Cycling Series: When Rehab Becomes Training

About a month ago, I was lamenting to a fellow swimmer at the YMCA about how much I missed doing long bike rides.

She said to me, “There was a ride that was rescheduled because of Hurricane Irma. Champions Ride for Charity. It got postponed until October 22nd. There is a century ride, a metric century ride, a half-metric…”

I started to think… Not the century. One hundred miles is out of the question. Metric century? In the olden days, this wouldn’t have even been a question… Maybe the half-metric… It is thirty something miles. That is still a lot. But doable. Maybe…

Three weeks ago, when I couldn’t sleep, in a state of minimal consciousness, I registered for the metric century, a 36 mile ride.

So I started to ride my bike around the neighborhood a little more. I increased my weekly mileage, and included one longer ride per week. The most I did in one ride was just under 30 miles. I was eating well, swimming, and taking care not to push too hard before the day of the big ride.

At some point, it occurred to me: Holy shit. I’m training.

On Friday, half in a daze, half on autopilot, I picked up my packet from the local bike shop. The number 384 was assigned to me. I was told I’d be riding in honor of Thomas J. Kelly, New York City firefighter, a 9/11 first responder who passed away last year.

The day before the ride, my swim friend, the one who told me about the ride, texted me. She wanted to ride too. She invited me to meet at her home because she lives very close to the starting point.

Suddenly, I realized: Holy shit. I was really going to do this.

I’d been hydrating all day. I’d eaten well. I’d trained for several weeks. I was ready.

On Saturday night, I laid out my kit and my mismatched shoes, packed my sunglasses, gloves, helmet, number, safety pins. Yesterday morning, I woke up early, dressed, braided my hair, ate, filled my water bottles, put my bike in my car.

It was very methodical, as if I had done it all before in a past life…

I arrived at my friend’s house, we pinned each other’s numbers, and were off to the venue. She knew several people there and introduced me. Nobody seemed to notice my shoes (or the fact that I was wearing one leg warmer and a lidocaine patch). I felt almost normal. I felt like I belonged.

We lined up and just like that, we were on our way. My friend was nursing hamstring and calf injuries so we committed to each other that we’d take an easy pace. We talked most of the time, laughed about the weird things (like dinosaurs…) along the road, we remarked on the beauty of the scenery (“natural” Florida is actually quite beautiful), we took our time at the SAG stops. The weather was lovely.

My right leg hurt. My right leg always hurts. My left leg did most of the work. My left leg always does most of the work.

After the second SAG stop, I got a little nervous. We were just over 24 miles in. Twelve more miles to go. “I can do this,” I told myself. We set out again, following the markers,  still talking and laughing. And then: roads I recognized.

“We’re almost there!” I actually yelled this out loud. “We’re doing it! We did it!” I was so happy. I looked over to my friend. She was happy too. And we were cheering for one another and for ourselves for the last mile and to the finish. High fives and smiles from strangers and people we’d seen along the way.

We grabbed snacks and some water. We found photos of the fallen officers we were riding for. We were taking pictures and laughing and continued to congratulate one another all the way back to my friend’s house.

Holy shit. It occurred to me: I had fun. This was the most fun I’ve had in over three years because this is the closest I have felt to who I used to be since my accident. I

am still adjusting to the changes CRPS has made to my life, but I am adjusting. I continue to hope for the future, and the possibility of having a happy life again. Despite the misery of having CRPS.

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