Numbers, neobladder advice and soup

Ninety of these, using various letters.

Ninety of these, with careful attention to which colour went with which letter.

Approximately 480 ends to deal with over about 5 hours.


Yesterday I received a hard copy of a small publication called the Pipeline, prepared for members of the Urology Nurses Association of Canada. Months ago my incontinence nurse, after listening to me babble about all the things I had learned while dealing with my new bladder, suggested that I write an article for the Pipeline. She subsequently added an introduction and the two pieces appeared as the feature in the June 2015 issue. It was weird to receive it. Those days seem like they were years ago even though it was only a few months. You can read it here. In the unlikely event that you know a neobladder patient please pass along my advice.

In the mood for soup? Try Lemon Parmesan Asparagus Soup.

Monoprints

As soon as the creative brain fog began to dissipate I played with my fabric and paint. I used a Gelli plate, Pebeo Setacolor paint (both opaque and transparent) and four kinds of fabric. I selected three ugly fabrics from my stash and also used white PFD. In all, I made about thirty pieces. Some I only printed once but others were composed of four and five layers.

Here are a few of my favorites.

I brought them as my contribution to show and tell at yesterday's FAB meeting. Someone suggested that I should make a small piece out of them. That was already on my mind and by this morning my ideas had gelled. I have laid out something I call 'The Fog is Lifting' and sampled my construction techniques. I hope to get it put together this weekend.

This is a fast turnaround for me. I don't know whether cancer has changed my world view (especially the value I place on time) or whether the idea is just so right that it had to be done. Perhaps I am just bored. The good news is that the piece I have designed is derived from my 'why', not just the 'what' that I happen to have a pile of monoprinted fabric on hand.

Soundtrack for surgery

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Two excellent surgeons will do their best to eradicate the cancer and reconstruct things so I can live a 'normal' life. My friends are laughing now. I don't think they regard me as normal, ever.

For the last few days a song has been running through my head. I can't really recall many of the lyrics but the chorus is clear. I found the song when I was looking for something suitable for a message-based indoor cycling class. The profile for that class came up first when I did a Google search to write this post. I guess there aren't too many other people interested in the song. It seems that's because the singer/songwriter spends most of her time training and competing in Western equestrian events, not singing or promoting her work.

So I can't let you listen but you might want to track down 'Fear Has No Place Here' by Rachel Leigh Ory.

There's another chorus which has been rolling around in my head. It is from the same class. Even though the lyrics seem to be about death, that's not what I hear. I like the concept of 'destination darkness'. We all have to go to a dark place sometimes and the message 'no fear' is what we all need to embrace. The rhythm of the song really works for me as I think of taking step after step toward the light.

Community

I am fond of saying that one of the things that interests me the most when I become engaged in an activity is the opportunity to create and participate in a community. I use that term in the context of this definition:

a feeling of fellowship with others, as a result of sharing common attitudes, interests, and goals.

As a biologist I also like this definition because of its emphasis on interdependency.

a group of interdependent organisms of different species growing or living together in a specified habitat.

Following through on the first thought, here's a definition of fellowship:

friendly association, especially with people who share one's interests.

I am most interested in the effect of fellowship on the ability of people to achieve specific goals, and, in the reverse, the way in which shared goals can create friendly associations.

I have participated in a lot of communities but I have been thinking about one, in particular, during the week leading up to my surgery. That is the group of people who committed themselves to cycling the Cabot Trail in 2012, even though they had never dreamt of doing so and were not initially prepared in terms of fitness, cycling skills or mental attitude. Through the course of the summer they were brought together by their shared goals. They trained and ate and partied together. By the time we were ready to ride the Trail, a definite community had evolved.

On a day in late August I stood with them in the parking lot of a motel in Cheticamp, Nova Scotia. Within the hour they were going to tackle the first of three significant climbs, up grades that they had never before experienced. As I addressed the group I knew that none of them would have gotten to that place on their own. And I knew that the group would provide support that they couldn't receive from anyone else. At the end of the day, and in the months to come, our community would also help its members put their successes and failures into perspective. 

I have been reflecting on what they must have been feeling on that morning. By rights, they should have felt fear or at least anxiety. While I am certain that there was a small measure of those feelings they were mostly upbeat, confident and light-hearted. They had done as much preparation as they could and were going to rely on our small community for everything else.

I feel much the same way about my pending surgery. People have been asking me if I am afraid or nervous. I am not. Someone just asked what I am feeling. My answer was 'prepared'. I have done everything I can do and I will rely on my community of friends and medical staff to get me up the hill. They share my goal to emerge healthy and happy and  are working alongside me to ensure that we achieve that end.

This week I was I inducted into another community. One of the people who stood in that parking lot came to the house with a gift for me. It was a quilt which was given to her five years ago when she too had an encounter with cancer. The maker asked that it be passed along to someone who needed support, as I do now. I will use and care for it and will wrap myself in the community it represents and then I will give it to someone else who needs what only other people can offer.

1. 
   
   
   Doesn't it seem that Tolkien should have called the first book of his trilogy The Community of the Rings - shared goal, and all that.

Something has changed

A few weeks ago a close friend said "Your work is going to change." She meant that it would change after my encounter with cancer. I facetiously asked her if she thought that I would suddenly start using colour instead of my usual greys and blacks. She replied "I don't know but something will change."

She's right. But not in the way I think she meant. My perspective on time is different now and that is mostly evident in how I am thinking about spending my creative time after my recovery. A number of incidents have triggered the insights which are starting to trickle into my head. 

When we did our Oh, Canada road trip we ended up at the Aberdeen Cultural Centre in Moncton where one of the galleries was located. We were too early for the gallery so we wandered and met an artist who told us about a fibre artist who had a studio on the third floor. We hustled upstairs where we met Marjolaine Bourgeois.  With her permission I have reproduced images of two of the works which were on her wall. 

À bras, 2014, Marjolaine Bourgeois

Les pieds dans l'eau, 2014, Marjolaine Bourgeois

You may or may not like her work but that wasn't what made the impression on me. We had a lovely conversation about why she does what she does and what sacrifices she has made to be a full-time artist. It made me think.

Then I stumbled on the artist interviews at World of Threads. Go and look even if you think you have no interest in fibre art. This is not your grandmother's fibre. Think sculpture and paint and installation. I read interview after interview after interview. And all I could think about was how precious time must be to all of the artists. A few months ago I would have been looking at materials and techniques and subject matter and design.

My friend was right - my work will change because I have a different perception of the value of time and I will use it differently. Nothing will be the same.

Clean slate

I have spent the last few days tidying the house in anticipation of being unable to do so for the next three months. Is there anything more distracting than winding balls of yarn, putting beads back in their numbered containers, organizing scrap fabric and sorting thread? I recommend it to everyone with a life-threatening illness who is facing surgery or some other scary treatment. Anything that takes you into the here and now is a good thing.

Along the way I found another unfinished sweater to add to the pile. The pattern wasn't with this one and I was about to put up a plea for help on Ravelry. Then I thought to check my Ravelry 'projects' file. Uncharacteristically I had noted the details of the sweater so I can print the pattern and pick up where I left off.

Why not me

Since my cancer diagnosis a lot of people have said something along the lines of "You're the last person I thought would get cancer. You do everything right." I sometimes have the sense that this is a prelude or invitation to a 'why me' discussion and that that would be the comfortable choice for everyone. I would have support as I felt sorry for myself and my friends could avoid thinking about how the same events would alter their lives.

But I can't and won't adopt the 'why me' point of view. From the very first inkling that I might have cancer my reaction has been 'why not me?' I don't think I am so special that the vagaries of life should pass me by. And it seems to me that you can't pick and choose your reaction depending on events. What do 'why me' people do in moments of beauty and joy? Do they wonder the same thing or do they somehow feel more deserving of the good times than the bad?

I had a 'why not me' moment on our bike ride last week. I was doing something I enjoy in a beautiful place in great weather while accompanied by my husband and friends. As I pedalled alone, catching up with the group after stopping for photos, my thoughts were not about 'why' I was having such a great time. Instead, I reflected that there was no reason why I shouldn't I have this time, this experience. The good comes with the bad. Thoughts of the good will surely mitigate the bad.

Beauty

Joy

August fun, chapter one

In advance of my surgery in September I am planning to have lots of fun in August. Today four of us went for a bike ride. It was just 67 km - not a stretch but it's not about beating myself up. It is about fun. And fun we had. I mapped a route that took us to a part of the province in which we haven't yet ridden. Here's our route - we rode clockwise from the bottom right corner.

And here's the elevation profile, which looks scarier than it was. In all we only climbed 629 m.

  

It was overcast and the temperature was in the low 20s.

It is nice to ride with a small group with whom you have spent lots of time. There is a good rhythm and everyone understands what the others want to get out of the day. And we all understand when it isn't appropriate to be chipper and happy - that kind of attitude is misty not welcome on hills.

As you can see from the map, the route ran along the coast of Cobequid Bay. The bay is actually the most inland portion of the Bay of Fundy. For that reason it experiences very high tides and there are several local businesses which allow people to raft on the tidal bore. As a consequence it wasn't your typical ride along the ocean. The tide was out so there were ugly mudflats where there should have been glistening water. Where there was water it was silt-filled and as brown as the mudflats. But it didn't matter. It is enough to see new scenery and for me it helps if everything is green and there is corn and cows. We checked all of those boxes today.

Failure or success?

I ride a bike but I try hard not to be a cyclist. That's because, where I live at least, cyclists have a look and an attitude that can be very off-putting to adults who just want to get back on their bike. And it is those people who I am interested in helping. Even though there is a lot of emphasis placed on getting young people outside and active, realistically our community is too diffuse and the roads too bad for them to embrace cycling at this point in their lives. If we want to increase awareness of active transportation alternatives we need to reach opinion makers. If we want to create new habits and interests that will last a lifetime we need to engage adults who are reasonably financially secure and are looking to add a new facet to their lives.

I know from experience that many of that target group reject cycling because they feel it requires a certain look and type of equipment. My goal has been to show them that you don't need elaborate and expensive gear to get back on their bikes. I help them with an initial bike purchase based on their three to five year goals, then help them become comfortable with longer and longer times in the saddle while riding on the trail and finally  use the same incremental approach to explore the roads of the province. I am pleased that many of those I have coached now incorporate biking into their lives in important ways.

I don't think I would be as effective in delivering my message if I rode a fancy bike or wore funky looking matching clothes (known as kit in cycling lingo). For that reason, until last year, I just used a bike known as a road hybrid, equipped with a bike rack and fenders. The bike is clearly utilitarian and has little in common with the racy machines we associate with cyclists. I do use clipless pedals but favour a style used by mountain bikers. My shoes look like hiking shoes and I can walk normally in them because the cleats are recessed. Although I wear bike shorts and jerseys the shorts are always black and the shirts don't have text all over them.

Then last year I bought a new bike. It is a wonderful carbon frame road bike with electronic shifters (For those who care it is a 2013 Specialized Roubaix Expert DL Ui2.) I love the feel of the bike on the road - it feels like an extension of my body and when I am not coaching I can make it fly. Even though I acquired a fancy 'cyclist' bike I was still using the same type of shoes and clothing. But the shoes I wore with that bike were never comfortable. This week, in a vote of optimism for the future and to prepare for fun in August, I bought a pair of really nice road shoes. They are much stiffer and lighter than my others. And they required that I upgrade to a new type of pedal and cleat. The cleats make me look like all those other cyclists - there are big lumps under the front of my foot so I have to gingerly walk like an inebriated duck.

I have made some sacrifices in choosing the new shoes and cleat system. I won't be able to walk as comfortably should I be in an accident and have to walk home. I can no longer claim to be 'just a biker' and will have to think carefully about which bike and apparel I wear when I coach to ensure that I convey the right message. But those sacrifices are worth it! I love my new shoes, I love my increased ability to generate power on my bike and I love that I let my personal preferences override what might be best for the group, at least this once and on a reasonably meaningless point. Don't worry - I'm not getting soft. That's about as big a step as I can take. I promise that you will never see me in matching kit!

Planning ahead

I am facing a two week hospitalization followed by twelve weeks or so of recuperation at home. As soon as I get out of the ICU I anticipate that I will pick up my iPad and connect with the world, do some work and watch movies. But I know there will be a limit to how much I can rely on the iPad to entertain me. On top of that I will start to get disgusted at how unproductive much of the time spent with technology can be.

So I am planning some knitting projects. I already know that I want to knit a lace scarf for one of my surgeons and socks for the other but both types of knitting require a lot of concentration. They are not well-suited to how I expect to feel for the first eight weeks. 

For the last few months I have had the urge to knit a blanket. I think it started with this.

Now that I look at the details of that blanket it doesn't hold the appeal it did when I first saw it. The modular idea is a good one, however. It will let me work at a manageable scale and I'll get a bit of reinforcement every time I finish a block. I started looking for alternatives that could be made in a modular fashion. 

I think I have settled on my choice. I will make a log cabin block and then frame it. The blocks will be made of Noro Kureyon and the frame of Berroco Vintage. I have some Noro at home but it is not sufficient for an entire blanket so I went shopping for something complimentary.

Here are my choices of approaches to a log cabin blanket. Both projects are made by user sprucetree18 on Ravelry and use Sarah Bradberry's formula for a log cabin block. I like the second one best. It is the same concept as the first but the frame colour also appears at the centre of each square.

Here are my color choices for the first experimental blanket which may be more lap robe sized.

A poem for me

I don't particularly want to be labeled as a pollyanna but cancer has brought interesting new experiences and some firsts. One of those is this: Alan Brooks wrote a poem for me. With his permission I have copied the poem below. Here are some links to material which might help you enjoy it. You can choose to look at those links before reading the poem, after reading it or not at all. This is the original poem, titled Adlestrop, which is referenced in the title and text, here it is read by Richard Burton and here is some information on its author, Edward Thomas.

Adlestrop Revisited
            for Christine Nielsen


I too remember Adlestrop, that name
murmuring of Edwardian summer
heat, blue sky and small, still clouds,
the new-cut fields, the train’s unexpected
pause, the open windows and the song
of birds charming the poet’s ear
to the very edges of the twinned bucolic shires:
the fulgent calm before the onslaught
of the August guns.

Was this the unassuming place
to which his mind turned from the trenches,
the muck and stench – this single minute
his refuge of remembered music
in the midst of carnage – his mild paradise?
Was he there again, abstracted,
as he stood to light his pipe
when the concussive shell
sent him straight to heaven or to hell?

I too saw Adlestrop, only the name,
as my own train from London rattled by
one afternoon. It was the late ‘70s;
the sign a held glimpse in a long row of green.
I don’t remember hayfields. Was it late June?
Summer surely, but, windows closed,
heat if there was heat kept itself outside.
Still, "Adlestrop," and I could feel myself
turned back some sixty years and more
to linger in that simple perfect place.

Poetry came to him along with war.
Three years at most of each,
one hundred forty verses more or less,
and yet those so un-modern lines,
their speaking of a world already obsolete,
echoed long after the guns fell silent.
"He was the father of us all," said Hughes.
Through the second and more wars since,
and all the troubled peace,
a century on, here in this old New World,
the birds still sing and hold me
in a place both now and in-between.
...................................

In the season of biting flies,
in the season of morning fogs
burned off by afternoon to blowtorch winds,
in the time of thunderstorms,
of mosquitoes mobbing the screens at dusk,
there are those days now and again
when the mist lifts and the breeze comes fresh and clean
for a midday hour or two.
I think of you then.
I think of you too in the days of humid heat
you love so well, and seek, and in the long evenings
shortening already, though one can
hardly as yet tell.

The sky is too big here, with always
something going on. I wish,
but so far no fair-weather cloudlets,
lonely and still as haycocks. Smears, streaks,
broad strokes, washed blues and roiling masses.
I think of you day by day, even when alone
surrounded by friends and love.
We are so far from Adlestrop.
Yet here they are, at last –
soft as downland sheep watched
by the slow-moving sun.
It feels a kind of coming home.
...................................

Beeching’s axe fell hard and sharp on Adlestrop,
severing the goods trains from the platforms first.
Another swing and down the station went,
one hundred years and more smashed up
and hauled away as bricks and dust.
That was 1966. I turned up one year later
on the liner Maasdam, Montreal to Southampton:
the anchor dropping in a hard blow, the ship listing
half the night, the morning harbor all
whitecapped blue. Disembarking
to the storybook sight of bobbies, red call boxes,
and those little trains like a model railroad
or something out of Disneyland.
I took one up to London, then to Birmingham:
not the Cotswold line. That would have to wait.

Britain chose the lorry, car and motorway:
Adlestrop became another hamlet without purpose
except now as a bit of picturesqueness
(heritage rating 3 of 5) and place of pilgrimage
by those who love the poem. The station
sign, I’m told, was placed outside the bus
shelter and a station bench is also there,
enclosed, bearing the poem as a plaque.
If I could visit, I would pass it by.
But I could swear the sign, some sign,
was there along the track that later year.

And what if it wasn’t really there?
If all I saw athwart the rocking car
was anonymous bland greenery
from Oxford all the way to Gloucester?
The sign some ectoplasmic emanation
of the writer’s mind made visible
and carried by a lyric held by heart?
Would it matter? I go there at my will.
It is a place of peace. I go there still.
.................................

In the season of the hermit thrush,
fluting awake the dawn, and of the midday ovenbird,
I think of you.
In the season of full flowering,
of the second mowing,
of high summer before the turn,
of the deep in-breath before
whatever is to come.

Where is your respite now, in these heavy days,
your heart’s ease and clear-headed calm?
Your place of blue skies and
fair-weather cumulus? You’ve told us.
Somewhere warm along the old canal,
upstate New York. Medina,
Chittenango, maybe Clyde.

I see you cycling steadily, unhurried,
aware of all around: the still water,
grit under tires, pasture smell,
a duck splashing down ahead.
Do you hear a meadowlark?

I see you among the small towns
and villages of that route, riding
where you will, taking in
the history, taking photos in memory,
knowing that at the end
you’ll find a gallery or museum,
or lunch at a cafe, sitting under
some old shade tree, a glass of Malbec,
sun dappling the grass,
alone in the bright moment,
uncaring, Adlestrop at last.

 Alan Brooks 

7/15/14-7/22/14

It is obvious that Alan did research that helped him understand more about the original poem, its author and the history of the place he references. His poem would not be the same without the information he collected.

Did you check out the links I provided above? What do you think about adding context to your experience of a work of art?  I, for one, appreciate background information which may help me extend my appreciation of a piece. In eighth grade I took an experimental course called 'Interrelated Arts'. The three instructors worked hard to place visual, written and musical pieces into their historical context and show their relationship to one another. I have very strong memories of discussions about the rococo period and about Picasso's Guernica and Stravinsky's The Rite of Spring.

I think that course did a great deal to shape how I approach the activity of attending to works of art. I wonder if it also formed my own attitude to making art. I find it next to impossible to make something unless I can see/feel the way it fits into a greater whole.

Tomorrow will be different

It will be a difficult day so I took a walk to look at the day lilies. These flowers won't be there tomorrow but there will be others in their place.

Slowing down

In the last month I have had two surgeries - the last just nine days ago - and I anticipate a huge and complicated procedure within the next few weeks. I am determined to stay as active and healthy as I can between these significant events. I find myself caught between the need to hurry up and accomplish things because I might run out of time to do them and the sense that I should slow down and enjoy every moment.

On Wednesday, just a week after my last procedure, I went for a bike ride. I recruited a friend to accompany me to ensure that I didn't overdo. Today I rode again but this time I was alone. My mantra was 'slow down'. I reviewed all of the truly good physiological reasons to avoid pushing as hard as I could but I knew that wouldn't be enough. So I resolved to stop occasionally and take photos. The shots are only remarkable as evidence that I prevailed in my determination to do what was best for me. I think I found a happy medium - I rode farther in the same amount of time than I did on Wednesday but I also stopped for photos and even sat on a bench overlooking the sea for a while.

A perfect gift

Today I wrote a short "thinking of you" note to a friend who has had some surprising health issues in the last couple of months. She wrote back almost immediately - to tell me that at that moment she was in a green hospital gown and waiting for a CT scan. I know that she hasn't shared her concerns with many people and I was pleased that my email reached her at a time when she needed to know that she is not alone.

I must be getting old because my immediate reaction was wonderment at how far technology has brought us. My second reaction was gratitude. In the last six weeks I have spent lots of time in the ER and clinic waiting rooms and have even been admitted overnight to the hospital. Through it all I have been able to stay in touch with friends and family, surf the internet, read books and play games using the free wi-fi service at the hospital. The ability to stay connected and to reproduce my out-of-hospital life has made a big difference to me during my short visits. I can only imagine how important it must be to people who are forced to remain in hospital for much longer periods.

The installation of the wi-fi service at the hospitals was paid for by a grant from two families. They wanted to support something which would be a benefit to many patients and their families. Based on my recent experience their innovative gift has met that goal. Thank you, Gauthier and David families.

My happy place

My second surgery is today. I will be working hard before and after to remain calm. Part of my strategy will involve going to a "happy place." These photos represent one of those places. I took the first in the early morning at the start of my second day riding the route of the Erie Canal in 2013. Upstate New York is the place where I feel the most relaxed and happy. This photo is meaningful because on that trip I had the freedom to see and record anything that struck my fancy.

This photo is of a portion of the facade of a church in Medina, NY. Most of the buildings in town are built from Medina sandstone. It is worth a detour to see them. I took almost the same picture in 2010 so there must be something that draws me to the pattern and texture of the stone and the way in which it has been laid. 

My FAB friends can exhale now that they see that I have posted something monochromatic and grey! All is right with the world.

Fretfulness or fitness

I had a choice. I chose fitness.

In the thirty six hours before my second surgery I have ridden my bike on the trainer for 150 minutes, took a 60 minute body rolling class and a 60 minute Pilates class.

View from a rest stop, Day 3 of our 2012 bike ride around the Cabot Trail

Choose change

I am anticipating a bigger alteration in my life and lifestyle, at least for the next few months, than I imagined when I first got my cancer diagnosis. The required changes will likely limit my ability to teach indoor cycling in the ways I have done in the past. The effects on my outdoor cycling will be even more significant.

I have, of course, started to think about how to enhance my skill at teaching off my bike indoors. I already do some of that but my students are trained to expect me to spend a lot of my time on a bike in front of them. I need to change their mindset as well as my own. The best way to do that is to ensure that they have positive and positively different experiences when I am doing something the 'new' way.

Yesterday I gained some insights into the potential for both me and them to deal with the changes ahead. I coach a group of my indoor students on weekly rides outdoors. I could not participate on my bike this week. But I really cared that some members of the group receive support on key portions of the route. So I chose to drive my vehicle and meet them at specific points for skill discussions and cheerleading.

Last night I received this email from a woman who had been unsure about whether she should attend the group ride this week because of some challenges in her own life.

Hi Chris,

Thanks so much for your conversation on Friday to set me up with confidence and success for today's bicycle ride. AND today for your before riding talk, checking in with me and others during the ride. My favorite part of the day (other than pub) was cycling up North Mountain. I really was not sure my body could handle the climb. Once I began the climb and got a feel for it, I KNEW I could complete it. Seeing you standing in the middle of the road at the top of NM put a big smile on my face. I could see this tall figure with dress and shawl blowing in the wind taking inventory and good care of all us cyclists.

I was tested today to really trust myself, and follow through with what would be best for me. Thanks for making it so easy.

It didn't matter to her that I was not on a bike and, in fact, I was more effective on several occasions than I might have been if I was riding with the group. It is clear that both my students and I will adapt to the new normal and that we will be enriched by doing so. Once again, change is good. Don't wait for change to be forced on you. Give some thought to doing something different and then do it!

It always gets easier

On Sunday I rode my bike 55 km over moderately difficult terrain. Yesterday I rode another 44 km. In the abstract, the second ride seemed like a good idea. I had already done well on the bike and the trainer, chose a route without any serious climbing, started early to avoid the heat and felt well-rested. I wasn't more than a couple of kilometres into the ride before I thought about quitting. Then it dawned on me that we had parked the car in the wrong place and that our planned turn-around spot was farther away than I had planned. That alone felt like a good enough reason to quit and try again another day.

My legs were leaden and they wouldn't move faster when I told them to. I felt weak on the hills and sluggish on the flats. With every pedal stroke I wanted to stop, to turn around, even to have George come get me. It occurred to me that cancer and surgery were pretty good reasons to quit. But those reasons are what kept me riding. I kept thinking that if I couldn't do this ride, under ideal conditions with no time or peer pressure, I certainly wouldn't be able to prevail when faced with greater challenges.

Nothing I was feeling or thinking was new to me. I am not joking when I tell my students that I always want to turn around after seven minutes on my bike. It sometimes takes thirty to sixty minutes before I start to enjoy myself. Then there are the bleak moments when I am working on an art quilt. For days and even weeks every idea seems worse than the last. I search for excuses to stop, to work on something else, to clean the house.

The thought that I pushed to the forefront yesterday was "it always gets easier". It happens every time. On the bike I start to move faster and faster and the extra speed seems to require no effort. In the studio one idea catches hold and lets me complete a piece, albeit sometimes in a very different way than in my original vision. And yesterday it happened again. We flew home after the turn-around point. Our average speed was much higher but more important I had a good time and didn't feel like I was struggling.

I know this may be odd but in my imagination I see a chart of possible reactions to any given situation. I have just added another data point to the "it always gets easier" column. I will rely on my imaginary chart next time I am thinking bad thoughts and once again my choice will be obvious.

Cycling and life

This is the second of the articles I have written for the Indoor Cycling Association. I know that the last three paragraphs may come across as a little strong if you are not immersed in the world of 'spinning' instruction. There is a growing tendency in the industry to encourage exercisers to exercise at a very high intensity without reference to the skills which are actually applicable to biking up a steep hill - or taking on a life challenge. I think my current situation gives me a unique opportunity to educate and also, I'll admit, to shame some instructors just a little. In the end, I think those who just rely on high intensity and charisma to attract and maintain students are lazy. I don't have a problem if they cringe a little inside when they read what I have written.   

I sent it off with a different title and was interested to see how it eventually appeared

We Are All Beginners at Some Things

It is the day of a meeting with a new doctor and a novel procedure. The date has been on the calendar for awhile and I have been looking forward to the answers it will provide. But now it is here and the thought of it seems too much to bear. It would be easy to let anxiety take over. But I know another way. 

Today will actually be composed of a series of events, not one horrible experience. I need to break it down, set some goals and get on with it. When I look at it that way the day doesn't seem so daunting. I know how to dress myself. I know how to drive. I have methods for dealing with the stress of the waiting room and even the procedure itself.  So I begin. Here's a peek at my thoughts through the day.

Get dressed. Check.

Drive to the health centre. Check. Nope - not quite. The anxiety is bubbling up. Work on something. Become mindful of your breath. Establish a pattern and stay with it. Your goal is to keep your heart rate low.

At the front desk. Put a smile on your face. It will make a difference to me and them. Keep smiling. Don't worry about the fact that you are the most cheerful person in the waiting room. You are doing what works for you. 

Waiting. You know how to sit in a chair. Focus on your spine. Keep it straight but relaxed. Sit deep into the chair - don't perch, you aren't going to fly away any time soon. Good. Deep breaths, long slow exhales. Read your book - you brought the tools so use them.

Meet the nurses. Smile. Walk tall, drop your shoulder blades. Form matters. Talk less, breathe more.

Doctor enters. Not so bad. You have this thing.

Procedure begins. Here it is - the steepest part of the climb today. Breathe. Relax - tension will get you nowhere. How about a tiny smile? Time slows down. Slow your heart rate with it. Focus on your breaths. Count. Just one more and then another and then another. What will help me sink into this? A babbling brook, hemlock trees, a picnic, a child - I'll go there. It's over. Really? That wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.

Results. Bad news. Not so scary though. Just another hill to climb.

The rest of the day. This feels like riding downhill after a hard climb. Everything is a bit blurry and feels rushed but maybe it is just that time has returned to normal.

I survived that day and could almost say that I thrived. On reflection I have two sets of observations relevant to coaching indoor cycling and other activities. First, over the course of a couple of hours I used almost all of the body and mind management techniques that I coach (and which were highlighted in many of the recent ICA summit sessions.) If you feel awkward discussing some of those topics or it isn't part of the culture where you teach, please consider my example. Do you want to deny your students access to information and techniques which are truly life skills and have application to so much more than just cycling?

Second, every activity or behaviour can be broken down into component parts. Those steps seem much less daunting in isolation. On my difficult day success at each step set me up for the next one. We know this in the abstract but do we consistently apply the principle in our classes?  Do we treat every one of those steps as equally important and celebrate success as each is achieved? Do we focus too much on the outcome or final step and neglect to acknowledge all its precursors?

Perhaps you are thinking "Yes, I break things down for the novices or newbies in my classes." My message for you, based on my experience in the last few weeks, is that everyone is a novice or unskilled at something; everyone struggles with at least one aspect of his or her performance. You won't always know which aspect is most problematic for any individual. I don't think I look or act like a novice cancer patient but that doesn't make any of the steps I am taking less difficult or less worthy of celebration. For that reason you should not make assumptions and skip steps or fail to reinforce small achievements. As an instructor/leader/coach in your classes that's one of your most vital roles - to identify and describe the steps and mark your students' progress as they climb them.

Good medicine

It's one week post-surgery. The booklet that they gave me on discharge says I shouldn't drive or lift anything or drink alcohol for several more weeks. It doesn't say why I should avoid any of those activities. I can think of a good reason for not lifting - it is a pretty obvious piece of advice for someone who just had a piece of flesh removed from her body. But the other restrictions? --- I don't know why I should follow that advice.

What I do know is that there is a set of activities which make me stronger and healthier. What's on that list? Eating, cooking and drinking good food and wine. Being responsible to people and groups to which I have made commitments. Teaching novices arcane material which can make a fundamental difference in their lives.

I am going to proceed based on that list. So today was devoted to several organizational phone calls, the drafting and sending of two important SAQA emails and the background work for a cycling trip to Cape Breton. Tonight I taught another two hour cycling skills clinic (off the bike!). Between those activities I made and ate a tasty dinner of herb-roasted lamb chops, risotto and stir-fried bok choy and zucchini. Dessert was strawberries with maple syrup.

Galloping is good medicine. So is the glass of wine I had with dinner.