Almost stickless

A week on from the Scotmid adventure and I am becoming quite bold. A slow but sure circuit of the block (800m?). Stalking the corridors of power at work. All the way to the bus stop on the way to Physio. And each time the pain is a bit less, and my step a bit more confident. But I still feel woozy at times. A strange sort of sea sicknesses. Its been quite some time since I walked properly - without thinking carefully about each step.

My Physio dictates some new exercises. Trying to stop my foot collapsing inwards. Another small thing stuffed into my shoe. And I have to start jumping. Every second day. Twenty jumps. This, not surprisingly, hurts. Meanwhile on the wobble board I am starting to feel more balanced. Thirty seconds is the test. And I'm almost there. But I still attend the hospital twice a week. And that next operation is looming...

Back on my bike on the Prom my knee complains habitually but I feel ready to tackle the road. And the traffic. This may be a false confidence. Brought on by the sudden stickless freedom. And the relentless boredom of pedaling slowly up and down the same route day after day. And I'm weak as a weak thing. With a certain reluctance for emergency stops. And no way of returning in the event of an unfortunate break down. But I've set my heart on a ride to Musselburgh. Which is absolutely nothing to do with the safety of the route - and everything to do with ice cream.

To Scotmid without a stick

This is a difficult time. Everywhere I look there are people doing things that I want to do, but can't. People getting off the bus to go to the gym. Locking up their bikes outside the cinema. Running down the beach into the sea. Wandering the shops without a plan. Going hill walking. Dancing at ceilidhs. Being spontaneous. Being mobile. Its the proverbial woman who can't get pregnant - seeing pregnant women and small children everywhere. Difference is that, should the woman be desperate enough, she can always consider snatching a child (I say consider - not actually carry it out) ... Snatching someone's legs on the other hand...

And on top of all of this, every day I get asked the same questions by well meaning people,. Generous comments on the speed of my progress by friends and colleagues, and every day I have to think of some anodyne friendly response. Instead of screaming that I am absolutely and totally sick of it all. That it's now more than ten months and my foot is still sore every day. That I still go to physio twice a week while working full time with a team of eight people. That I still suffer the indignity of pre-op clinics that last three times the length of the actual operation. That my knee hurts within minutes of setting off on my bike, and doesn't settle for hours afterwards. That I am still not independently mobile. That I still haven't sorted out my insurance claim, never mind any compensation.

And with those angry and pointless (and self pitying) thoughts this afternoon, I picked up my keys and bag, stepped carefully over my stick, and went - stickless - to Scotmid. Staggering slightly, but not limping, I made it. Bought a paper and some juice and walked cautiously home. Analysed another new pain in the left side of my ankle, and experimented on how best to carry my bag. Strange how heavy a litre of juice is when you don't have your stick.

I guess this journey was a triumph. But it doesn't feel like that at all. It just illustrates how far I actually have to go before I get some semblance of my old life back. And how much work I'll have to do in the meantime. (And the thought that we never discuss - that I wont actually get it back at all).

Competent Crew

Holidays are very difficult with a stick. No cycling. No walking around. No hill climbing or mountaineering. No sitting around beaches or swanning around half a dozen art galleries. That doesn't leave much else - except for sailing. So - after a few hours searching on the Internet, a few emails and the gathering of some friends, we four arrive at Glenborrodale in Ardnamurchan with our water proofs, cameras (and prayers) to undertake the RYA Competent Crew course.

On a tiny jetty owned by Glenborrodale Castle we meet our skipper (also cook, cleaner, instructor and moral compass) for the week - Chris. Chris looks at least authentic. Early 60s, grey whiskers and a rather fabulous yacht (for the techies amongst you - a Jeanneau Sun Legend 41). We load our gear onto the Dory, and motor out to the boat.

First test for my leg - get off the Dory and onto the boat. This is achieved. And the rest, as they say, is history. Over five days it doesn't rain. We eat like kings and we learn our knots. We take the helm, reef the main sail and understand cleats and winches. We can heave to, and jibe without disaster. We can manage the jib and have a crack at the spinnaker. We sleep in very small cabins and treat fresh water like gold. We pay for a shower in Coll, and three days later in Tobermory. We practise 'man overboard' and pulling up the anchor. We enjoy our gin, and hot chocolate with rum. We oggle the sea eagle and squint into the sun for dolphins. We obey the signs 'do not feed the otter' and learn the rules of the sea. We pay due respect to ferries and whistle rudely at yachts that fail to give way. And on Friday, back on the jetty, we line up for our certificates. We are, according to the Royal Yacht Association, officially Competent.

And how was my gammy leg through all of this? Well, my knee ached pretty much the whole time. But my ankle was surprisingly silent. Was I cured? Alas no. Back on shore a week later I am still paying the price. My ankle joints stiffened up through their enforced rest and now I appear to be worse off than before. Was it worth it? Absolutely. Next spring we will tackle the Day Skipper Practical. And with that little certificate we can charter on our own....

Round Catalunya with a stick

Hace mucho calor. Cada dia. Cada noche. 32 degrees, dropping to 29 at night. This is no place for a person with a stick. And certainly no place for a person who can't wear sandals (the waiters did, after a while, get used to me sitting with my shoes off in the shadiest corner of the terrace). And finally, no place for a person with low blood pressure, who faints away if forced to stand still for more than a few minutes....

Weird having a holiday when you can't really walk around. Can't do the sights. Or the shopping. Wander the old town at night. Too hot even for physio. And the tiled floors, while beautiful, horribly unforgiving on a shattered ankle.

But. It was perfect. Eating. Sleeping. Reading. Hablo castellano. More sleeping. Three cold showers a day. Swimming in the Med. Swimming in the little pool. Eating grapes from the vine. Wandering the ramblas (well, one or two blocks). Wallowing in the generosity of my friends and their families. Marveling at the flat of my friends - 300 years old and perched on a Roman wall.

Ironically the heat prevented potential frustration. Had it been five or six degrees cooler, I would have wanted to get out there. Visiting every museum, art gallery and Roman ruin. Inspecting every Gaudi. But when its 32 degrees you wake up at 10. You eat finish breakfast around 11.30. You plan your next meal. You linger over lunch til 3. Then a siesta. A short stroll to a terrace. Or a drive into the mountains. Catching one part of an exhibition. And dinner at 10. And then more sleeping. For ten glorious days in Catalunya I almost forgot about my disability.

The journey home was the wake up call. Ever noticed how far you have to walk in airports? And then double that for the departure and the arrival. But - I achieved it. I got myself, and my stick, to Barcelona and back.

The Interview

What can I say? I only have myself to blame. They were both decent, fair and kind. They did exactly what they were supposed to do. There were no surprises. Attentive and smiling. Gave me every opportunity. And I completely and utterly blew it.

Today I had an interview for another job. I went to Physio first. Then two meetings back to back. Then jumped in a taxi. Arrived early. Walked into the room smiling. Did (I think) a good presentation. And then fell apart. Rambled. Strayed off the point. Didn't sell myself.

I will find out next week. While I'm in Spain. But its pretty obvious already. I wouldn't hire me - so why would someone else? Can I blame my accident for this? Hard to say. I'd like to, but it may just be an excuse. I have missed out on jobs before. But never performed as badly as this. Strange how an incident nine months ago can start affecting other life chances. Wonder how long it will take, if ever, to get back to normal.

In the meantime, my colleague and friend fell off his bike today on his way to work and broke both his elbows. Dog ran out in front of him apparently. Pitched straight over his handlebars. Sometimes there is simply no justice.

Paying the price

Meanwhile, back at St John's clinic last week, I was told I would need another two operations on my skin graft. In essence these are cosmetic, although the results should also allow me to wear socks without a slit down the side. I should also be able to get into a normal wetsuit. The idea is to debulk the graft using liposuction and then, some weeks later, reduce the skin to fit. There is, of course, a small risk of infection from each procedure. My consultant assures me that the team will do everything they can to avoid this. Good. However, we cannot proceed with this until I get the all clear from my orthopedic consultant at ERI. This appointment is booked for Tuesday. Perhaps optimistically, I am booked back into the plastic surgery clinic in November. All being well, I will have the surgery at the end of the year.

In the meantime, I am paying a significant price from gallivanting around the beach yesterday without a stick. Hauling the boat up and down the sand didn't seem an issue at the time. It certainly is now. Putting too much weight through my ankle has resulted in extreme pain - even 24 hours later. Probably not helped by wearing the little rubber boots without orthotics. Its a strange thing the stick. I carry it along, a bit like a pet, without realising what it actually does. A few short trips without it round the office - no problem. But constant weight over distances (particularly without my special insoles) is not yet possible. This is frustrating and disappointing. And there's no end in sight. My stick will continue to be a bit of a pet for some time to come.

Open Water

I had the idea when the new sailing club opened 20 metres from my bedroom window. If you can't stop them - join them. And if you cant do the things you used to do because of a gammy leg, then do new things. So - I decided to become a sailor. And to become a sailor at Porty Boat Club - you need your own boat. This is not as easy it as sounds. You cant just pop down to Scotmid and pick up a dinghy.

First you have to decide what kind. And your choice somewhat narrows when you realise that you have to get the boat down the beach to the water - there is no jetty, no marina. And if there is no one around to help - you have to do it yourself. And do you buy a single hander or a double hander? Because it seems that there isn't really a lightweight boat that will do both. Is it more fun to sail alone - or with a friend? And what about attaching an outboard? Or fishing? What about maintenance? Insurance? I search the Internet. Call a distant cousin who happens to be the Commodore (yes!) of a yacht club on the West Coast.

And during all the this frantic effort, a vague unease that I might not be physically up to, it my leg might not hold up, my knee too sore.. Meanwhile the search goes on. The budget rises. And then falls when HR refuses to buy out my leave. And then, how lucky am I, I meet an avid dinghy sailor who is a member of a club a couple of miles down the road. A club that has dinghies for use by members. A club that has a bar, and changing rooms, and lots of kit. A club, in other words, that is infinitely better than the one outside my bedroom window.

And this is how I ended up out on the open water in the Forth crammed onto a Pico with a friend. In a borrowed shorty wetsuit, soft black rubber boots, my skin graft open to the elements. Soaking up salty spray. Laughing and whooping. An anxious hand on the tiller. Cautious jibes and more confident tacks. Heading rapidly out to Fife, unaware that the rescue boat was never launched due to engine failure.

Back on the beach an hour later we are triumphant. De-rig and drag the boat back up the beach to the club house. Hand in my membership cheque and hose down my kit. Big smiles and aching foot. Home on the bus with my salty hair and a firm grasp of my stick. I am, officially, a sailor.