An End in Sight

Was a weird thing, the final physio session. Some written instructions. Some warnings about not overdoing it. Commitment to do 50 miles of pedaling a week. Lots of smiles and good lucks. A wee bit of sadness. And some fear. Who's going to tell me what to do now? And more importantly, does this mean I won't get any better?

A two month SOS pass (until finally signed off the books). And a silent calculation of what 21 months of physio (2 to 3 times a week) cost the tax payer.... Apparently insurance companies fork out £10k to the NHS for every road traffic accident. I'm guessing that didn't really cover it....

That was two months ago. I cracked on with the cycling. I was, after all, the world's most compliant physio patient. Did the Pedal for Scotland with 9000 others (55 miles on a Birdy is a bloody long day). Got the pink road bike out. Rode to Stirling via the Forth Road Bridge. What a blast. Another 50 miles. Cruising up the hills like a cruising thing. Leaving my companion for dust (although to be fair his tyres were somewhat fatter than mine...).

Cranking up the ambition. Two women in their finest Rapha. Black and red (with those cutsie ever so stylish matching arm warmers) on a three day ride from Balloch to Pitlochry on the NCN. Over the Glenogle Viaduct and bouncing down through the forest into Killin. Autumn leaves and a fading Scottish sun. Fine bed and breakfasts and the best Cullin Skink this side of the black stump. Sheeting rain and happiness personified.

Another 60 miles through Fife. Covered in cowshit and scone crumbs. A puncture 20 metres from the only bike shop on the route. And by the time it had been repaired, the rain had stopped. Cyclists supporting local businesses (and not risking oil on their precious Rapha gear...)

This is not the end of the story. There are several more chapters to go. But it is the end of Physio. And Orthopaedics. Because the clever Gary K discharged me from OPD 6 on Tuesday afternoon. A quick feel of my ankle. A warning to stay off icy roads with the bike. And an end to the endless waiting in the green waiting room beside the yellow corridor. Not all waiting rooms mind, just that green one. For now, my friends, we move to the next chapter - the dreaded Trauma Clinc.

240 Jumps

21 months in and I'm still compliant. Physio has moved to a new, higher (more dreadful) phase. The deep squats have stopped (thank you god) as have the wall slides with weights. I can now push my own weight with my right leg (apparently this is the goal) and I walk without a limp.

But.... I need to be able to run. Not a marathon. Or even the hundred metres. But enough to skip out of the way of danger. To catch a departing bus. And, dare I say it, just for sheer bloody joy. But...

My ankle joint is very stiff. Blocked actually. And its not going to get much better. We remind ourselves that there was a truck.... But we reckon (well, my Physio does) that we can force it a couple more millimetres. Scare the shit out of it basically. And teach my shin (which has long since forgotten) how to absorb impact.

Thus if you see a strange figure out on Porty beach at night, despite the driving rain, hopping round in a hoodie, you wont be surprised. You might stop to count the hopscotch jumps (30), the zigzag jumps (30), the forward lunge hops (3) and the forward two legged bounds (30). Repeat. You probably wont see the grimace of pain (my ankle is absolutely not used to this), and you definitely wont see the day after consequences (those first few steps in the morning are fairly unpleasant). But needs must and there's still a little bit left to achieve. And achieve it I will, dammit!

High Viz

Yep. It was only a matter of time. Die hard anti paraphernalia dons high viz vest, and, some weeks later, walks into Bike Trax and purchases the first helmet that fits. Is this based on evidence? No. Is this based on peer pressure? Absolutely not. An age thing? Naw. The nudge factor? Possibly. Read the transcript of a coroner's inquest into a cycle death. Cyclist was wearing all the kit. Tragically it didn't help her. But the vest gives me a bit of confidence. Especially on country roads.

Country roads. Far worse than the city. The drivers. Not the roads. Not all the drivers of course. But enough of them. Is there nowt to do but hurtle up and down frightening the living daylights out of the innocents on two self propelled wheels?

A gentle run out to the Big Tent in Falkland should have been charming. And some of it was. But a lot of it wasn't. Women screaming abuse out of back windows. Overtaking manoeuvres at exactly the wrong moment leaving me with inches to spare and aching palms from the ridiculously tight grip. OK. I'm more anxious than most people. I confess to a little terror. But country roads don't usually have pavements to hop onto. There's nothing to do but hang on and curse. And shed an angry tear when composure is regained a few moments later.

Is it getting easier? Sometimes. But then again, not really. Stronger legs mean further distances. More independence. Can even cycle to the hospital now (yes, the physio continues) although there is no safe off road route that doesn't involve getting off and wheeling the bike down a series of steps. This exacerbates my fury. Which in turn jabs at my fear. The trip to work remains a sequence of minor horrors - interspersed with mad moments of victory (oh my god I'm still alive!). Despite this I have discovered there are people even more afraid than me. Which is why I now find myself in the absurd position of buddying novice cyclists into work (on the pavement of course). It doesn't get much more ironic than that.

Cuter than a cute thing

It's yellow. With full suspension. And a 14 speed rohloff hub. And a SON dynamo. Front and back carriers. Smooth leather seat. A stand. (A stand! must be an age thing...). And it folds. In 15 seconds. Without trapping the folder's fingers. Or toes. Or blackening their finger nails. Or traumatising their ego.

In its short life it has already charmed its way onto trains. And buses. And down to Cambridge. On night routes with cats eyes. Up and down curbs. On pavements. Lots of pavements (sorry officer). To the Scottish Parliament. To Scottish Enterprise in Stirling. To a wedding even. Into student quarters. And back out again. And into the Standard Life building. To Green Monday. With a lot of smart people watching. And out a couple of hours later through the aforesaid's revolving doors (on the third attempt).

It stops grown men in the street. Some of them give it a whirl. Marvel at the techie stuff. And old ladies. Och, look at that hen.... And young lads "nice bike Mrs!" And sniffing dogs. And clambering toddlers. And half dressed laddettes swaying slightly in the evening breeze.

When you've been run over by a truck you need a bit of a treat. Something comfy. That will treat your knee and foot with respect. That will potter up The Mound without causing a sweat. That will jump a curb at the first sound of a distant rumble. That will beg forgiveness from pedestrians on the pavement.

Yeah yeah. Whatever. There's a load of excuses for buying a high spec Birdy. But in the end we pay a fortune simply because its cuter than a cute thing - and nothing, absolutely nothing else is more important.

On knees

Rehab is not straight forward. It isn't linear. Nor predictable. Nor consistent. Which is obviously why noone warned me that a knee problem would bring me to the brink for 8 weeks. Would take me back off my bike. Stop the running (in the hospital corridor) that had only just started. Stop the blog writing (too weary). Keep me out of the pool. And not to put too fine a point on it - stop the hope.

My knee was not damaged by the truck. It is, however, connected to bits and pieces that were. And there lies the problem, which although now temporarily fixed, will apparently be an ongoing issue.

This is dull, tiresome and creates a whole new set of mental requirements to overcome. A sore ankle and foot can be managed. Because that was the truck - right? But the knee - that's punishment from a higher being.

Imagine that you have to consider every step. Particularly up and down hills. Holding your knee out every so slightly. You see the bus coming. Going to miss it if you don't increase your pace. But you know that that simple activity could knock you back for a week. You slightly overdo your physio exercises. And the pain stays for the whole day. Then you get on a bike. Hold your knee out - for every single pedal rotation. You get the picture. This is not insurmountable. It will improve. But, according to my Physiotherapist, I am now a person who 'looks like a knee injury, not an an ankle injury'. I can only hope this is a good thing.

Cycle commuter

Today I cycled to work. OK - I did take to the pavement more than once. And slewed to a halt at every distant rumble. But I made it. There and back. Saving £2.40. And an hour more in bed.

Go-fast Shin

The Golden Jubilee. Funny name for a hospital. Especially one in the backend of Clydebank. A walk, a bus, a train, a low level train and another walk from the East side of Edinburgh. In the worst weather for months. Me in full waterproofs. Running into a colleague on the train, a relative at the station, and more colleagues on the low level platform. There's something to be said for this public transport lark.

Dalmuir station is not pretty. But it does have lifts. And signs. Which makes the ten minute walk to the hospital/hotel/conference complex somewhat easier.

There's a vague sense of the Middle East in the hotel. Something to do with the wooden paneling and the tiled floors. Although there, sadly, the similarities end. No wafting spices or honied baklavas. No thrumming drums. No call of the muezzin... This is somewhat of a disappointment, given the original purpose of the complex. I guess it is Clydebank after all.

I am entitled to a free room, and that is all. My complimentary paper will have to be paid for, as will all my meals. I guess this is fair enough, given its the NHS budget, and tax payers have to be protected. But it does feel a bit weird. The 15m pool, though, is part of the deal. With its view of the Clyde (if you stand on tiptoes), its thick white towels and its compact sauna and steam room.

At 3pm I present myself to the pre-op clinic and answer the same questions three times in different order. Provide samples. Get swabbed, jabbed and ECGd. Commiserate with the nurse who ended up in a bed in his own ward after being knocked down on his bike by a car driver.

Later I eat in the cavernous staff canteen that has two options on the menu. Jamie Oliver has obviously yet to reach the west coast of Scotland; the food is vaguely nutritious and entirely colourless.

By 6.30pm I'm bored. I have 17 hours to kill. Too wet and cold to go out. I busy myself with Susie Orbach. Play with the iMac. Examine the toiletries. Pace round the hotel. Swim in the pool. Melt in the sauna. Investigate the rest of the hospital. Which is part of the hotel. Or the other way round. Very hard to tell.

At 11 the next morning I present myself to the ward. Shown to a twin room. Given the statutory gown, paper pants and fancy white stockings. Sign the consent form. Answer the same questions five times. Don a wristband. Meet the surgeon and his assistant. Discuss the likelihood of two return visits. Meet the anaesthetist. Discuss spinal versus general anaesthetic. 'Choose' general because spinals not recommended for afternoon lists (what??). Meet some random other doctor. Meet several more nurses. Get offered lunch by mistake.

Finally walk, with my nurse, to the theatre. In my gown. Foam slippers. And unseen paper pants. The walk of shame. Why am I not wheeled? To test my mobility apparently. Good idea. And saves portering time too. Efficiency gains live at a hospital near you (I hope the Tories are watching...).

The admission room is bustling, noisy and upbeat. I meet more nurses. Answer the same questions seven times. Climb on a bed. And horrors, am wheeled into the theatre awake. Despite being a seasoned professional patient, this is new to me. Where is the little anaesthetic room? Did they forget to build it? Efficiency savings?

I see the nurse open the instrument tray. I bleat a bit. And, embarrassingly, although I am a seasoned professional patient, weep. Clutch at the hand of the nurse from Sierra Leone. And then its over.

In the recovery room an hour later the surgeon tells me he 'got the lot'. Well, most of it at least. Which means that all going well, there will not be two return visits. Hopefully not even one. I am the proud owner of a new streamlined go-fast shin. I have been improved. And it hurts like hell. I hope Susie Orbach doesn't mind.