Well the physio is finished. The PTSD group sessions are over. Only four more months of medication to go and then a two week wean off period. Discharged from St Johns and the Royal Infirmary. An out of court settlement two days before the court case. All funded by my union (pay your dues...). Admission of liability from the truck driver. But no charges. Whether this has anything to do with the 'accident' happening during a police traffic operation is anyone's guess. But I know what I think.
I am back on the road. Not only these roads. But Mexican roads. And Guatemalan roads. And even a road or two in El Salvador. OK, I stick to the pavement on Seafield Road. There's no such thing as miracles in this game. And I am back in the hills. Not mere heathery Scottish hills, but sodding great mountains in the Mexican Sierra Norte. Feeling the pain. But doing it anyway.
I finally got my Bio-mechanics assessment (I guess nine months isn't long to wait in the greater scheme of things). My 'new' leg is an inch and a half longer than my titanium free one. Weird that. So every day I thrust my orthotics into my shoes and crack on. Sometimes I can run. And sometimes I cant. Weirdly this depends entirely on the shoe. I can dance too. Although not every step - sideways moves are not my forte.
I've developed a bit of a thing for Rapha. This is not a cheap thing. But it is classy. And stylish. And wildly middle class. I persuade myself that I deserve it. Oh, and I'm building a touring bike. With my special advisor Rab. A Bob Jackson frame. Enamel orange. World Tourer. Eight Speed. Which should do my just fine in Central America. And South America. And Spain. You get the picture.
I still have to stretch. Do my exercises. Buy shoes because they fit - not because I like them. Pause a little before committing to some mad three day hike through the mountains. Search out lorry free routes. But heh, minor details. We got there in the end.
I am back on the road. Not only these roads. But Mexican roads. And Guatemalan roads. And even a road or two in El Salvador. OK, I stick to the pavement on Seafield Road. There's no such thing as miracles in this game. And I am back in the hills. Not mere heathery Scottish hills, but sodding great mountains in the Mexican Sierra Norte. Feeling the pain. But doing it anyway.
I finally got my Bio-mechanics assessment (I guess nine months isn't long to wait in the greater scheme of things). My 'new' leg is an inch and a half longer than my titanium free one. Weird that. So every day I thrust my orthotics into my shoes and crack on. Sometimes I can run. And sometimes I cant. Weirdly this depends entirely on the shoe. I can dance too. Although not every step - sideways moves are not my forte.
I've developed a bit of a thing for Rapha. This is not a cheap thing. But it is classy. And stylish. And wildly middle class. I persuade myself that I deserve it. Oh, and I'm building a touring bike. With my special advisor Rab. A Bob Jackson frame. Enamel orange. World Tourer. Eight Speed. Which should do my just fine in Central America. And South America. And Spain. You get the picture.
I still have to stretch. Do my exercises. Buy shoes because they fit - not because I like them. Pause a little before committing to some mad three day hike through the mountains. Search out lorry free routes. But heh, minor details. We got there in the end.
