a general. This I think is partly to do with the potential length of the operation and more to do with pain management after the procedure. For the uninitiated - this does not mean I was awake for the operation! However, having the epidural meant that I would have to go to HDU (High Dependence Unit) - the Ward staff would not have time to look after me. I asked him politely to have an early night too.

3. I meet the night staff - they are kind and gentle. I take my pills and I think something to help me sleep. The weather forecast is dreadful - snow and black ice. I worry my theatre team won't make it to work. The night staff reappear at 6am for the pre-theatre wash. This is not like the old days - no shaving or scrubbing or mad pants. or suppositories Just a hospital gown, ring off, a wash and a plea to keep my glasses on til the last minute. Then my pre-med and a doze with the help of a friend's ipod (thanks Scott!).

4. Around 8.30, the theatre boys arrive to take me down. The staff nurse comes too - to help alleviate my nerves. We wheel into the little room where all the anaesthetic stuff happens. I am told later that I was in this room for 90 minutes - I only remember the first ten. Takes a while to get all the tubes in and the monitors on. I chat to the theatre orderlies - sit up on my trolley for the epidural and obey all instructions - there is no pain and no discomfort. Someone says 'this is the last thing you will remember' - they are correct! I still have my glasses on - eyesight, if not dignity, intact.

5. I have my operation See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Free_flap It takes only 6 hours.

6. I wake up in HDU - my own room and 50% of a nurse (we get one between 2 patients unless the patient is ITU in which case they get one of their own). I am terrified and over heated. The nature of the operation means the patient must be kept warm at all times to give the flap the best chance of working. I have a duvet on and the heating is on full blast. I have no pain but hallucinate wildly. When the surgeons come round all I want to talk about is my mad head - the leg has become someone else's problem for the moment.

to be continued....

Round Marks & Spencers in a wheelchair

Another day another hurdle - my first outing to somewhere that didn't involve medical professionals - Marks and Spencers in Fort Kinnaird - to buy foodie presents for pals. The car was relatively easy - getting a dab hand now at reversing into the passenger seat, hauling the legs in last, fumbling with the sticks and clutching my safety belt. Getting more used to the traffic - although still not comfortable. Arrive outside the shop - park in the 'pick up only point' close to the doors. Its windy and cold. My aunt rushes in to check with the store manager that its OK to park there. A few minutes later she returns - triumphant - not only can we park there but one of the store managers has arranged a wheelchair. My eyebrows raise...

The hop to the shop would be easy but for the wind - feel strangely vulnerable by the buffeting - even though I know its perfectly safe. Then navigating past the other customers I meet my wheelchair - we check the brakes - and I sit down. But where to put the basket? More triumph - this time the store manager emerges with a trolley that clips on to the front of the wheelchair - eyebrows raise further... I stick the bad leg through the front, rest it on the handy metal bar, we clip the trolley on - and we are off.

Its almost impossible to describe how it feels to be wheeled around food aisles amongst bustling Christmas shoppers - I wave my stick like a Kalashnikov to keep them away from my stripey toes - I want this over - quickly - I spot a half price bottle of champagne - don't check the label - ask my aunt to grab it (I of course can't reach). A woman smiles at me and apologises for her husband "he has dementia" she says softly as he fails to get out of the way. Anonymous baskets heavy with festive fair come dangerously close to my ears. We search for the cheese - normally this would entail a brisk trot up and down the aisles - but not in my mad contraption - another grab - this time for the continental selection - no patience even to check the price. Close in on the wild smoked salmon and finally the chocolate fruit and nuts. I want out.

The check out desk is easy - we head for the 'baskets only' line - I hand over my purchases and pay be cash - I can reach the counter and the very polite check out woman. Thank her for the free 'bag for life' (today's special) and we park up out of the way of the masses. Flip the feet of the chair back (one flies off) and then we are up and hopping across the pavement to the car. Mission accomplished - no damage to the mad leg - and some thought provoking stuff:

Firstly - the Marks & Spencers staff. Five stars for helpfulness, respect and understanding. Secondly may aunt - five more stars for tenacity, steering skills and understanding (this was her first time too!). Thirdly - the other customers. Here it was more of a mixed bag. Some of them rushed past too close and didn't appear to notice me at all. Others smiled kindly and got out of the way and a minority looked at me askance. And fourthly - me. Well - the wheelchair had to be better than the crutches - there was nowhere to sit down and I could easily have been knocked over. I could not have managed on my own - couldn't have wheeled the chair or reached the goods. I felt vulnerable, anxious and almost freakish although I'm sure I actually looked like an ordinary person sitting down. I had a tiny taste of what it might be like for people with far worse conditions than me - and I hope it will leave a lasting imprint.

Back in the car I had an awfully nice text from a member of my team at work. I smiled out the window at the traffic and the rain and the bitumen. If I, with my fabulous support team, can conquer Marks & Spencers, then I can certainly venture to an afternoon movie at the cinema. Watch out Cameo - here I come!

Volunteer ambulance drivers

I had two operations in the RIE - the first a temporary 'external fixator' by Mr Oliver, and the second (with a spinal anaesthetic) - a complex screwing, fixing, nailing and joining by Mr Keanan. I think the latter took around 4 hours - and I remember nothing but the friendly ODOs with their tats and short hair and cheerful banter. It would be several weeks before I would find out whether this operation had been successful - at the time I was promised nothing given the severity of the injury. This was just the start of the extraordinary work undertaken by 2 different teams of surgeons to get me back to the outside world.

On the Friday after the second operation I was told I would transfer to the Plastics ward at St Johns the next day (at the time they told me I would be there 10 days) - and may even have my operation on the Saturday - so I started fasting... But on Saturday morning I missed my ambulance slot because my paper work wasn't ready - and weeping with frustration and fear I begged the staff nurse to find me another slot. The staff nurse was frantic with other things - a Saturday skeleton staff and people off sick. And then Wayne the ambulance man arrived with his trolley and colleague. After their cup of tea, I was on my way.

I was eased onto the trolley with a plastic board, my notes attached, my bags of belongings stuffed underneath that had been packed the night before by my mother and a pal (the rumour was only one bag in the ambulance - just like Ryanair...) . My flowers resting on my legs we set off through the hospital corridors, my view of the ceiling strangely disorientating. Then once I had been carefully loaded into the ambulance I was asked if I liked classical music - I did and it was duly turned on - immediately calming and reassuring.

On the way to St Johns I discover that these two generous and gentle men are driving me in their spare time - doing voluntary work at the weekend to ensure that patient transfers happen. I stared out the window at the motorway taffic, lying on my trolley, packed with blankets, the scent of the flowers pervading the ambulance while Wayne updated me on the route and time still to go. Four days on from my accident this was my first experience of calm - thanks to the patience and empathy shown by these men.

At St Johns we wheeled in through reception - down the corridor and up in the lift to Ward 18 - into the single room with its tiny ensuite immediately behind the nurse's station - met by smiles and welcomes from the nurses. My relief was palpable. The operation would be the next day - and so the preparation for Mr Addington began.

Bedpans and evening ablutions - the RIE

My first port of call following the accident was Accident and Emergency in the Royal Infirmary Edinburgh - my memories are hazy - shouting as my shoes were removed, complaining as my clothes were cut off and then a vague protestation as the Elle McPherson Bra was scissored. There were pain killers and questions and tests on my eyes. The staff were efficient and skilled - but nameless - then, I think following x-rays - I was trundled up to an orthopedic trauma ward. The ward was short staffed and frantically busy - the staff kind but time poor. There were 5 of us in the ward I think - but I only remember 2 - the gentle and very confused woman on my right with a broken hip and the woman across with 2 broken legs (fell down 4 steps). Still on an adrenlin rush I was overly rational and extremely practical. Did I go to theatre that day or the next - I don't remember - what I do remember: the food: the evening wash; and the bedpans.

First the food - well it used to come up from Wales (so the stories go) although I believe the contract may have changed now - but it was still grim, uninviting and inedible. I ate nothing that the hospital provided - relying on the generosity of friends and family - was reminded of hospitals in South East Asia where families often provide all the meals for patients. Could they do better? Yes - the food at St Johns (my next stop for 2 weeks) was nutritious, tasty and inviting - and made on the premises - I ate all of it every time.

Then - the bedpans. Universally hated by patients and staff alike, they are a necessary evil for people on bedrest. But why why are the ones in the RIE so shallow? Is it because someone thought they would be easier to get on to and therefore less stressful? Are they cheaper (less cardboard, less resource)? Were they designed by someone who has never tried them out? So not only the indignity of being helped onto one, and then hanging onto the bed guard rails so as not to fall off, but then the horror of finding them too shallow for just a medium pee. Again I must contrast with St Johns. The bedpans there were deep enough to be safe - and still easy enough to get onto.

And finally - on getting washed. Patients get their main wash in the morning - when there are plenty of staff on and there is time. But in the evening a wash is more rare - and when I asked for one (having been under a truck and still picking gravel out of my ears) I was greeted with surprise. Couldn't I wait until the morning. No I could not. I had my wash - limited by what I could manage - a basin on the bed table - perfunctory but at least I felt more human. This is not a criticism of the staff - the ward was very short staffed due to to staff illness and the needs of more seriously ill patients - and the staff could only do what was possible - but these small things help patients feel better - which surely must save costs in the longer term. So message to those who make decisions on staff resourcing - do you have a wash twice a day at home? And if so, don't you think that people who are ill and vulnerable should have the same opportunity?

A final postscript on the washing - it was a young Polish auxillary nurse who gave me the best wash of my stay at the RIE - I will be forever grateful.

From hospital to Pathhead

Its now one week since I was discharged from St John's in Livingstone - Ward 18 had become too comfortable, the other patients my pals, the nurses, doctors, cleaners, physios all too handy... the end when it came was sudden - discharge note and bag of pills in my sweaty anxious palm, waving goodbyes, wheeled unceremoniously backwards by my mother (there is no way of getting the wheelchairs through the swing doors any other way) - down the long cold corridors, passing the sign to HDU (more of that later) - and into reception area. Parked on my own by the car park ticket machine as my mother goes to get the car - utterly helpless and afraid - noone says hello, they look above, beyond, past...little boys point at my leg - I pretend it isnt mine..

Getting into the car is a trial but possible - leg awkward on a pillow on the floor - am in the front seat - am wary of the traffic - set my eyes to the left - see my first truck and ignore it - fixed on the view from the passenger side window. My mother may be more anxious than me. 25 miles later I get out of the car - stepping into the street for the first time with my crutches - facing the first hurdle - a 3 inch lip on the front door - it takes a good 2 minutes to work out how to hop over it - we didnt learn this in physio...

Hopping through the hall, jittery over the rugs and the cat - I enter what is to be my home for recuperation - the downstairs living room, with bed, settee (too low for me to sit on - would never be able to get back up, a couple of nice chairs, table with cheerful yellow table cloth, large flat screen TV (more of this later), log stove and door to the conservatory - its calm and quiet. I lie down on the bed, stash my pills, radio, phone, water, soft toy (Snowball!!), figs, banana, pen and lip salve into the window ledge - I am ready. The toilet is 8 hops away round a corner. In the hospital we didnt sit on toilets - but enjoyed a commanding view from the commode - how, I wondered, was I going to get down onto the toilet, and, more challenging, back up?

Run over by a truck

On the 19th November I was run over by a 32 tonne truck on the way to work on my bike. I spent just over 2 weeks in hospital - first in Edinburgh's new Royal Infirmary (Ward 108), and then in Ward 18 in the wonderful St John's, Livingstone. Now I am staying with a relative, just out of hospital, unable to go home because I live on the top floor of a Victorian tenement and I cant get up the stairs. I have just learnt how to use crutches but I'm still a bit nervous. I can wash myself and get to the toilet - but I can't cook or clean or go to work - I can't focus for more than ten minutes. I listen to the radio and look at the paper. I talk on the phone, send texts and use my computer. I have full use of my left leg and arms and upper body. But I cant carry anything. I am utterly dependent on my friends, colleagues and relatives - and eternally grateful for their tremendous support.

There is no need to go into the details of the incident - bike versus truck - I thought I was going to die - what more is there to say - but what happened next is perhaps worth sharing. The art of the possible in the surgical and medical world, the NHS in all its gory and glory, the surprisingly intense relationships with other patients, the people who give up their free time to transfer patients (me) between hospitals at weekends, cards and flowers from previous employers and colleagues not seen for years, long terrifying nights in the High Dependence Unit - and the fear of leaving the hospital and that little red lifeline buzzer that brings someone to your bed no matter what time of day or night it is. So bear with me folks - this is the saga of an ordinary person coming to terms with an extraordinary event.

On Spanish trains - with a bike

They're infamous - Spanish trains - especially for cyclists. In Spain's defence, if I had been a fluent Spanish speaker, I might have understood the more sophisticated possibilities (no one I talked to in the stations spoke English).... my Spanish is basic - so here goes...

The challenge - to get from Santiago de Compostela to Santander with the bike in time for the Plymouth ferry on a Monday afternoon.

In preparation I checked first at Lugo station - here I was told (I think) that bikes are only allowed on regional trains - these are slow and inexpensive. The helpful bloke in Lugo wrote down the times of the trains I could catch on a Sunday (would involve 3 changes and 12 hours) - not exactly convenient - but possible.

On arrival in Santiago a quick tour of the public library (free internet access) to check the trains on line - according the website - there were no trains on a Sunday. With this horrifying news, I legged it to the station.

According to the wee man there - there were trains on a Sunday, but no bikes allowed. What about Saturday I asked (well bleated - I had gone white by now) - no, not allowed on Saturday either (at this point I sensed some delight in his tone). So I mustered my best Spanish, looked him in the eye, explained that if I didnt get the ferry from Santander my husband, closely followed by my boss, would beat me - and please please, could he do something?

And indeed he did - with a Galician flourish, he stabbed furiously at his computer - and printed out my solution - depart Santiago on Saturday night - arrive in Ourense in the middle of the night - stay there (finding my own accomodation), depart Ourense early on Sunday morning (before any cafe or shop is open for life saving coffee) for Leon. Change at Leon for Palencia - and then again finally for Santander. Oh, and by the way its not possible to buy a through ticket - so at each station, another queue, new instructions and another ticket. Cost around 45 euros.

Was it worth it? Yes. The trains are slow, the scenery is fabulous, the natives are warm and friendly, and the craic in Ourense was great!

Santander to Santiago de Compostela

The facts:
9 days of pedaling
1 day of rest in Lugo
average distance per day 60 - 80ks
maximum distance (last day) 107ks
terrain: steep and difficult (good level of fitness required)
road quality: surfaces good, some single track roads
accommodation - mostly hostals (limited camping available)
weather: cold, cloud, rain, sun, wind
food: menu de dia (8 - 12 Euros)
language: Spanish (English is rarely spoken in this region)



The route:
maps: Michelin regional Espagne (572 and 571)

• Santander to San Vicente CA 131 (camping at Playa de Oyambre)
• San Vicente to Potes N621 (uphill through gorge) - choice of hostals in Potes
• Potes to Riano N621 Puerto de San Glorio (1609m) - choice of hostals in Riano
• Riano to La Vecilla N621 (over a couple of minor passes) - one hostal in La Vecilla
• La Vecilla to Senra CL 626 (hostal in Senra is the only one in the area)
• Senra to Sisterna LE 493 / AS 212 (hostal in Sisterna is the only one in the area)
• Sisterna to Fonsegrada AS 212 / LU 721 (80ks of very steep climbs) - choice of hostals in Fonsegrada
• Fonsegrada to Lugo C630 (choice of hostals and cheapest pulpo in Spain!)
• Lugo to Santiago de Compestela (take the small rural roads straight through)
  

In praise of travelling with strangers

We've all been there - on holiday with a partner or a close friend or a parent - tempers fraying, walking on opposite sides of the street - stomping into a shop and refusing to come out (and once even hurling the mountain bike into a ditch in Tasmania only to be spotted by an astonished pair of Canadians as they came round the corner unexpectedly in matching red anoraks...)

But not with strangers - with strangers we are on our best behaviour - we show respect, we don't hoard the food or take the last cake, we leave the bathroom clean, we turn off the light at a reasonable hour, we don't curse and shout when they miss the turning and add an extra 10k to the trip, we don't take all the blankets when we are forced to share a bed in some one horse town, we smile gently when they eat pig knuckle even though our stomachs are turning, we murmer contentment when they hang washing all over the shared hotel room, we don't mind that they don't share our penchant for shoe shops or Joseph Beuys exhibitions, we refuse to weep when our tendons have turned themselves inside out and there is still 25k to go, we gaily pedal up mountains in howling gales when we would rather stay in bed and watch Spanish day time soaps, and of course we laugh at their jokes and at our own expense day after day after day....

Take a pedal from Santander to Santiago de Compostela in Northern Spain with an Irish stranger - and this too could be all yours - until the stranger becomes your friend, your behaviour deteriorates and you have to split before the sodding bike is thrown into a ditch....

On internet pants

What possesses a man to send a headless picture of himself - wearing pants - to a complete stranger? And why, when aforesaid picture arrives, done up nicely in a neat little yellow zip file, does the female recipient fall about in paroxysms of laughter?

I mean - there's nothing inherently wrong with the torso - it has the right number of limbs - the tummy's not bad, and the thighs have clearly been worked a bit - but where on earth is the head? Were the pants chosen carefully before the shot? Or are they incidental? Do they send a deliberate message: solid, masculine, black, dependable, clean, natural, with just a hint of sexiness? Or are they mean spirited, dull, and conservative - spun from the byproduct of petroleum and manufactured by lost children deep in the Bangladeshi textile industry?

Whatever the subtleties or otherwise of the pants message, it was received with glorious uninhibited bellowing laughter - I laughed in the kitchen, in the shower, while feeding the cats - and on the way to work - I laughed uncontrollably in meetings, in the Co-op queue, and filling in my council tax forms. For two whole days - the pants did their trick - I hadn't felt so good in years. So to the strange man in the pants - thank you.. it was unexpected - it was a wee bit creepy - but in the end it was cracking good fun....

Keep up the good work - the women of the nation are smiling with gratitude...

Random cycle tours - Part 1

It was Doug's idea to climb Cotopaxi. Helen and I just went along for the ride. Turned out we needed a guide, and an ice axe, and crampons, and training - and $80 each.... and nerves - and thighs - of steel. Ten days of hard pedaling to get to the meeting point (you'll need the altitude training the English woman turned feral in Quito said) - needless to say we dropped like flies on the way up.

First to go was the Australian - threw up at base camp and never got out of his sleeping bag... We didn't know him anyway. Next was me. Having been dragged out of my bunk at 4am, force fed strawberry milk and then pushed up a vertical mountain in the pitch black wearing pink boots - I never stood a chance. Not that it stopped Manuel my guide from trying to taking advantage of a poor swooning woman with strawberry flavoured altitude problems....

Helen was next - but did manage to get up to 5700m - a superhuman effort in snow up to her thighs. Doug came back with Helen - only a hundred metres or so from the top. Turned out no one made it to the top that day - or the week before or week after - the avalanche risk was too high. - And with that - we high tailed it down to the Amazon basin just in time or Christmas in the jungle.

How to choose a pedal pal and get to the starting point

Several years and cycling trips later, someone said, over dinner, 'you should have a blog - get those pedal stories out'. But who would read it? 'Your mother would... '

The deal was done. This is for my mother - and potential pedal tourers everywhere. The last trip was to Cuba - on a whim - on my own - to learn Spanish - with the bike in a bag - and a map ordered on line from Stanfords. This time its different.

To implement this lesson you must first be a couch surfer (join at www.couchsurfing.com). Having joined - and notched up a few references (you need not only to let strangers stay in your house, but be nice to them too) - you can then start shopping - for friends. Your aim is to find a pleasant stranger to go cycling with - in the country of your choice, at a time of your choosing. This is not difficult - took me all of ten minutes (through one of the 'groups'...).

Two emails later, two phone calls later (one with aforesaid stranger's mother, the other with the stranger himself) - a plan is hatched. Meeting in Santander, Northern Spain on 1 September - at the ferry terminal. I'll be the person with the wee blue bike. He will have a red carpet. That was the easy bit.

For the next stage of the lesson - you need patience, time and money for phone calls. and the ability to work with 7 internet sites at once. Edinburgh to Santander with a bike can be done by plane (2 changes, lots of carbon, lots of hassle with bike bags and charges, £340), Eurostar (seat61 - 4 changes, even more hassle, over £250 and how do you get a bagged bike on the Paris metro?) - or simply by train from Edinburgh to Plymouth (£100 return), ferry to Santander (£188 return) - roll on roll off and no bike bag required.

Hot tip for the uninitiated - you need to talk to a real person at Brittany Ferries to get a bunk in a shared cabin - this is only £40 more than a reclining seat - which doesn't actually recline - according to my sources. Apparently it takes around an hour to unload the boat (for when you are booking your 'connecting train') but you should allow a bit more for the captain to fiddle around a bit at the pier.

And finally, a few days to find a couch in Plymouth (because of course there is no train from Edinburgh that connects with the ferry and you get a new pal into the bargain) and another couch in Santander (for local knowledge and a new Spanish pal).

Now its time to start training - because, although one is already superfit - aforesaid stranger will have been pedaling for a month before I arrive -