July 1, 2022
I rode my bike to CancerShrink’s office last week. I’m trying to build my seat time– IOW, time riding my bike. I got there much earlier than I expected. What to do? More time in the seat, obviously. (Or coffee, with maybe a little treat? NO.) I was firm with myself. Seat time. So I rode to the end of the street to scout the possibilities. And there it was, across the intersection. A big-ass hill. Not too long, but steep. Ahhh, <insert expletive here>.
Now, I need seat time, but I also really need to get in more hill work. Hills are the ultimate fitness builder. But, ugh, it’s hard. OK, OK, it’s also kind of embarrassing: grinding out the pedal strokes, sweat dripping from every appendage, trying to get breathing under some kind of control, into some kind of synchrony with the legs. It’s uuuuugly. NOT like those sleek racers who seem to glide up the (nasty) hill I live on. They spin away, chatting as though they’re on a casual ride in the country. I hate them. I want to be them.
The light turned green and I pushed off. The rise started almost immediately. It’s OK, I told myself. You’ve got this. But it turned out that I didn’t. About 2/3 of the way up, my breathing broke into panicked gulps, my legs screamed for help, and my brain short-circuited. I stopped, hunching over the handle bars, trying to to smooth my inhalations, lengthen my exhalations. Breathing out is much harder to manage than breathing in.
So what happened? Frankly, I think I panicked. Breath, legs, awareness of the rise of the hill, some part of my brain chanting you can’t, you can’t, you can’t. It was too much to process. Call it fear, anxiety, whatever– let’s not sugarcoat it. It was panic.
Two days before, we’d ridden to the top of a small, inactive volcano that’s a big, beautifully wooded park. Wednesday evenings, the winding roads are closed and given over to bike races; it’s fun to bring a picnic supper and watch the riders race the loop up and down the hilly terrain.
But first you have to get there. In other words, you have to ride to the top yourself. Since the usual entrances are closed, you have to take a circuitous route, noodling along neighborhood bike routes until you hit the less-trafficked part of Belmont St. Belmont rises relentlessly for what seems like 175 miles, to a right turn onto a short steep block, to another right turn onto a longer, steeper stretch and the back entry to the park.
OMG.
I made it up Belmont. I glued my eyes to the road in front of my wheel, slowed my cadence, matched breath to pedal stroke. It was hard, it was relentless, but I did it. I made the right turn onto the short street and got close to the next stop sign. When I saw that it would be a tight right turn, into a briefly steeper upturn, I just short circuited. I pulled up even with the stop sign, unclipped from the pedals and touched ground, leaning hard on the handlebars and gulping air.
A father with two young kids called out, “You can do it” and I wanted to smack him. I have lung cancer, you idiot. I am a friggin’ miracle is what I wanted to say, but I managed a weak wave and settled for cursing him in my head.
Then I got back on, pushed off, and rode the last several hundred feet to the entrance. “I did it!” I crowed to my waiting husband. He smiled. “Of course you did,” he said calmly. “You’ve done it before and you’ll do it again.” He turned to look for our daughter and her partner. Like the little prima donna I can be sometimes, I was a trifle miffed at his low-key response.
Today I see it a little differently. He may be the only person in my sphere who does’t see cancer as something that has diminished me. I set a goal, so he’s on board. I have lots to work out (work being the operative term): gearing, breath and cadence, hills, building mileage….I recognize I not make it to Multnomah Falls. But neither he nor I give a rat’s ass. As long as I am on the path of my own choosing, he’s happy to talk about training with me.
I think the real problem is the You can’t chorus. It swells to a crescendo just as I fear I’m getting close to my limits. Very persuasive, that nasty crew. So I cave. I think there are some pretty potent voices in the group. For one, Dr. Oncology, who seems to think a new normal means accepting a smaller life. “Won’t you…get tired?” a visitor (who happens to be a pediatric oncology nurse) asked delicately when he heard I was going to be moving a boatload of mulch. Well, duh, of course– who wouldn’t? But, just like everyone else, you take a break and start again.
The Chorus frets that I am Doing Too Much. They don’t see that I’m building strength and endurance, which is hard; they don’t see I’m doing good volunteer work even though I may be very busy sometimes; they don’t understand I’m enjoying working hard in the garden after missing most of last summer. None of that’s relevant. It’s simply that I’m Doing. Too. Much. And echoes of the Chorus sound in discussion groups all over the web: You can’t, you shouldn’t, oh, I get so tired…. I’m sure they do. How many think they can push against expectations that cancer survivors are weak, tired, limited?
Then again, how many expectations have I internalized without noticing?
The Chorus loves to hop on my bike as I’m heading out. (No wonder hills are such a drag.)
Why not rest a little, the Chorus wants to know. You know you can’t do this.
That damn Chorus has got to go.
Thanks for reading. Here’s hoping your choruses are happy ones.
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- Woman behind plastic by cottonbro
- Uphill by Eric Perlin
- Goodbye by Gerd Altmann