Bicycle lessons

Our oldest granddaughter took the training wheels off her bike this past week.  As kids do when they are ready for a new skill, she was riding unassisted within minutes.  The inevitable first big spill came within a week, a spin out in a gravelly alleyway.  A skinned leg and elbow and lots of tears later, she was back on the bike the same day, a band-aid warrior on her trusty steed.

Her mom called last night to brag on her daughter's feat and to fret about its potential for injury.  A tough parental lesson in letting go and allowing your darlings to suffer the consequences.   Every step up the ladder of independence takes your babies closer to soaring but farther from safety.

That's a lesson that applies to us in reverse as we grow older.  My 90-year-old step-mother has lived alone since my dad died over 15 years ago.  She's from the old school, the one that insists on doing for yourself.  In recent years her stubborn independence has given us all a tense moment or two -- climbing a ladder to prune the fruit trees in her back yard, driving at night with her one good eye scanning for pedestrians.  I think of her now in the same protective way my daughter does her children.  After she suffered a recent setback, we all see her settling into an acceptance of her mortality -- but on her terms.  No more meds.  No operations.  Palliative care when needed.  And (thankfully) no more driving or yard work.  She's come down the ladder for the last time.  She has been making arrangements, and others will have to do for her from now until the end of her life.  We all are hopeful that a walker and frequent check-ins by friends and family will help her to live her remaining life in the safe sanctuary of her own home.

Remaining active is the bedrock of my own independence.  About 10 years ago, when the pounding on my feet and joints from running brought on too many aches and pains, I began riding my bicycle a few times a week, weather permitting.   I've ridden off an on for years -- to and from work, on weekend rides training for a couple of triathalons, and as a break from running.  Now, when I get out regularly from late Spring to early Fall, my fitness level rises enough for me to imagine myself signing up for a cross-state ride like Colorado's Ride the Rockies, or Iowa's Ragbrai.  I can comfortably ride 30 miles or more at a time along local bike paths at a respectable pace.  I have even taken on the dressings of the avid biking crowd.  I've broken in several pairs of biking shorts, the kind with the padded fanny, and recently splurged on an authentic biking jersey and jacket --both with pockets along the back for stuffing energy bars and extra gear.  I wear a safety helmet, even though with my long neck and robust noggin, it makes me look like a mushroom.  In short, I feel I deserve to look as fit as I feel.

Like my granddaughter, though, I've had my band-aid moments.  Over a year ago in the Spring, I took a spill while attempting a sharp turn, when I couldn't get my feet out of my pedal clips and tore the rotator cuff muscle in my left shoulder when I stuck out my arm to absorb the fall. Very painful.  I've rehabbed it to be flexible and strong enough to swing a golf club, but no heavy lifting or overhead work in my future, according to the orthopedist.  He'll replace the whole shoulder someday when the pain outweighs the risks of surgery.  On the day I fell, I still had a five mile ride home and no one to call for a lift (my wife was out of town).  So, I hopped on the saddle and steered myself home with one wing hanging by my side -- the kind of stupid victory you expect from a teenager.

Less than six months later, a second spill on a misty August morning could have made the highlight reel.  The wheels came out from under me on another sharp turn when I stood up on the bike to generate extra push at the bottom of a steep hill.  I had the slow motion sensation people report in auto accidents and other catastrophes.  I can still picture the bike in the air, wheels parallel with the ground, suspended for a moment before rider and machine hit the pavement.  I absorbed most of the fall on my (already sore) left shoulder, head (helmet on, thank goodness), and side of my left knee.  When I regained consciousness after what felt like a few seconds, another cyclist was helping me up and a passerby stopped to call an ambulance.  My collar bone was broken (even more painful).

And, by some cosmic coincidence, my wife was once again out of town for the week.  When I first came to after the spill, I couldn't remember her name and so couldn't tell the good Samaritan who stopped to help whom he might call.  When I finally recovered my senses and called her from the hospital in a morphine fog, I could picture her shaking her head.  I spent the week alone, wearing the same pair of shorts and nylon shirt since I couldn't raise my arm to dress myself and it didn't seem right to call in the neighbors.  On waking the second morning, I discovered I had twisted my sore shoulder around while sleeping (under the influence of oxycodene) and was unable to return to a non-painful posture that would allow me to get out of bed.  Every attempt to move brought on the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, so I just lay there for several hours staring, Hamlet-like, at the ceiling.

Six weeks later -- the minimum period of rest and recuperation prescribed by the doctor -- I was back on the bike.  I have a permanent bump where my clavicle healed askew.  A friend who has done several multi-day biking events and who has broken her collarbone told me that clavicle bumps are badges of honor for cyclists.  Sort of like swordsmen's scars, I suppose.  I also suppose there are lessons to be learned from my spills and other biking adventures, or maybe just from the simple pleasure of getting on a self-propelled machine for a couple hours at a time.  But, I need another day or two to think of what they might be.