I Haven't Gone Away

I have not met most of you, but I have missed you.

Perhaps a week is not a long time, in the scheme of things, not to post on a blog.  But, considering that I've posted nearly daily for most of the past dozen years, it seems like an eternity.

This year has been, at once, utterly routine and strange, so far.  According to the weather forecasters and climatologists, this has been one of the mildest winters on record.  And we've had no snow of any consequence.  Yet this has been, probably, the worst winter for my health, both physical and mental.  If nothing else, that lends credence to what I've long believed:  Moving to Florida, or any place that doesn't have seasons as we have (actually, have had) them in this part of the world probably won't help me in my old age, whenever I reach, or admit that I've reached, it.

Anyway, I have been afflicted with what seems to be a "rebound" of the respiratory infection* that struck me at or after the end of my Paris trip last month.  When "catching up" with a friendly neighbor I hadn't seen in months, I mentioned it. "Maybe you didn't want to come back."

"Actually, I didn't.  Things are so crazy here."

She nodded.  "I know.  We're lucky to be here," she said, referring to New York. "But I don't know how much longer it will be before the rest of the country, and here, is like the place I left":  a state that, while it has a somewhat sane governor, has a legislator every bit as maniacally antithetical to LGBTQ equality, bodily autonomy and anything else I regard as a basic human value.

I mentioned my illness, in its onset and recurrence.  "I think you really didn't want to come back," she said.

I nodded.

"You should have requested asylum."

My eyes widened. "I would have. But how?"

"Well, look at all of the crazy people who've been elected.  They're a danger to your life."

"Yes.  I get more and more scared every day."

She took a long look at me.  Her dog sniffed around my ankles and clambered up my leg.  I stroked his ecru curls.

"I don't blame you."

"Since I came back, I don't feel as if I've been home--except for when I write and ride my bike."  And, I added, my illness has sapped me of the energy to do either.

The good news is that I finally did some riding this past weekend.  More about that later.

*--I have been reluctant to talk about it with anybody because, these days, if you're not well for more than two days in a row, too many people are quick to assume that it's COVID--which my doctor assures me that it isn't.  Not that having COVID is a marker of one's character (My vaccines are all up to date, BTW).  I just get tired of, not only the assumptions, but the gaslighting and irrelevant "advice" (thinly-disguised admonitions) that too often accompany them.

They Can Ride, They Can Shine

One day an elderly woman wheeled her husband into the shop.  Neither of them had been on a bicycle in decades, she explained, but she wanted to buy bicycles for him and herself. 

Turns out, he'd had a stroke and, at that moment, couldn't speak.  In fact, his facial movements were constricted.  But I could sense, in his eyes, that he was at least curious about the bicycles.  If I could notice that, I thought, she certainly must have known that he was interested in riding.  Then I wondered whether he had expressed interest before his stroke, or whether that interest was somehow communicated in one of those ways couples sometimes develop.

Whatever the case, she knew what she was doing when she brought him to the shop.  I saw them ride just about every day that spring and summer and fall, sometimes on my way to the shop, sometimes on my way home or out for a ride of my own.  I saw, almost immediately, in his facial expressions (limited as they were) and body language, that she wasn't "dragging" him; he was riding voluntarily, behind her.  Within a few weeks, he was leading her, and looked as if he'd initiated their rides--even though he still couldn't speak (though his grunts and groans became more intelligible).  And she was encouraging him.

They also came to the shop regularly.  First it was to adjust the things that normally need adjustment (cables and such) as a bike "breaks in", but as they rode more, we tweaked the handlebar and saddle positions, and changed things like the grips.  He was attracted to the bright, shiny things--reflectors, bells and other accessories with a bright finish. One day, though, he pointed to the Huret Multito cyclometer (Cyclo-computers were still new.) on another customer's bike and pointed to it.  He had his curious expression again.  Not quite sure of how to explain it to him, I explained it to his wife.  

"He understood you," she said.  "He can understand much more now that we've been riding," she explained.  "Sometimes it almost sounds as if he's making words, not just sounds."

That fall--just before I stopped working in the shop--he had, in fact, regained his power of speech and was reading the newspaper.    Later, I heard he'd progressed to books and was writing cute notes to his wife.

Today I thought about that couple for the first time in years when I learned about a cycling camp for disabled children.  It's going to be held in Oklahoma City during the last five days of June.

That camp is one of a series--called "iCan Bike"--that's been been held in various locales throughout the USA since 2007.  iCan Bike camps are run by the nonprofit organization iCan Shine, which began under the name "Lose Your Training Wheels" in 2007.  One of the stated goals of the program is for children with physical, intellectual and emotional disabilities to ride a bicycle independently, which iCan Bike defines as 75 feet with no assistance.   According to iCan, 80 percent of kids who participate in the program reach this goal, even though they attend training sessions for only 75 minutes on each day of the program. The remaining 20 percent of kids leave the program with parents, siblings or other people who are trained as "spotters" and can continue the work of the camp.

When I recall how cycling helped the recovery of the old man whose wife wheeled him into the shop where I worked, I am sure that it must be great for kids who don't have the kinds of skills that man had before his stroke!