After a three year absence to study Spanish

It seems there isn't time to write a blog when studying Spanish at the Open University. Neither is there that much to comment on. Suffice to say there were exams, essays, on-line tutorials, a summer school, lost weekends, lost evenings, mislaid friends, new OU friends, several trips to Colombia, and shelves that warped with the weight of Spanish grammar. And come December 2014, the ping of an email with the results. I can now officially put after my name: Dip. Spanish (Open). And I can (proudly) say that I gave several presentations in Spanish in Colombia about Scotland's world leading climate change policy. And that's it. Oh - and I can speak, read, write, in Spanish. Now there's a thing.

Shopping for (more) education

So. All that hospital stuff finished. I took a year off (health institutions - not work). Gadded around Latin America a couple of times. Did a few weeks of Spanish school. Went to work. And home again. Went to Spain. And to work. And home again. Watched people leave work (and not return). They went with early severance and dreams of change. Decided I needed a new institution to wrangle with. Preferably at arm's length. Without endless circuitous bus trips. With some learning. Time limited. Decided to study. At the Open University. Diploma in Spanish.

Its quite something studying a language with the OU. What level to enter at? Why don't they support Macs? Why did I have to invest in a second (reconditioned) laptop? Why was I told to buy the books, when a second set turned up free a month or so later? How much practice to put in before starting? Should I hang on to my existing teacher? Why do the 'introductory workshops' have the wrong dates and no course content? Why why why...

Because the OU is cool. And relatively cheap (in Scotland at least). Because the course content is pretty good. Because the tutor might even be a native Spanish speaker. Because you get a student card (handy for this year's trek to Australia). Because people at work look at you askance. (And think you are clever. Or mad). And you don't really realise what you have committed to until its far far too late. Because there's a pipe dream to live in Mexico. And pipe dreams need action. And En Rumbo L140 has a whole lot of action. Eight hours a week. Four assessments a term. One exam a year. And 6 key strokes for every sodding accented letter (this doesn't of course happen with a Mac....)

Más tarde amigos....

There....

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.

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.