Something very profound happened today.
Today was the day when I’d decided to try 5 laps around the neighborhood. 14.5 miles. The roads are finally clear (enough) of debris from Irma. I started my Strava session and set out.
I thought of a clever name for my ride. I took photos of my bike next to a downed tree and a sign to the energy company (some houses are still without electricity). I was officially Strava-ing, just like the real athletes. And, oh yeah, I also completed my five laps.
I was all set to save my activity. But wait, what’s this? A glitch! Son of a bitch! Strava said I only traveled 2.2 miles. The map was ridiculous. Apparently I hopped fences, cut through yards, took a shortcut through the golf course.
Crestfallen, I went into the house. I was tired, sweating and texted a friend for moral support. I was hoping to get a reply along the lines of, “aw, it’s ok, you did it.”
Instead, this was the reply:
That means I only had one choice. I had to do it again. I hydrated, ate some gummy snacks, refilled my water bottles, started Strava again, and set out for another five laps.
The session recorded successfully the second time around.
Holy shit. I rode my bike 29 miles. Twenty- nine miles!
And then it occurred to me: this was the first time in over three years that my right ankle didn’t dictate, much less inhibit, my activity. My brain didn’t even think about my dumb crippled leg. It wasn’t a factor in the decision to redo my ride. I cried.
My right leg is still very much afflicted by CRPS, but I think I might actually be starting to adapt. I think I might have found a way to hold on to one of the beloved passions that defined who I was. I might be able to reclaim just a tiny bit of my identity. I cried some more.
The one cleat idea was the best idea I will have all year.