Sunday 17 July 2011

Jiggety Jig

     Home Again, Home Again.
     I'm so relieved to have the girls back at home. I put a lot of emphasis on this occasion. At home alone, I felt isolated and vulnerable, but with their arrival I felt as if the cavalry had arrived. I would survive after all. I knew I could count on my family to support my recovery. I looked forward to their interest in my physical therapy and the gruesome massages of my surgical scar that only a dedicated spouse can administer. Immediately after the accident I imagined my injury as something merely physical. Something I would heal from quickly and in the nature of a fit, young man. A flesh wound. I'd be back in action as soon as they put in a staple or two.
     But no. My hand shakes. I still can't take a full breath. I still can't sleep. And the arrival of the girls hasn't changed any of that.
     Before Alex began her drive home from Britain, "Did you test the car's air conditioning? How can you be sure it's working? Did you know the tires were crap? And why has is got only one set of keys? Jeff says it's in far worse shape than our old car. Did you know there is no owner's manual or service history? And where is the MOT certificate?"
     All this would have been OK considering we'd just lost £6k on a used car internet scam and we were buying near the bottom of the market. But now we were face-to-face with the prospect of Alex driving it across Europe with me vaguely commenting from the comfort of my hospital bed. free food, fresh sheets and all.
     In an endless traffic jam on the 40 degree circular freeway around Milano, they warmed, wilted and baked. My stock began to plummet. In another traffic jam around Firenze, my stock fell again. They arrived wiped out, well after dark, tired and hungry. I had managed to get the house reasonably clean and clear for all their stuff, but this went largely unnoticed against the backdrop of a landscape largely abandoned for the month of June. My stock? A firesale.

Wednesday 13 July 2011

Skinny Me

    This morning I weigh 53.4 kg. To Americans that's under 118 lbs or 8 stone 6 lbs to Britons. I've never weighed less than 120. I'm not anorexic, my self image is not distorted. I'm happy with who I am, but right now I don't look that beautiful. Two months after crashing my bike I've lost 8 percent of my body weight.


    I've discovered one can lose weight by crashing your bike, breaking a few bones, and trying to feed yourself for a month. Believe me, the left-overs of lasagna and soup from the neighbors won't make any difference. I'm being fed every evening by my Italian neighbors. It's great food, cooked carefully mainly by Gogo from Verona who, besides being a powerful and practical muratore (house builder), has been a restaurant owner in South America. The menu is eclectic but based solidly on pasta, pomodori, cipolle, alio, and olive oil (tomato, onion, and garlic). Fish on fridays, and lots of seasonal zucchini. Lots! Salads are not served every night, nor is there any ban on vino, pane, olive oil dressings or batter-fried tid-bits. But I'm losing weight, something I thought impossible for a man who has weighed 125lbs all his adult life.

      The secret is that I don't eat three big meals every day. I don't have the energy or the ability to shop, store, and prepare enough food for that kind of consumption. I make my own bread and every morning I have several cups of tea with as much toast and marmalade as I want. Sometimes I have a bowl of sweet, fruity muesli; and sometimes I'll make myself a brunch of toast, bacon and eggs. Lunch? Almost never. Snacks? Peanut butter and honey sandwiches; bruschetta with prosciutto, formaggio, pomodori, and alio; fagioli cannellini with tuna, cipolla and olive oil. Lots of hot tea with milk and a dash of sugar. Fizzy water and often a couple of tablets of aspirin or paracetamol. That's my proven diet for those who want to get seriously skinny.

       It's like insomnia. To cure insomnia, get up at six, get busy, don't nap, do stuff, get good and tired, and go to bed at your regular time: ten o'clock or whatever. Force yourself. To cure overeating, get up at six, get busy, don't nap, do stuff, get good and tired, have supper and go to bed at your regular time. Summer is a good time, and a natural time, to lose lots of weight. Who wants to sit around, sweating, at a big table full of food? Give me a bottle of fizzy water, a couple of crackers, maybe a sweet carrot, a sloppy tomato, mozzarella with real basil; and I'm outa here. To the swimming pool with a book or the lawn mower under a hot sun.

     But don't listen to me. I've crashed a bike and I've skipped a lot of meals. I'm too skinny to be credible.

Man Down


     May 12th, I fell off a bicycle and broke my scapula, four ribs, fractured a cheek bone, and partially collapsed a lung. After 20 days in the hospital, I've been fending for myself, waiting for Alex, Thomasina, and Isolde to return from America. I cant't drive. I don't sleep well. I can't lift heavy objects. And it hurts.

     Normally during July I'm hard at work; but this month, being injured, I can treat myself to live Tour de France coverage. Which I normally love. I love the moving landscapes, the aerial photography, the grace of the peloton, and the drama of effort.

    On stage 9 of this year's Tour de France, five break-away riders flew down a wet mountain road. The camera motorbike caught Jonny Hoogerland wobbling on a blind corner, un-clipping his foot to help stabilize himself. A couple minutes later the fast pursuing front group arrived. A couple of riders hit the deck. Trying to avoid men down, Alexandre Vinokourov veered to the outside, hit a low brick guardrail post and plummeted into the trees below breaking his femur. Jurgen Van den Broeck slammed the pavement breaking his scapula, three ribs and collapsed a lung.

   Up front, young Jonny Hoogerland, now going hell for leather in the break-away, found himself tumbling through the air into a barbed wire fence when side-swiped by a television car. At the finished he collapsed in tears. Three days later he races on, leading the mountain climber's competition by five points. He will not retire wearing this jersey despite carrying some 30 stitches on his legs and back. Two days earlier a serious crash ended the race for three other favorites. Chris Horner suffered a severe concussion, riding the last 25 kilometers not knowing where he was.

      I've always enjoyed the movement and freedom of cycling. I can fly free with my bicycle, leveraging my power with chain and gear to gallop over the hills and fall through the wind on the other side. But these old passions are tempered now. My imagination embellishes the pleasures, but it has also magnified the nightmares. I'm haunted by memories of impact, disabling injury, and enduring pain. I have suffered three of the injuries I've watched in this year's Tour and they have spoiled my live Tour treat. But I'm still watching.