67. Building Confidence

Runners can afford to be blasé about their ability to successfully finish a race. Even if they trip or slip, they know they are not really likely to hurt themselves: they will have fallen over many times before and they will just remember to take their off-road shoes which have better grip next time. The adrenaline they feel at the start of a marathon is about getting a respectable time, not because the event may be hazardous. Occasionally they might suffer an injury but that’s more likely to be because they haven’t stretched rather than the result of an accident. The rest of the population would have other worries.

This new cycle track near our house has a very sandy surface. I guess it will be washed into the gravel by the rain before long, but there is a 90-degree bend and it doesn’t have a camber, so I’m slowing down to a gentle roll in the hope that my slick tyres won’t slide away underneath me.

I don’t remember my neck being so inflexible. As I try to turn my head to check for traffic behind me, I’m just getting a glimpse out of the corner of my eye, which is a bit scary as the junction is onto a busier street. I’ve not done this in such a long time.

Now I have made it past a few cars, some parked and some moving, to the turning onto the country lanes, with a steep downward slope and sharp bend (which I am taking very gingerly). Here are some potholes and there’s gravel piled in the middle of the road – I’m keeping upright to try to avoid skidding, but taking the corners very wide and praying that nothing is coming the other way.

Up the slope and onto a slip road off the A23 where there might be some fast traffic. Do I need to stop? Yes, yes, stop! I’ll have to unclip my shoes from the pedals before I can put my feet down, while trying not to tumble to my left. Sue will kill me if I break the other leg!

Since the last left turn, the road has been quiet, but here comes a car behind me, so I’ll pull into this driveway to let him pass. I’d hate for him to squeeze past and I end up in the ditch.

Here are potholes right across the road. I’ll level the pedals so they are at quarter to three (from the side) and lift myself up from the saddle. I remember that it is best to deal with these at a decent speed, not too slow.

This is getting better, after a bit of practice. The gear changes are more familiar, and I find I’m making them without thinking as I approach climbs. The next junction is up a steep slope and if I have to stop it will be difficult, both to put a foot down and to get started again. Nothing coming, thank goodness, and I can carry on.

There is a cyclist by the side of the road checking his route. As with all us Men in Lycra, whether Middle Aged or just plain Old, we give each other a cheery wave. A couple of minutes later and he flies past me on his all-black carbon road bike, leaving me wondering where I could store yet another set of wheels without Sue noticing.

The hours of practice in the garage seem to have strengthened my legs successfully and I don’t have any trouble climbing this hill, although I remember it being a struggle in the past. I bet the Mercian is pleased to be unclamped from the turbo trainer.

Nearly on the home stretch, so I’m reaching down on the dropped handlebars to reduce air resistance and put some effort in. Can I come anywhere near my PB time for this Strava segment?

—oOo—

Now that I have an immune system, two working legs and a little stamina, I’m working on building my confidence. I hadn’t realised just how low it had fallen.

Since recovering from a chest infection without resorting to antibiotics, I am now prepared to press the pedestrian crossing buttons with the pad of my finger rather than my knuckle. I can catch a bus without wearing a mask. I even survived an encounter with a toddler excluded from nursery for having chicken pox.

I took care to go for my first longish walk off road with plenty of people around, when marshalling the fun run I mentioned in the previous post. It would be rash to go off solo, just in case. I am still wary of tripping on a kerb but becoming more proficient after walking about town on busy streets where sometimes I have to step to the side abruptly to avoid other pedestrians. The good news is that this last week I took part in the 5k parkrun as a tail-walker and completed it without a stumble (and went on to enjoy a coffee, indoors and unmasked, with the other marshals afterwards).

One thing that troubles me is the occasional light-headed feeling when I climb out of my chair or set out of the house, although that has been happening less often over the weeks. I know that I haven’t actually passed out yet, so I tend to consciously ignore it and carry on.

The bike has been out three times now, a 20km and two 30km rides. Those of you who haven’t cycled since childhood may be able to sympathise with my fears in the introductory monologue. I can assure you; they would barely occur to a regular cyclist. Neil, who was showing off the dressing over the twenty stitches in his leg – he came a cropper riding his mountain bike on the South Downs Way – will be out there again soon and, although a little more cautious at first, I’m sure he won’t be worried by these insignificant little worries. I’ll keep practicing and go for longer rides in the coming weeks until I feel more adventurous.

—oOo—

One of the few perks of having cancer is gaining access to the Creative Writing course at the Macmillan Centre. Last week we were introduced to the “Two Voices of Memoir”, with an excerpt from And When Did You Last See Your Father? by Blake Morrison. It started with a present tense dialogue, followed by a retrospective in the past tense, reviewing the earlier events and analysing his dad’s nature. If the start of this week’s blog was confusing, with the nervous monologue followed by a review, it is because I was attempting a similar approach.

The reading list included Jenny Diski’s In Gratitude, a memoir including a chapter about her encounter with cancer. One passage that rang true was her close relationship with the nurses administering the chemotherapy infusions. You grow very close during the weekly visits, and they give you their home number in case you feel ill over the weekend – nothing is too much trouble. She contrasted that with the staff in charge of radiotherapy, who told her nothing about what the strange machine was doing, just positioned her like a lump of flesh, before scampering out of the room to the control desk. My experience of the MRI, CT and radioactive MUGA scans was similar. While the staff were all friendly, they concentrate on operating a complicated machine, so they don’t sit around chatting as they might if they just had to stab you with a needle.

We have been introduced to the structure of sonnets, although I think limericks are more on my level. Here I have tidied up some work (not a sonnet) that we started in class:

My Myeloma Blessing

May your consultant haematologist always greet you with a smile,
May your side effects not bring you down in tears.
May your supporting friends and family not suffer through your trial,
And welcome your remission through the years.

—oOo—

What with helping at the library, working on the Camera Club website, and watching the football and the Tour de France, my feet have hardly touched the ground.

Sue and I visited the Historic Dockyard in Portsmouth for our second trip; the first was some weeks ago, to see the Mary Rose and we want to get our money’s worth from the year-long tickets. After a harbour tour in the drizzle on the Ali Cat, we had a look at the Victory. It is more than forty years since we were students here, staring out of the lecture room window at her famous masts, which have now largely been dismantled while a thorough refurbishment is carried out. Like Trigger’s broom, most of her has been replaced over the last two hundred years.

Then it was time for a trip to our favourite pub, the Still & West. We may not have been in there since a drink the pub dry night as students … and that time Rob shook the ketchup bottle with the loose lid. Happy days! I’m surprised they let us in. I could sit there watching the boats all day.

—oOo—

It was hospital day today for a relatively quick visit. I have to confess that I felt a bit of a fraud, going there when I was feeling so well. My bloods were taken and I felt so confident that they were okay that I didn’t even ask for the results. Anyway, they were good enough not to stop me walking away with my meds for the month, and if the cancerous paraproteins are on the rise again already, I’m sure the staff will be in touch.

I explained that my dental work is all but done, so I hope to start the Zoledronic Acid infusions again in August or September, to strengthen my bones.

Meanwhile, I received a letter from University College London Hospital explaining the treatment required for re-vaccination, as it will soon be a year since my Stem Cell Transplant. I’ve taken it to my GP practice, where I’ll be arranging three monthly visits, starting in September, to have some unpronounceable jabs, followed by another in September 2025. I hope they have kept track of my more recent flu and COVID jabs, otherwise I’ll have to ask my blog readers what they remember. I hope you were paying attention!

Thanks for reading and take care!