The Third Wheel

Monday morning this week I woke up and I was in a bad mood. When I am grouchy, I try to do this exercise where I ask myself:

1. What am I feeling?
2. Why am I feeling this way? Is there a cause?
3. What am I going to do about it? How will I react?

I’ve had to adopt this strategy since I started working again as it is not acceptable or sufficient to haul off and tell people they are pissing me off. But don’t think I’m all zen or whatever. I’m not.

So Monday I am grouchy.  Did I watch too much Ali “being a stay-at-home mom is like being in solitary confinement” Wong and now I am hostile at the three people who put me there?

Yeah, possibly.

This past weekend was my daughter’s prom and Mother’s Day.

First, the boutonniere debacle. Claire-Adele ordered flowers to be delivered for the prom. For Winter Ball, her boyfriend wanted to get her a corsage and she did not see the point of spending an hour of money she earned on something that she’d wear for a night then it would shrivel and die. For prom, she got the point and ordered flowers without fuss. She failed to check her voicemail until Saturday afternoon when she heard a message from earlier in the week from the florist saying they couldn’t deliver her flowers because they were slammed with Mother’s Day orders. She learned Saturday around 1:00. She was leaving for dinner at 7:00.

She was stressed. Jack drilled her with questions: Did you get a confirmation? Did you call them? Did you get your money back? The Boy said he was going to call the florist and yell at them until they brought her a flower. She became more stressed.

I looked at the Boy and Jack and said, "You guys need to go buy some bike parts" as I shooed them out the door. Claire-Adele went to her room and cried.

"What do you need me to do?" I asked. "The roses are in bloom in front of the house. We can make something."

"Leave me alone for five minutes," she said through sobs.

I thought for three minutes. I yelled up the stairs, "I can call Met Market and see if they can get you a flower."

"I am texting Robby," she said. "Okay, call Met Market."

I did. The woman at the other end of the line was as cheerful as a florist could possibly be before Mother's Day. "I can get you something by six. Does that work?"

"Sure." I told Claire-Adele.

"Robby got flowers from the Safeway where he used to work," she said. "Can you cancel yours?"

After the crisis was narrowly averted, neither Robby or I were going to cancel our flowers. Better to have two boutonnieres than none. "Robby can wear two," I said.

When he arrived and flower time came, Eleanor pinned on Robby's lapel the flower Robby brought. Of course she should. He's the boyfriend. I'm just the mom. It is my job to stand back and let her stand on her own. She should take his flower.

But still. I decided to not let a good rose go to waste, so I unwrapped the flower and put it in a vase by my kitchen sink.

Then next day was Mother's Day. Jack and I decided to go for a bike ride, and I was delighted the Boy decided to join us. It was a warm, sunny day, prefect for a ride across the 520 bridge. When we got to the park on the Eastside, we admired the view for a bit and then I was ready to go back home.

"I'm hungry," said the Boy. Which means his hunger has slowly been building for a while and now he was ravenous. 

"Why don't we go back and got to lunch in Ballard?" Ballard is full of fun places to go for lunch on a Saturday. That suggestion was met with ridicule from Jack and the Boy.

"It is only three more miles to Bellevue," Jack said, not looking at the elevation gain. As we left, we rode down a giant hill. Which meant on the way back I'd have to ride up a giant hill. Fuck. And then there was the mile uphill climb. The ride to Ballard is along the water and is as flat as a any ride you can find in Seattle.

Jack and the Boy were consistently twenty yards ahead of me. Once in a while, Jack would turn around and yell "You can do it!" Just because I could do it, doesn't mean I wanted to. And this was Mother's Day. It was supposed to be my ride and it was turning into theirs. I was getting pissed and I was the weak link, holding them back. Plus, I was carrying the Boy's water.

Literally.

We were the sweatiest people Bellevue Square has ever seen. Truckloads of people were dressed up and at the mall on the nicest weekend day of spring so far this year. It was weird. I didn't bring my saddle bags, so I couldn't shop--for much! I did manage to get a little "treat yourself" Mother's Day goodies in my fanny pack from Lego and Lush. The boy got Jamba Juice.

I was in need of some powerful feminine energy after riding with the Boys. And lip gloss.

The ride from Bellevue Square back to the 520 bridge wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. When I got to the bottom of the steep part, I found a mantra--In two months, I'll be in London. London is flat. There are no hills in London. Magically, the hill I was terrified about wasn't nearly as killer as I thought it would be. Evan, my physical therapist, would have been proud.

At the end of the day, I had fun slogging to Bellevue Square, even though I was swearing under my breath for the second half of the ride. I had 16 miles to add to my "Bike Everywhere" log for May.

So why was I so grumpy on Monday? Did I watch too much Ali Wong over the weekend and I was deeply pondering the inequity women face in the world?

Perhaps it is the realization that for so long, my world revolved around them, and that there never will be a day where their world revolves around me--not that it should. Still--I'd like a weekend where I am not the third wheel in my family events.

Freedom Riding & The Albatross

I have been trying to bike outside as much as possible, especially now that the weather is nice. I get better exercise while on my road bike than on the stationary bike.

I love riding my bike. I always have, but I love it now even more. Yesterday, I biked from the U District to Fremont to visit a tea shop and buy some tea. This morning I met friends at the Stone Way Cafe for coffee, and I biked there. I am getting my physical therapy cardio in AND I am connecting with friends.

I have heard that people who can't move their limbs sometimes enjoy swimming or floating in the water. They feel like they have control over their bodies in the water that they don't have on land.

I feel the same way about my bike. When I cross the street on foot, I am super tentative and cautious. On my bike, I am brave and bold, taking my turn in the traffic instead of avoiding intersections. I pass people on the Burke Gilman on a regular basis. Yesterday, I was surprised when I was passed. "That guy most be going really fast to pass me," I thought. This would not have been a thought two months ago when I was the tortoise on the bike path. I feel like a regular person on my bike.

On land, I am still one of the slower people around. I was riding the Light Rail last night. The train had been sitting there with the doors open when I got to the platform. I saw the open doors, but couldn't run or jog to them. I made it inside, but my big blue purse hanging on my shoulder got caught when the timer closed the doors. A man behind me pushed the button on the outside, opened the doors, and hopped in.

"You got move fast, Lady," he said. I was pissed. He didn't know I was moving as fast as I could. I am not a new transit rider. I have sprinted and leapt on a train before, once with my ten year old daughter on a packed train in London during rush hour. (We had a plan that if one of us got left on a tube platform, she would stay put at the current station or the next, and I would look for her.)

I remember reading L'Albatros, a Baudlaire poem in college about an albatross that is caught by men on a ship. The majestic bird of the sky becomes a laughing stock on the deck of the boat, unable to walk because of his wings. I feel like the albatross on land, and I fly on my bike instead of in the sky.

http://fleursdumal.org/poem/200

The Knack: The Boy and His Porsche; Me and My Bike

The Boy loves Legos, or used to love them. His Lego room was out of commission recently because Anita and I were painting the upstairs of the house. I have been trying to ween him from excessive computer and smart phone use. In the past, I've gotten him a large Lego set each summer to keep him busy. One summer, I got him an NXT, a Lego robotics kit. I thought maybe if I got him a new Lego set this summer, he would find something new to do besides play Flappy Birds or The Binding of Isaac, the theme of which is a voice tells Isaac's mother to rid Isaac of evil and lock him in the basement before she sacrifices him. The player is Isaac, and he needs to escape. It is loosely based on the Bible story of Isaac. Loads of happiness there. No wonder the Boy would become depressed and angry after playing too many games.

To solve this problem that cost us $400 for the phone and another $40 a month, we bought the Boy a Lego Porsche. It is expensive. Trust me. It has 2,704 parts and it weighs about 15 pounds. Lego had to redesign the box because the set was so heavy the box was getting damaged when it was shipped to homes. We had to get one at the Lego store because they have a different shipping packaging from the consumer shipping. Anyhow, I am out more than $700 to create and then fix this problem. But I am a huge Lego fan, so I wasn't too depressed about it.

"Do you know why we got you this Lego set?" I asked the Boy on the car ride home.

"So I don't play with my phone as much," he said. At least he got the point without me having a spell it out for him.

The Boy got home and opened the box. He was ecstatic. "This is exhilarating! I am getting 'The Knack' back!" "The Knack" is a line from the movie Hunt of the Wilderpeople which we saw last week.

"Ikea says 'Some assembly required.' Lego is 'All assembly required,'" said the Boy as he was building a set that came with 500 black rivets. I figured he had 500 black rivets at home already, and maybe he could have a gotten a discount for using his own rivets.

"I don't hate the phone," I lied to the Boy. I actually loathe the smart phone. "But limiting your time on the phone gives you time to do what you love."

"$300 is a bargain for getting the Knack back," said Jack. "Too bad it cost $400 to lose it in the first place."


Yesterday, while Boy was at "Magic the Gathering"* tournament at a local game shop, I was getting my Knack back. Jack and I biked to Ballard for lunch again. We didn't realize that most of industrial Ballard is closed for lunch on Saturdays, and that is the only time it is every closed for lunch. We did find a place to eat called Gerald's. I saw their fried chicken and waffle sandwich through the window, and it looked great. When I got inside, the woman next to me was eating a breakfast poutine. While fried chicken and waffles** is a southern and Pennsylvanian thing, poutine is Canadian. Poutine is some kind of gravy and cheese served over a bed of french fries.

**** This next section is for women over 40.  You have been warned. ****

I ask the waitress what I should get -- the waffles and chicken or the poutine. Both looked and smelled delicious. The gravy was made from breakfast sausage and cheddar cheese, and the whole thing was topped with a scrambled egg. It was delicious, except there should have been a warning. I don't need to know the calories, fat content or salt levels. I stop eating when I am full. What I wish they did have was a fiber or constipation warning level on restaurant menus, something like this:

     -- Breakfast Poutine: 🚫💩
     -- Mac and Cheese with Pulled Pork: 🚫💩
     -- Caesar Salad: 🌾👍🏼💩💩
     -- Kale and Quinoa: 🌾👍🏼💩💩💩💩

**** You may now continue reading if you are not a woman over 40. ****

Jack and I rode home, me in fear of never moving my bowels again after eating that poutine. We rode about 14 miles, which was good. I rode faster than the week before, but not so fast. Jack rides a bike with Campagnolo gears. Campagnolo is like the Harley-Davidson of the bicycling world--their parts have a very distinctive sound. Campagnolo gears only makes its special noise when it is coasting, and I heard a lot of this noise yesterday while we were riding. I'd be pedaling my butt off, and Jack would be coasting.

Last night, my knee woke me up a few times with stiffness. I had a hard time rolling over without needing to stretch it out. I don't think I've had a hard time sleeping with my knee since a few weeks after the surgery. But nevertheless, I did sleep. And I am getting my Knack back.



* For those of you who haven't had a thirteen year old son in the past few years, Magic the Gathering is a card trading game.

** I just have to share this fun Cliff Claven "It's a little known fact..." story. Nate's Wings and Waffles is a great restaurant in SE Seattle. We eat there after the Boy has soccer games in the Rainier Beach neighborhood. Nate's Wings and Waffles is owned by former Garfield High School and NBA star Nate Robinson. The Boy has to run sprints for soccer, and he has been timing himself. Since he has been running alone, he doesn't know if his times are fast or slow. We googled 100 meter sprint times for boys his age for comparison. The Washington State Middle School track record for the 100 meter dash is held by Nate Robinson!

Fake Shape: Stationary Biking v. Real Biking

Last week, I got on my road bike for the first time since my skiing injury last December. I had been am an avid cyclist. (I am not sure which tense to use in that sentence yet.)

Last weekend, I rode about 13 miles and the next day I felt like I had done half a century (aka 50 miles). I felt the smallest changes in grade, and shifted gears constantly to adjust. I thought maybe I was tired after my first substantial trip and then I'd feel more energetic on the road later in the week.

Nope. I was pooped after a few short road rides this week. This is after spending all of the winter riding the stationary bike indoors for at least forty-five minutes a day. I had thought that riding on the road would be easy after all of my indoor work. Nope. Here I was, riding forty-five minutes a day and thinking I was getting into great shape. Before my accident, I used to exercise regularly--walking my dog, biking, hiking, skiing, doing yoga and whatnot, but I never made a point of getting forty-five minutes of cardio every day like I have been.

I felt like I had been riding a fake bike and I was getting into fake shape. Riding the road bike wasn't impossibly hard, but noticeably harder. I didn't want any kind of harder. I wanted to get on my bike and tear up the road. My exercise routine on the indoor bike for the past few months had been second rate compared to the real thing of riding on the road.

It was like I was eating margarine instead of butter, carob instead of chocolate. Drinking Sanka instead of Starbucks, Cook's instead of Veuve Clicquot. It was like finding out a ring had a cubic zirconia stone instead of a diamond, iron pyrite instead of gold. It was like I was playing with Flegos (i.e., fake legos) instead of Legos.

For the past few months, I had thought I was rocking it when I was really a slug. And my knee is talking to me again. The plum is back. My knee is stiff, my arms are sore from needing to steer and ice is my best friend again. It was bad and I was depressed.

I told Evan about my road biking experience, and he wasn't surprised.

"People ask me right after their surgery if they can ride a road bike and I tell them to stick the stationary bike for a reason," he said. "Baby steps. This recovery is all about baby steps."

Oy. And so it is. He is right, and I will continue to slog on the road.

Out and About

I couldn't do it. I just couldn't do it.

It is a beautiful day and I was deciding which car to drive to workout: the SUV or the sedan? Should I go to the Y or the university athletic center?

I couldn't do it.

Last week, I talked to my friend Daphne who had ACL surgery one and a half weeks before me. We talked about how we were doing, said we each looked great, etc. We compared stories on our recoveries.

"I went on a twenty mile bike ride a few weeks ago. You know, the trail that goes around Lake Washington..."

"My surgeon was fine with me riding bike, but my physical therapist said no. I should ask him again," I said.

"My surgeon and PT were the same," she said. "My surgeon was like 'Do anything!' and my PT was 'Hmmmm...'" I knew the feeling. "I am out of PT!" she continued. "I've graduated!"

I groaned. I like Daphne and all, but it is hard to see someone skate by you, both literally and metaphorically. She probably can roller blade, ice skate, and whatever. I was given leave of my brace and crutches three weeks after surgery, which is fast. She got out of hers in less than two weeks, which is almost crazy for someone who isn't a professional athlete. I wasn't able to flex my quad properly for a long stretch and go down stairs properly, which is slow. Healing isn't a linear business.

I thought about Daphne's twenty mile bike ride. It was sunny and seventy degrees outside. I couldn't ride indoors today. I could not ride on a stationary bike. I put on my bike shorts, helmet and gloves. I couldn't find my fanny pack, so I wore my bike jacket with pockets. I did abide my Evan's request that not to ride on streets or on hills, but I had to ride on the Burke Gilman Trail. There really isn't any other spot.

My tires were a little flat, but not terribly so. I walked my bike down to the bottom of the hill. Our hill has a fifteen percent grade, so there was no way I was going to ride down that bad boy. There is a sidewalk perpendicular to my street at the bottom of the hill. I decided to practice on the sidewalk  before I took to the road.

I put my good leg on the pedal and tried to push, but I couldn't. You know that old expression, "It is like riding a bike," meaning it is something you can't forget?

I forgot. I've ridden my bike thousands and thousands of miles in the past forty years, and I couldn't ride on the sidewalk at the bottom of my hill. I couldn't get the coordination of both legs going. Mainly, I was afraid to take my post-op leg and put it on a pedal. I wasn't so much afraid of riding, but stopping. I would have to put my feet down. On the stationary bike, I stop pedaling and get off the bike. Here, I have to get off the bike while I am no longer pedaling. I was flummoxed. This was sad. Now I know how my mother with Alzheimer's must feel all of the time.

As I tried to get on the bike, it would roll backwards. I realized I was pointing uphill, and that was why I couldn't get going. This sidewalk was uphill, but it looked flat compared to my super steep street perpendicular to it. There is a name for this type of street: a false flat. I decided to walk my bike past three houses, and then ride downhill. It worked. I let the bike roll downhill, and kind of pedaled. As soon as I would move, I would practice stopping. It worked. I did this a few more times, and then walked my bike down to the Burke.

My heart was racing from nerves, not exertion. I was sweating from wearing my jacket, but I was going too slow to have real sweat. I rode to the south end of the UW campus, and then turned around. I didn't want to go too far--I needed to make it home.

Views at the end of my ride.

My ride was 1.9 miles each way, which is less than I usually ride at the Y or at the university gym. I couldn't read while riding, but I felt so much more alive. I get bored riding the stationary bike unless I have a good book to read, yet I never get bored riding my bike in the real world. I don't see how kids love playing video games inside in a dark basement when the real world is so much more awake. Are you playing Wii golf? How about going to a real golfing range and hitting a bucket of balls instead?

I can't remember the last time I rode my bike. Unlike many before and afters that pertain to accidents and traumas, this one I couldn't place. At the time, I had no idea it would be my last ride for months.
When I got to south campus, it had changed considerably since the last time I rode there. The light rail was open, and the new bike lanes to the station were there.

Depending on the weather (and how early I wake up), I'll probably ride to physical therapy tomorrow.

Strangers at the Gym

Strangers at the gym, sweating profusely
Sweating through their clothes, scaring me deeply.
Could they have the flu? Or are they just working hard?

Something in their eye was kind of glassy
Something in the air was kind of gassy
Something in the room made me need to leave.

Strangers at the gym sharing too small a space
Strangers at the gym...

I am sure there are people at the gym who might think I am a little odd with my big blue bag, lots of books and a little limp. When people ask about my knee, I tell them the truth, when they really might want to hear "It is great!" I get it. The gym is a public place where people publicly hide in their own little mental cocoons while they exercise, myself included. People come in all shapes and sizes and unspoken rule is that I won't pass judgment on you if you don't pass judgment on me. We are chose to herd ourselves into these rooms with a high density of equipment and pound away.

I hereby am going to break that rule. I am sorry. Call me horrible names. Again, I am sorry.

A few days ago, I was at the university gym, working out on the elliptical next to my favorite bike. There are about six or so cardio machines in this small little corner office window area on the fourth floor. I love working out there. I consider that bike my bike, and I am completely neurotic about needing to ride it. As I have mentioned before, it is far from the television screens and has a great view for a gym.

The corner office at the gym

I got to the gym early Tuesday morning. When I got there, there was a middle aged man riding an elliptical in my corner office a few machines down from mine. He had a little buffet lined up on the machine: an orange, carrots and dip, granola bars, water bottles. The water bottle makes sense. Granola bars? Check. An orange is a little different, but okay. It isn't like he is biking to Portland, but whatever. The carrots and dip? What?

He was also very sweaty. His shirt and pants were soaked. I thought, He is near the end of his workout. He has probably close to being done. After about fifteen minutes, he kept going. He would pause for a minute, then continue. I have seen him before but never so sweaty. I wonder if he was on some new kind of medication or if he needed medical attention. I thought about asking him is he was okay, but his posture was good so I figured he was at least under his own control. If he was slumping over the machine, grabbing his chest or having problems breathing, then I would have gotten someone at the front desk.

He paused, and wrung the sweat out of his shirt. A puddle was appearing under his elliptical. Surprisingly, he didn't smell that bad at first--he must have had a clean sweat where all of his salt and other chemicals came out before I got there. As time wore on, a slight odor was starting to waft over in my direction. After a half an hour, he showed no signs so slowing down or stopping. I had to move. I had to leave my most favorite corner because I was grossed out. My sanctuary had been invaded and violated. The best part of working out was this corner of the gym, or so I believed. I went down to the main floor and found a recumbent bike and finished my cardio. I was sad, but also realized that exercising on the main floor wasn't too bad.

Wednesday night, I went to the Pacific Northwest Ballet's studio rehearsal. Jack reminded me that my favorite dancer, James Moore, sweats a lot. How could I be so critical of this poor guy next to me at the gym and not James?* Does a professional dancer get more slack than a duffer at the gym? Unfortunately, yes. I guess that makes me a bad person.

"Moore puts a towel around his neck after he dances," I said. "Plus, he seems to manage his sweat. If he makes puddles, he or other dancers could slip and fall."

I decided I'd go back to the YMCA for the week. This morning, I was walking past a house on the way to the YMCA when I saw a man on this front steps. He was smoking and his eyes were a little glassy.

"Good luck with your ankle," he said. I winced. Dang,** I thought. Even this stoned guy can see my limp. I had been working really hard to walk without a limp and I was a little depressed it was called out. It turns out he has an injured and swollen ankle, and was offering me support. It was sweet, but a little odd. (My son said he must not have been that stoned if he noticed my limp.)

Then I got on the bike. There was a very nice man on the bike next to me, who was sweating less than the guy at the university gym. This guy would have had an impressive amount of sweat if he hadn't been beaten out earlier this week by the sweatiest man I have ever seen. I thought of offering this man a towel, walking over to the stack provided by the Y just for that purpose, but I couldn't. Sure, James Moore uses a towel, but that doesn't mean this man would appreciate my gesture. At best, he would have been embarrassed, at worst, he would have been highly offended. I smiled, and let him sweat.


* I'll help you skip the google search for James and give you the link.
** My father thinks I need fewer f-bombs on my blog.

Surface Tension, Part 2, and Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Elliptical Time: 15 minutes

Bike Time: 30 minutes

When I was in Ohio visiting my parents two weeks ago, my friend Betty asked hope I was coping with all of the stuff in my life right now. Last night when I was at dinner with a friend, I figured it out.

1. Forty-five minutes of cardio everyday, seven days a week.
2. My dog, Fox.

Today, I was on my way out the door to workout when a friend called. I haven't talked to her in a while, so I picked up the call. We chatted, but by the end of the call, I was getting anxious: I needed to workout. I was surprised by the feeling. In my pre-injury life, I would have been happy to have a phone call from a friend to distract me from working out. I thought I was working out just because I had to to get my knee fully functioning. Nope. I now need it for my sanity.

Last week, I added the elliptical into my daily physical therapy work. The surgeon told me to add five minutes at a time. I took him quite literally, and added five minutes a day. The elliptical is supposed to be a more advanced workout for my knee because I am bearing weight, not just spinning my legs around like I do on the stationary bike. The stationary bike is good for recovery for exactly that purpose: it gets the leg moving without the stress of having to carry the load of my body. I forgot the advice Jane from my physical therapy team gave me earlier in the year: when adding a new exercise, don't increase the amount you do by more than 50% a week. There must be a sweet spot between what Dr. Tex recommended and Jane's advice, but I passed it.

This Monday, I did twenty-five minutes on the elliptical. I felt fine while I was working out, and I did the remaining part of my forty-five minute cardio routine on the bike. I thought my leg was fine with adding the elliptical. I am now able to walk downhill while bending my leg, and Jack says my gait has noticeably improved since last week. Monday afternoon, my left leg was exhausted. It refused to do the weight lifting exercises and isometric exercises at home. Enough! is screamed at me. Give me a break! 

I told Evan about how tired I was and my elliptical experiences. I feel like I took two steps forward and one step back. I am usually cautious and take a conservative approach to healing: I am not comfortable pushing myself to the point of pain. Evan was sympathetic. "It is okay to push yourself hard, but your leg will get tired," he said. I am back to icing my leg three times a day, and I've pull back my elliptical riding to fifteen minutes a day for the next week. 

There is another upside to riding the elliptical in addition to the fact that I walk better: the time between the elliptical and the stationary bike is a great time to lift weights.

The Elliptical, Ice and Neurosis

Elliptical Time: 20 minutes

Bike Time: 25 minutes 

Motto: Every minutes on the elliptical is a minute I don't have to spend on the bike

I saw Dr. Tex last week. We had a nice appointment. His conviviality continues to improve. His healing approach is a little different than Evan's, but that is okay. A few weeks ago, I complained to Evan how bored I was on the stationary bike. He had hesitatingly suggested I could start riding the elliptical. I decided I'd wait until I got a more ringing recommendation. Last week, Dr. Tex said I was healing nicely and I could swim, ride elliptical, hike, etc.

"When you start on the elliptical, add five minutes per session," he said. "Don't start out riding is straight for forty-five minutes. And ride the elliptical first and finish up with the bike. You don't want to start something new when you are tired."

This would add some weight bearing activity to my exercise plan, which I need. We are going to France in August, and I need to be able to be on my feet and walk around for ten hours a day. Plus, old hotels in France don't have elevators. I will need to be able to schlep my luggage up and down stairs. We will be staying at a hotel on Mont Saint Michel and I'll need to navigate seventy steps to get there. This is noted in the details about the hotel. Staying on Mont St. Michel will be incredibly cool. I need to get into shape. I didn't realize how much this trip would motivate me to be aggressive with my physical therapy. I generally tend to be patient and think I'll get there when I get there.  Not so much anymore.

"Keep icing the knee for another month," Dr. Tex told me. He means ice it three times a day for ten to fifteen minutes. I haven't been icing my leg lately--I don't know why. I think after the surgery, the ice made my feel dramatically better. After a month and a half, my leg would still be swollen and stiff after I iced it, so I kind of failed to see the point of sitting there, leg straight, for fifteen minutes three times a day.

This week, I spent a few hours a day sorting Legos and mediating in the Lego room. I didn't know my knee would get so stiff from sitting and bending and having limited movement, but it did.  Yesterday and today I iced it, and it felt better. The plum was almost completely gone. I am reconvinced that I need to keep icing it. I feel kind of bad for Evan--he has been telling me to keep icing it, and I blew it off. Now the surgeon tells me to ice it, and I listen. In fairness, this week I have been working my knee harder with the elliptical and sorting Legos. But I guess that is the point: I am supposed to continually work the knee harder, and therefore I will get sore, and therefore, I will need to ice my knee. Evan said something to that effect Friday. I finally get it.

While they agree on the ice, Evan and Dr. Tex sometimes have different opinions. I asked Dr. Tex if I could ride a road bike, and he said yes. Sweet! I thought. Evan said I could, but not on the Burke Gilman Trail, not in the U District where I live and not on hills, which is all of Seattle. In short: no. I have to admit, asking Dr. Tex about riding a bike was a little like asking Dad for something when Mom has already said no. When I told Evan what Dr. Tex said, Evan had a painful smile on his face.

"You are wincing," I said.

"Just don't fall," he said.

Dr. Tex also said I could reduce my physical therapy appointments to "once every three or four weeks." I just about choked. Theoretically, I want to be in good enough shape that I can ski again. I won't get there if I have to make up my own fitness routine. I also need to be monitored to make sure I am on track. I told Evan this, and he agreed with me.

"I had a friend who stopped physical therapy after his ACL surgery, and he still limps," I said. Evan knows I loathe the idea of limping.

"Yes," he said. "Most people benefit from a structured program and support."

Yesterday, I was working out at the university athletic center. As Dr. Tex told me, I am supposed to ride the elliptical before I bike. As I have mentioned before, I like riding a bike on the fourth floor in a corner by the floor to ceiling window overlooking the soccer fields, the baseball stadium and Lake Washington. I consider it my bike, which I know is completely insane. I get a little possessive about it. Evan and my daughter both think I need to ride the bike for five minutes to workout, then lift weights, and then go back to the bike.

"You need to warm up before you lift weights!" Claire Adele told me. "You could get hurt!" Apparently the athletic trainer at the high school sufficiently drilled this message into her head. Evan is concerned that I am too tired after forty-five minutes of cardio to get the strength training in. The real reason I can't do it is because I might lose my bike, and that would be horrible. The other bikes are in a pod surrounded by silent television screens. From the screens, I could watch The Price is Right,* CNN's murder of the week, or sports or talk shows, all of which make me depressed. I need my screen free bike.

So Saturday I get to the gym. Here are all of the other bikes and cardio machines on the other side of the track across from my bike:

Nobody riding bikes or doing cardio

No one is there. Nobody. That is why I could take this picture (sorry it is blurry) because no one was there. There was only one person in the whole area, and he was riding my bike. It was horrible. I rode the elliptical next to my bike. Most people at the U sports center don't ride for forty-five minutes like me. I was lucky this man finished riding after ten minutes so I could grab the bike when he was done. Something similar happened to me Friday. There was an older gentleman on my bike, and he would get off the bike every three minutes to stretch. Each time he got off the bike to stretch, I was ready to jump off the elliptical and grab my bike. I am glad I didn't otherwise I would look like a nut.

After riding the elliptical, I am starting to feel stronger. I was able to walk down hill yesterday while bending my knee. This is a major milestone. I am still slow going down hill, but at least I don't look like Frankenstein.

One more thing: With all of this indoor exercise, I am not getting tan. We've had a sunny spring in Seattle, and I've missed the sunshine.

* I like Drew Carey, but not enough to watch a game show.

Day Off and Time is Standing Still

Bike Time: 45 minutes 

Distance: 8.14 miles

I would love a day off from needing to exercise. I take that back--I would like a day of from riding the stationary bike. I don't mind exercising every day, but even pro-athletes get a day off to rest. Or, I would like to do another type of exercise--walk, yoga, bike outside.

Today I was at the University athletic center, riding the stationary bike in my corner office. It was hot, and I was tired and sweaty. I am increasing the resistance, so it is getting a little harder. I wanted to stop, go home, and eat lunch. Actually, I wanted a Beacon Hill sandwich from Bagel Oasis to eat with my unsalted potato chips. If I was going to eat unsalted chips, I wanted an awesome sandwich to go with it.

I digress. I was biking and hot and tired and wanted to stop. I needed to get my forty-five minutes in, and already did ten minutes in the morning after breakfast. If I were biking on a real bike, I could do one of three things:

1. Coast: You can't coast on a stationary bike. It beeps, telling everyone on the floor you are a slacker and need to keep moving. 
2. Stop for a water break: I could stop, but so would the clock.
3. Kick up the gears and ride faster, thereby getting home faster: I should call Einstein and tell him time doesn't speed up or down on a stationary bike, but he already knew that.

Instinctively, I did three. I increased the resistance and started pedaling faster. This, however, did not take time off the clock like it would on a road bike. It took me a while to realize what I was doing. Since the injury, I was okay clocking time on the bike, since that was the only exercise I was getting. Now that I am getting into better shape, I am thinking like my old self on a road bike. If ride ten miles on a bike, it doesn't matter how long it takes me. If I ride faster and get done sooner, that's even better. On the stationary bike, time does not have the flexibility of the road.

Sweat, and Darcy v. Jamie

Bike Time: 45 minutes 

Distance: 7.5 miles (I rode at the YMCA yesterday. Different bike.)

I rode the stationary bike at the university sports center today. I rode my favorite bike, which is in the northeast corner on the fourth floor. The entire corner is made of windows, like a corner office for exercise. It the morning, there is a decent amount sun that comes in, especially on a warm, clear day like today. I was riding along and I felt a strange sensation: sweat. Not just a little of mild perspiration, but sweat dripping off the back of my neck and down my back. I though I might have broken a sweat the other day, but not really. Today was the real deal. I think this is the first time I've sweat while working out since my surgery seven weeks ago. Part of my sweating might have to do with me sitting in front of a sunny window, but I'll take it. I've exercised in front of this window before and not sweat. Normally, I could run (I mean walk at a very slow pace) an errand after exercising, but today I was officially too gross. Woohoo!

I was tired, thirsty and hungry while I was working out, which was also unusual. I always bring a water bottle with me, and I actually needed it today. After my bike ride, I did my weight work out. It was about 11:30, and I was doing my leg curls. As I was counting, I began to dream about lunch. After about 18, I started thinking "cheeseburger" instead of counting. I had half burger leftover from last night's dinner that I was going to eat for lunch today. Ah, the joy of earning your calories!

Today on the stationary bike, I was reading Curtis Sittenfeld's Eligible, a modern retelling of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Even with a juicy book to read, I find forty-five minutes is the max I can ride the stationary bike before boredom gets the best of me. Outside, I can ride forever. Inside, forget about it. My dad has his stationary bike set up in front of a television. As much as I hate watching television during the day, perhaps he is on to something.

Sunday morning, I finished reading Outlander.  Now, I am in the middle of this retelling of Pride and Prejudice, which brings me to the question: who is the best romantic male hero*--Darcy or Jamie? I am torn, and I never thought I would be. I have way too much time on my hands to read and ponder such important questions. Overall, I prefer Elizabeth Bennet to Claire Beauchamps. Claire is kind of grumpy, as I might be if I found myself alone and in a place 200 years before today. The men pose a different challenge. Jamie is new and interesting, the Scottish Highlander who appears to be just a regular guy who in fact is not only strong and brave but educated. In the mid-1700's, it didn't seem like there were many men who were both. In P&P, Darcy is the aloof, stubborn one who comes around to being civilized. In Outlander, Claire is the aloof, stubborn one. Jamie is like a masculine Elizabeth Bennet, which is lovely. 

I have a friend who has been divorced for a few years, and is getting back into dating. She is choosing between two men, and I thought of this comparison between Jamie and Darcy. In many ways, both Jamie and Darcy are perfect. The one major flaw they both have is they aren't human--they are fiction. Great and interesting fiction, but fiction nonetheless. It is easy to get lost amongst the pages while I am riding on the stationary bike, and think these guys might exist in the real world. I wish every woman could have her Darcy or Jamie, whichever she prefers. At best, we can read about these not real men while riding not real bikes.

* Atticus Finch is the best male literary character overall.

Distraction

I am having to ride the stationary bike as part of my recovery. I have three options for riding. My favorites are, in order:

1. The University athletic center with the view of Lake Washington.
2. The YMCA. Today's view included watching someone across the street clean their bong on their front porch. (Welcome to a state with legalized marijuana!)
3. In my dining room staring at the neutral colored wall.

Given how much I need to ride, how pleasant I find the experience of riding makes such as difference in how much I do it. The bike in my dining room doesn't have a device to measure RPMs or estimate distance.

Unlike riding on a stationary bike, riding on the road is rarely dull. Even riding through the corn fields of northern Illinois, which I have done numerous times, the scenery always changes. There is the challenge of looking at the road to avoid bumps, holes, grates or broken glass, as well as looking out for traffic. There are none of these distractions on a stationary bike.

To make the stationary bike palatable, there needs to be an easy distraction. At the IMA, there is a view. At the YMCA, I can read a book. My dad watches movies on his bike in the basement. Without some kind of a distraction, stationary bike is deathly boring.

The upside of riding the stationary bike is that I can ride it any kind of weather -- rain, snow, sleet or hail--without needing any kind of special gear or clothing. Perhaps today I am grumpy on the stationary bike as it was sunny and eighty degrees in the middle of the afternoon. When I went to the YMCA's cardio room around three, there was one other person there. Never have I seen so few people there. In the morning at the IMA, there were people on the weight machines and people riding the ellipticals. A few people were running laps.

Why are you running inside on this beautiful day? I wanted to yell. Do you have a disease where you are allergic to sunshine and warm weather? 

I should be more patient and empathetic with these indoor exercise folks, especially since I am one of them. Maybe they don't own a bike, which would be even worse.

I was at my favorite neighborhood pho place, Bol,* for lunch, and the waitress asked if I had plans to be outside today. Grrrr, I thought. I might look normal--which is good--but I can't walk that far or bike outside. I am debating whether or not I can make it a half a block to the Whole Foods from here after lunch. 

Of course, I was being a jerk inside of my head. This was a perfectly normal and friendly thing to ask, and I should tone down my inner hostility. The more I thought about it, I probably would stay close to inside today even if I could walk or bike. I went out for pho--rice noodle soup--to tame my other affliction: seasonal allergies. Maybe that is why there are so many indoor exercisers today. They  might not be avoiding sunshine but pollen, as the Seattle Times discussed today.


* This place is super cute and reasonably priced.

Clothes, Cleaning and the Bike

Bike Time: 20 minutes    x 2

Distance: more than 6 miles* total

Clothes
Now that I am out of the brace, I can go back to normal clothes. Hurray?

I am still wearing my old yoga pants that I can pull up over my knee. I need to wear baggy pants to so I can fit the cryo-cuff ice pack on my knee under my pants. I exercise four times a day, and twice a week I got to physical therapy, so it is easier just to wear my old yoga pants all of the time. I usually squeeze a trip to the gym around running errands so I have one less trip up and down my stairs.

Spring is here in the Pacific Northwest and we had a warm weekend. In the spring and summer, I love to wear skirts. I haven't returned to my usual state of personal hygiene and waxing my legs. In addition to hairy legs (which I could fix), I have the scars and swelling of my Frankenleg (which I cannot fix.) This weekend, we took the kids out to dinner and I wore a skirt anyway.

Cleaning
I haven't done much cleaning beyond the absolute necessary--like dishes and laundry--since the accident. The cooktop is gross, the cabinets are covered with fingerprints, and I found this the back of the bottom shelf of my pantry. I saw one of the roots and thought What is this? and then I pulled it out.

Fingerling potatoes, past date. They kind of look like a bouquet of something with the purple bag.

Bike
I am supposed to ride the stationary bike three times a day. It is somewhat easy to get out of the house twice, but the third time is a challenge. Jack put my road bike on a stand in the dining room. The Boy seems to like riding the bike in the dining room. Yesterday, he sat on it while he ate.

The boy refused to let me post a picture of him riding this. I wanted my dog Fox in the picture, but he is rightfully afraid of the bike, especially when someone is riding it. Now that I think about it, I am glad he is afraid of the bike.

For the Boy, the bike in the house is novel. When I ride the bike in the house, time slows to a post-Einsteinian realm otherwise not known to man. Below is the view from the bike. It makes the view of the three beige houses across the street from the YMCA seem divine. I timed my ten minutes on my watch. It stopped when I had completed nine minutes. It wouldn't move forward to ten minutes, so I had to ride the bike for what seemed like infinity. Time moved slower than Christmas Eve for a five year old. I finally quit at nine minutes. I could have literally died of boredom.

I could put a picture on this wall, but still...

* Distance on a stationary bike doesn't mean much.

29 and the Plum

Bike Time: 13 minutes

Distance: meh

I have a plum inside my knee cap. If my knee were a jelly doughnut, instead of having jelly inside, mine has a plum. (I am assuming this plum is some form of swelling and excess fluid. Plum sounds better to me.) When I bend my knee/jelly doughnut, it feels like the plum is going to explode. I really don't want it to explode. It doesn't hurt, as plums can't feel pain. It does cause the rest of my knee/jelly doughnut some discomfort. The plum has been there for about five days. I am kind of starting to hate it. It hangs out at the flexion point of about 30 degrees* which means it pops up when I bend my leg to walk. Evan, my physical therapist, is trying to get me to correct my gait so I walk like a normal person and not like a peg-legged pirate. The plum is blocking my knee from bending which in turn prevents me from having a normal gait. I am afraid if I bend my knee too much, plum sauce will explode all over the gym. I imagine taking a kitchen towel and cleaning it up, as if it were a sweet sauce instead of the inside of my knee.

Yesterday when I was riding the stationary bike (not to be confused with "biking" which means ride a bike on a real road outside), my knee popped and I thought the plum had defeated my jelly doughnut, and broke free from its oppression. I kind of freaked out and thought "This can't be good." I feared the plum might have taken out the screws that were holding my new ACL in place.

I texted Jack who was out skiing with the kids. He replied if I pulled out the screws, I'd be in pain. He said if I did tear something, I'd like be unstable. So far, none of that has happened. Riding a stationary bike is supposed to be safe and beneficial. Moving my knee is theoretically supposed to shrink the plum to perhaps the size of a grape or get rid of it all together. But I am always aware of the freak accident and the things that happen outside of the norm.

Looking at the bleak side, it would be incredibly depressing to mess up my knee four weeks after the surgery. Recovering from an ACL repair is a long slog. Do I want to be left home alone every weekend in the winter for the next five years while Jack and the kids ski? I want my knee fixed not so much because I want to ski; rather, I don't want to be left home alone because I am an invalid. I'd like to have the chance to join them. I have one friend who has had two ACL repairs that were almost two decades apart. She was glad enough she had the first one fixed to go through it again to have the second one fixed. She completely knew what she was getting into with the second one. Not many people (thank god!) would have that experience. Nevertheless, I just want to move forward in all of this, not backwards.

* I am making a wild guess here.

+ + + + 

Twenty-nine is now my least favorite number. I used to not think much of twenty-nine before, it was just sort of there--nothing special, noting bad. Charlie, my kindergarten friend, used to ask our teacher, Mrs. Newkirk, how old she was.

"Twenty-nine and holding," she'd say. That was my first experience with twenty-nine. It is a good age, perhaps the perfect age.

Now I hate it. I have to do three reps of thirty legs lifts several times a day as part of my physical therapy. I can do an infinite number of leg lifts when I don't count. "But how do you know how many you can do if you don't count?" you ask. Trust me--I know. I was once doing leg lifts while watching The Bletchley Circle and I did legs lifts for ten minutes. If it takes three seconds per leg lift, that is about two hundred leg lifts. Even if I were to slack off and take five seconds a leg lift, that would be 120 leg lifts.

The problem is when I get to twenty-nine. There is something psychologically awful about it, and my leg gets tired thinking about it. It knows it is close to the end of the line, but not quite. Please stop, my leg says. I do one more, and rest for about ten seconds and start on my second rep. When I start with "one," my leg is perfectly happy when twelve seconds prior it was having a cow. Seriously leg? Are you a toddler or a dog that can so easily be tricked? What's up?

I remember when the Boy was just over a year old. He was complaining he wanted two cookies when he already had one. Jack and I were trying to explain to him that he could only have one when Claire Adele came up, took the cookie out of his hand, broke it in two, and gave it back to him. Problem solved. He toddled happily away. Jack and I were dumbfounded.

"He wanted one for each hand," Claire Adele, then four years old, said.

My leg is like the Boy when he was one. The same cookie broken in half made him happier than when it was whole. Using the same bad logic, the twenty-ninth leg lift doesn't bother my left leg when she don't know it is the twenty-ninth leg lift. Logic fails when emotions are involved.

I told Claire Adele about my problem and how I dislike twenty-nine.

"Trying counting backwards," she said. "Or in French. When I have to keep track something I don't like, I count in Japanese."

Of course. I should have asked her first.

Cozy?

Bike Time: 20 minutes !!!
Distance: 2.79 miles

Today I rode twenty minutes on a stationary bike at the YMCA. It was a miracle I rode so long and with such not crappy form. I was able to get moving easily and my toes were not pointed down to the center of the earth as if the world depended on it. I didn't twerk my hips (twerk here meaning a cross between twist and jerk), either.

I went to the YMCA right around lunch time, and crossed paths with a young woman. The cardio room was busy, and three of the five bikes were being used. I snuck in between two people, and took my brace off. As I got on the bike, the young woman looked at me and said, "Knee surgery?"

"Yes," I said. "ACL repair."

"I am eight months out," she said. She looked like she was in her early twenties. She was clipping away on the bike next to me. I never would have guessed she had been injured. She was wearing shorts, but I didn't notice a Frankenleg.

We sat and talked about recovery. It makes me wonder how alcoholics do it, discuss their recovery. I guess that is why they have meetings. With an ACL repair, you don't need meetings. I wear my brace in public, and those who have been initiated tell me their stories and offer commiseration. I was shopping for fabric early this week with my friend Fiona. We stopped in Designer Fabric Liquidation* and the guy at the store told me about how he tore his ACL years ago in Vail.

"I was skiing in the back country with a member of the US National Team," he said. "I wanted to impress her and try to keep up. There were lots of bumps and I crashed. The best part was the Ski Patrol who picked me up was absolutely gorgeous! I kept looking up at him from the sled as he carried me up the hill and then back down to the main mountain." Fiona and I laughed.

"I think my Ski Patrol team were just regular people. No Ski God carried me down the mountain," I said.

"I never saw him again," he said, trying to make me feel better about the average looking team who helped me out. 

Back at the YMCA on the bike, the woman I continued to chat. She asked me how my physical therapy was going. I asked where she had her PT, and I told her about mine. I said I was grateful that my PT team was connected with my surgeon and vice versa. Sharing information between the two was not an issue, and there was a connected responsibility.

"I have a friend with a torn ACL whose physical therapist is one of her friends," I said. "I am not sure that would work for me. Your PT has to kick you in the butt and get you to do things you don't want to do. I am not sure a friend would be able to do that."

The woman opened her eyes super wide. "I had to switch physical therapists after six months," she said. "I had been seeing this person twice a week for six months. We got to know each other and became friends. And then the same thing you are taking about happened. My PT stopped giving me new things to do, and didn't adjust my program."

"Did you get too cozy?" I asked. 

"Yes," she said. "I needed someone who wasn't so close to the situation to step back and change directions."

"I can see how that can happen. One minute you are talking about your leg, and the next about your dog and kids." Part of the chatter is to distract the patient from the discomfort, but over the course of weeks, the conversation continues from appointment to appointment. In some ways, this makes PT more bearable -- you get to talk to someone who knows you. The same person can also measure and notice your progress from session to session which is good. They can also see your lack of progress from one session to the next, which is not so good.

"How did you sleep?" I asked.

"Sleeping pills for two months," she said.

We carried on like this for twenty minutes. The riding came easy today, and the conversation kept me going beyond my ten minutes.

"You look great," I said. I was impressed with her stories of her six mile runs. She wasn't back to her main sport, soccer, because of the stopping and cutting, but she was in good shape.

"You look great, too," she said.

I went out and rewarded myself for a twenty minute bike ride with a bowl of pho for lunch.

* The name of this store makes sounds like it would be in a giant ugly warehouse with dim lighting. In fact, it is a super cute shop on Stone Way that sells upholstery fabric.

Ibuprofen

Bike Time: 10 minutes

Distance: Going too slow for bike to measure

After the surgery, I was supposed to take 600 mg of ibuprofen three times a day for the first three weeks after the surgery. Last Friday on schedule, I stopped taking it three times a day. I started biking ten minutes a day on Friday, so I decided to take one ibuprofen before I began my exercising. I didn't know how much ibuprofen helped me until I stopped taking it. Unlike Oxycodone, ibuprofen doesn't have any obvious side effects like drowsiness, a mild buzz or withdrawal. You can drive while talking ibuprofen, unlike oxycodone which is a narcotic. The long-term effects of taking ibuprofen aren't great, though. It can cause stomach problems and decrease healthy inflammation. Plus, you can't drink while taking ibuprofen on a regular basis.

Life has not been good since I limited the ibuprofen. At first, I thought my discomfort was caused by the biking, that I was now having to move in more vigorous and thoughtful ways, ways that would cause me a fair amount of discomfort. Today, I figured out the ibuprofen link when the rest of my body started to ache. My right foot was sore for no apparent reason. My right knee was giving me grief and my shoulders were complaining. I felt like I had just done some serious rock climbing, but in a race instead of at a leisurely pace. I was having a harder time sleeping because little aches would wake me up. All around, it was unpleasant.

Today, I didn't take any ibuprofen at all. I was biking at the YMCA. All of the bikes and cardio equipment are crammed into the same small room. At the university sports center, I found a bike that is off to the side, not close to other riders. I know that bike isn't invisible, but it is not in the center of all of the action. I am kind of hidden. At the Y today, two women were on the elliptical machines behind me while I was biking. I hobbled in with one crutch and then took off the brace and got on the bike. I do not look pretty or happy when I ride the bike. I am slow and cumbersome and my head and shoulders twitch like I am having mild electroshock therapy. As mentioned in a previous post, my form is horrid. 

Midway through my ride, one of the women on the elliptical finished her ride. She came up and said, "Good job! You are really working so hard! It is great you are here. Keep up the good work!" She was so sweet and kind to say that, but man, I must have looked awful. Until I look moderately graceful, I'll need to take ibuprofen before I go work out.

Optimista!

Bike Time: 12 minutes (2 minute warm-up, 10 minutes of forward motion)

Distance: 1.04 miles

I was feeling brutally down today after slogging on the bike today. I've been getting kind of down about the fact that I have been more or less house bound, and getting out and about makes me tired.

I was driving the Boy to indoor soccer. At the game, I found a safe spot to sit where I could both prop up and stretch out my leg. I settled down before the game started, and figured the rest of the families would file in around me. Instead, they stayed by the restaurant/bar and watched from there. I ended up sitting by myself, partly watching the game and partly doing a crossword puzzle. I didn't really want to socialize because I didn't want to talk about my knee. 

After the game, I ran into a friend and I had a burst of optimism. I am three weeks out from the surgery. For some reason, the three week milestone. Then it came to me: I am much better off three weeks after the surgery than I was three weeks after my initial injury. 

I thought about my injury: three weeks after the injury is when I started physical therapy. At that point, my thigh had atrophied so much I couldn't flex my quadricep. I remember Evan asking me to flex my thigh, and I had no idea what to do. I tried, and nothing happened. He had to hook my up to a TENS machine that zapped my thigh to get it to move. It was depressing.

Here I am three weeks after surgery, and I am riding a bike! I can flex my quads, no problem, and I can do ninety leg lifts. While this isn't something to look forward to, I can mark it up as an accomplishment, which is just as uplifting.

Post-Op Week Three and TOMRV Flashbacks

Bike Time: 21 minutes (11 minute warm-up, 10 minutes of forward motion)

Distance: 1.13 miles

I might start out all future entries like Bridget in Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones' Diary. She starts her journal entries with her weight, calories consumed and alcohol units imbibed. Instead, I'll list the time and distances I've spent on a stationary bike. I have no desire to list my weight. I know I've gained weight since my accident, and I don't want it quantified. I was at lunch with my friend Eleanor who is psychologically incapable of lying. I said I think I gained fifteen pounds, and she said, "Why of course you have!" I am still eating the same amount of food I used to and I have the same appetite, but my activity level is way less even though it feels like ten times the effort to do activities of daily living. Going to the grocery store feels like climbing Little Si, minus the endorphin rush from exercise, a serotonin boost from the view and a sense of accomplishment.

Speaking of simple physical activities, yesterday at physical therapy, I made it all the way around on the stationary bike. Turning the crank all 360 degrees was a major accomplishment, even if I was doing it backwards. I am supposed to ride the exercise bike for ten minutes a day, even if I don't make it all the way around and just swish back and forth. I am supposed to have zero resistance so I don't damage my repaired knee. I will eventually work my way up to 45 minutes, and then increase the resistance.

Yesterday afternoon, Jack and I went to the university's athletic center, and signed me up for a quarterly membership. I feel like I am cheating on the University YMCA, but I was going to die if I had to go there and look out of the cardio room at the same three beige houses again that are across the street. At the Intramural Activity Center (IMA), Jack found me a quiet bike in a corner that overlooks Lake Washington, the sports fields and Laurelhurst. This is infinitely better. I read an article that looking at trees improves healing. I'll buy it.

Today, I went to the IMA and was rocking back and forth on the bike. After about three minutes, I was able to spin around backwards. I figured out if I pointed my toe down, I wouldn't have to bend my knee as much and I could still get around. This is crappy form if you are a real cyclist or are riding on a road. I did it anyway. 

After spinning backwards for awhile, I decided to try going forward. I don't know why going forward was so much harder than going backward, but it was. Finally, I made it over the top of the curve! Yay! And then I had to do it again. Boo. I was going so slowly the bike was registering that I was taking a "pause" from working out. Really, LifeCycle? I am trying my hardest here. 

After the first few circles, I had a feeling of deja vu. Back in the 1990's, Jack and I did the TOMRV, or the Tour of the Mississippi River Valley. It is a two day bike ride -- 106 miles out the first day and then 76 miles back the second day when we did it. I managed the first day just fine. The second day was harder. I was at about 70 some-odd miles, when I turned a corner and saw a three mile stretch that was all uphill. I could have looked at it and said, "On the bright side, there is probably a three mile downhill on the other side," but my optimism had left me at mile 25 when I fell over on a killer hill trying to change gears. My bike didn't want to shift, my chain fell off, and I hit the ground. I was pissed. About twenty miles later when I saw that three mile grind, I said forget it. My butt had been in the saddle for a total of 175 miles in two days. My legs felt like they were going to rebel if my brain made them go up that hill. My brain found my legs useful and didn't want them to leave me. I am done, I thought.

Today on the bike, I felt like I did at the end of the second day of the TOMRV looking at that three mile hill. I was pooped and I wanted to get sagged* in like I did twenty plus years ago. Except this time, I was at the beginning of the ride, not at the end. Unlike at the end of the TOMRV, I kept going. I had no choice. I plugged away for ten minutes. I started to feel better, but I was ready to end when the timer rolled around to 9:58 on the bike. Before the surgery, I was riding 50 minute a day, and going between 10 and 12 miles. (Before the accident, I could ride from the U District to the Redhook Ale Brewery in Woodinville and back. I am trying not to think about that, but maybe I should. I suppose Lindsey Vonn didn't forget about her Olympic victories while she was recovering from her torn ACL.) Today, it took about ten minutes to warm up to ride 1.31 miles in ten minutes. In the warm up, the bike didn't keep time. I kept looking at my watch to check the time, but it didn't register. I didn't want to admit that what felt like an epic journey was only three minutes. I knew how long I biked because Jack jogged while I rode, and he tracked the time.

It felt good to move my legs. After the IMA, Jack and I went to the grocery store. I hopped around and picked up a few things while he did the main shopping. What should have been a modest adventure wiped me out for the rest of the afternoon and I napped. 

With this injury, I haven't had much to look forward to. My dad said that life is easiest when you have something to look forward to, like a vacation or event. But I am looking forward to getting back on the bike tomorrow.

* "Sagged in" means the cars and vans that support the ride drive around and pick up tired and injured bikers and people with bike problems. They picked me and my bike up and drove me to the finish line.

NZ, or Cheaper than Divorce

Joan Didion wrote The Year of Magical Thinking, a memoir about the year after her husband and long-time companion died.  In it, she talks about the good times and the rough times she and her husband had.  Once when they were having a difficult time and nearly broke, they went to Hawaii.  Why?

"It was cheaper than a divorce."

Jack and I face a similar situation in our marriage, and are meeting our challenge with similar relish.  This weekend, Jack booked four tickets to New Zealand for our winter vacation.  The Boy wants to go to Peter Jackson's The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings.  (The Boy is wildly excited that The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies will be released days before our trip.  He plans to see the movie in NZ.  He is dancing/stomping around the house at the thought.)

Jack and I are clipping through books on marriage repair.  One book, His Needs, Her Needs, was recommended by several friends.  The Five Love Languages is another we have read.  Jack, to his credit, is dutifully providing me with "acts of service" to help me feel loved (i.e., making dinner, folding the laundry without being asked, etc.)

In this vein, we went for a bike ride yesterday and contributed to the "Recreational Companionship" bucket from His Needs, Her Needs.  The Big E is in Japan for a week, so Jack, the Boy and I rode from the University District to Woodinville where we had lunch at the Red Hook Brewery.  (Jack worked the past two weekends, and next week The Boy is in a soccer tournament.  In a given month, this was really the only day we could have made the trip.)  Jack and I had lunch there in 1997 when we were in the Pacific Northwest on a bicycle tour vacation.  I had been dreaming about riding there since we moved to Seattle, but there had never been a good time.  That, and The Big E is not an avid cyclist like the other three.  (The Boy is not an avid traveler, so he has times of being the odd man out.)

I didn't realize how far the Red Hook Brewery was -- eighteen miles from our house, or thirty-six miles round trip.  With breaks, it was about a five hour trip.

So, it was good.  We didn't talk much, but that is the nature of cycling, which is fine.  Jack shared a thought with me on the trip.  On many long cycling trips or even skiing, there is a plethora of middle aged men out exercising on their own.  If I am ever divorced, I will spend every winter weekend at Crystal Ski Resort.  The last time I was there, there was an 8:1 ratio of men to women on the mountain.  The Burke-Gilman Trail had a similar ratio.  There was one man maybe ten years older than me at the brewery, taking his new bike off his Audi station wagon.  As Jack was fixing my flat tire, Jack noticed this and shared his thought with me.  If she is going to start over, why not start over with me instead of with one of these other guys?

That is a reasonable question.  Why shouldn't we start over with each other?  I am inclined to say yes, but there will need to be some significant repair in the meantime.  After all, none of those men on the Burke-Gilman had lied to me for about a year on various topics.  By lie, I also mean lack of openness, honesty and transparency.  If I am the person who is supposed to know him best, why did he withhold significant information from me?  The answer to that still remains unclear.

And Jack wrestles with another problem.  Until this year, he has generally able to choose what he works on and when.  His new position has considerably more responsibility.  One thing he has been slow to accept is that in life many of us don't get to choose what we do.  We all don't have the freedom to do as we please.  Therein lies the primary basis for responsibility.  I struggle with whether or not to get a paying day job, but after losing a daughter years ago, I am still conflicted about motherhood and career.  Yes, I would prefer to have a day job, wear a suit and collect a paycheck.  Instead, I am spending the summer with my kids and taking then back and forth to camp.  Even people high in power don't have much choice.  Take Queen Elizabeth I.  As queen, she could do whatever she wanted.  Did she want the Spanish Armada to attack England?  No.  Could she sit back and watch?  Yes, but that would have been disastrous.  Instead, she called upon her navy to defend her country.

Dear Jack,

Sometimes we do things because we are called to do then, even when we'd rather be doing something else.

Lauren