Shirley Rides Again

The Ghost of Fatbike

This past week has seen me go from prostate cancer sufferer to dealing with a meniscus tear injury on my knee. I suppose it is inevitable that someone like me, with so much fire in the belly at the ripe old age of 63 (at time of writing), has to suffer from this debilitating injury. It all comes at a time when my oncologist tells me that the hormone treatment they have been injecting into my stomach for the past eight months is not working. My PSA levels are going up not down and my testosterone levels are still 'normal'. So, on top of the injection, I am taking this extra pill to help it come down.

So, I am now home from hospital and attached to a set of crutches for the next few weeks and rest.  I have to attend some physio, pump more painkiller tablets into this worn out system and curtail all activities until I can get my knee back to 'normal'. 

Coming to terms with no activities and becoming an official (albeit temporary) couch potato has been a real test of my mental strength. As if it wasn’t difficult enough dealing with my cancer treatment, I had the additional problem of dealing with a bust knee. 

So, I sit here on my couch looking out at the people merrily walking by my window, some walking, running and some cycling past my window. You know, I swear that they were doing it deliberately just to annoy me. While in my head I was selfishly wishing that I could transplant their healthy legs on to myself. Star Trek Style. 

Think, caged lion. Thats me, unable to put on trousers, socks or even make a cup of tea and carry it into the room and Losing the power of that bloody leg having a major impact on the things we all take for granted, the simple things in life.  

My wife was in the garden yesterday and opened the garage door and there was my weights bench and Fatbike, gathering dust. A couple of weeks ago, I was out on my Fatbike cycling happily around the country with my trusty ukulele and in the garage pushing up weights and battering the hell out of my punchbag. 

But for now, that felt like years ago. The images in that garage started to haunt me. I was desperate and I needed out. I think I now know how a prisoner might feel locked in a cell for hours a day with minimal glimpses of the outside. 

But. Its amazing when your backs against the couch, you somehow find that something extra to pull you through. Where it comes from, I do not know (maybe the thought of more daytime TV). A friend of mine said if it was him who had to go through what I have been going through, he would probably turn to drink. For me somehow, I looked at my fatbike in the garage and kept saying ‘ Shirley (thats the name of my bike) we will soon be out burning those big, fat rubber tyres on the road again' and put aside the ghost of Fatbike in the garage. 

......Good news just received..... my PSA has dropped. 

Punchbag here I come.