Don’t wait for the rain to stop, dance – or cycle – in the rain

In the epic Bike vs Car duel that I am currently playing out on the not so mean streets of southwest London, the score now stands at Car 7 – Bike 5.

I’m trying to cycle to more sessions of radiotherapy than I drive to (Cycling challenges and lowering expectations). It’s an eleven mile round trip. Yesterday, Monday, was the critical day. It was raining (lightly, but it was still raining) and I could so easily have hopped in the car and driven. What a bad start to the week that would have been. It wouldn’t have counted towards the overall score as I’d decided that if the weather was bad, I could drive and it wouldn’t count. I reckoned that was fair. However, it would have meant that, even if I cycled to my final four radiotherapy sessions over the rest of this week, the best I could get would be a 7 – 7 draw. If I wanted a win, I had no choice but to cycle, despite the rain. Now, an 8 – 7 win is still in sight.

I did briefly consider phoning the clinic at 9 o’clock yesterrday morning to ask if they could change my appointment to the afternoon when the forecast was better, but I decided that would have been taking things too far. So I put on my waterproof trousers and jacket and off I went. I got wet, but not soaked. It wasn’t cold and it felt good. By the time I left the clinic to come home, it had stopped raining.

On the way back, I bumped into a good friend and neighbour, the Sky Sports presenter, Dave Clark.

Dave, who’s 49, was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease five years ago and is living life to the absolute full (Dave Clark interview: Darts presenter lifts lid on five years of battling Parkinson’s – and refusing to throw in the towel). We started chatting about where we might go on holiday this summer. We’re thinking of going where Dave and his family went last year. He said a few things about how beautiful it was then remarked that it rained a lot at that time of year. No sooner had he said that, though, than he followed it with “*But don’t wait for the rain to stop, dance in the rain, eh?” We both knew exactly what he meant. That’s why I cycled to radiotherapy in the rain yesterday and that’s why, in September, Dave will be tackling the 200 mile coast-to-coast walk across the north of England, raising funds along the way for Parkinson’s UK…  but hopefully not in the rain! We hope to be with Dave for part of the trip. Way to go, Clarky.

* I’d never heard it before yesterday but I think the original phrase is “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass… It’s about learning to dance in the rain.” I’m not usually one for cod philosohpy, but this one struck home. 

Cycling challenges and lowering expectations

I’d been doing so well in terms of cycling to radiotherapy before I came down with this infection (It went downhill from there).

I’d first cycled on Day 4 (In the end, the wig ditched me). By the end of Day 7, I’d ridden to three sessions and had driven or been driven to four. Car 4 – Bike 3. Things were getting interesting. At some point during the third trip on the bike, I got the idea that it would be fun to aim to cycle to more radiotherapy sessions than I would drive to. At that point I had nine sessions left so it really wasn’t a tough target; I had plenty of leeway and I thought it might give me an incentive to cycle if I was feeling a lethargic or just plain tired. Then the infection took hold and while the goal is still achievable, it’s only just.

I’ve now had 11 radiotherapy sessions. The car has increased its lead over the bike and is winning 7-3 (I’m discounting from the car vs bike/me “duel” the session this past Friday when, for good reason, I used public transport). I came out of hospital last Wednesday and while I have been tempted to cycle on the odd day since then – particularly on Thursday, when it was such a beautiful day – I haven’t done so. I know I like a challenge but I’m not stupid and I knew I had to take it easy to give my body a chance to get over the infection.

So we’re at Car 7 – Bike 3. With just five sessions left, the best I can aim for is an 8-7 win. But a win is a win. To get it, I’ll have to cycle to radiotherapy every day this week. No pressure there. I’ve almost finished my course of antibiotics, I’ve had a very restful few days and so I’m up for trying. It’s a shame that on a couple of days the weather forecast is really not good.

Perhaps I should do as a friend suggests and just let it go. She could be right. There will be plenty more opportunities for cycling challenges. However, I’ve lowered my expectations over a good few things these past months, and as this is my final week of hospital-based treatment, there won’t many more of these particular types of challenges. I may be setting myself up for failure, but I’ve got to give it a go. I wouldn’t be being me if I didn’t.

I’m off to get my bike.

In the end, the wig ditched me

I was feeling really exhausted and fed up on Monday evening. When I woke up feeling much the same on Tuesday morning, I decided radical action was needed. The bike, I thought, could be the answer. I would cycle to my fourth radiotherapy session. It would be the first time in around three months that I’d done any cycling.

Just making the decision made me start to feel better. I got the bike out and pumped up the tyres. I stuffed the pump and everything else I needed into a little backpack and, with my cycling headband* and winter cycling gloves on, I set off.

The bike, as always, is part of the solution (Love that bike! & A lesson on living in the now). I loved every second of the 5.7 mile ride to the clinic, even the hill, and I felt great when I arrived. I locked the bike up, looked in the backpack for my wig to throw it on before making my way inside and realised to my horror that it wasn’t there.

I swear my heart skipped a beat. It was the same feeling of utter horror that I’d had when I was out having a meal with some friends to celebrate finishing chemo last November and realised that I’d forgotten to give myself my critical post-chemo injection (Emergency delivery of post-chemo injection – to the pub!). That time, my older son brought the needed item to the pub. That wasn’t an option this time.

I lost my hair to chemo last September. I hadn’t gone out in public without some sort of head covering since. I finished chemo at the end of November and so my hair is growing back, but I hadn’t yet taken the plunge. Now I had no choice. I simply (?) had to take a few deep breaths and go for it.

I remember thinking this must be what a panic attack feels like.

I phoned my husband Andy for some moral support. While frantically pacing the clinic car park, I treated him to a monologue that consisted mainly of me repeating down the phone the same four-letter word over and over and over (think the opening scenes of the film Four Weddings and a Funeral). I then phoned a friend who’s a couple of weeks ahead of me in terms of treatment (although it has to be said she didn’t lose her hair). This is the friend who said she wouldn’t have worried about not having had the injection and would just have waited until she’d got back home. The two of them found my discomfort all highly amusing, which I have to say did calm me down somewhat. As they pointed out, I couldn’t have picked a more receptive audience for my wigless public debut.

Deep breaths taken, I walked in. It wasn’t easy. Of course everyone I met said how good I looked, how well my hair was growing back, etc, etc, etc. I could literally feel the tension fading away. And when I explained it had been an accident and how it had come about, it felt even better.

It turns out I’d put the wig in one backpack and the rest of the stuff in another. If you must know, I swapped because the first one clashed with the cycling jacket I was wearing! (Bet that surprised you, my fashionista nieces Louise and Shereen.)

I haven’t worn the wig since. And it’s such a relief. Perhaps something was going on subconsciously that morning, because just a few days earlier I’d written about how and why I couldn’t wait to ditch it (One’s changing relationship with one’s wig). In the end, the wig ditched me.

Whether the wig stays unworn depends, I guess, on how my hair grows out. But so far, so good, and I’ve got a story I’ll be able to dine out on for a long time!

*No helmet, I’m afraid. In the three months of having been bike-inactive for want of a better term, my helmet appears to have “got lost”. No-one in the house is taking responsibility for said loss, but I didn’t lose it and I’d bet my life Andy didn’t either. That leaves just two possible culprits. They know who they are.