Getting a leg up on aging
The orthopedic nurse who was putting the shot into my knee gave me one of the nicest compliments I’ve received lately.
“Those are some impressive quads you have there,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said, probably blushing. “I cycle a lot.” I went on to tell her about my bike rides on the trails around town.
But I didn’t tell her about getting OFF my bike.
This challenge is a shiny new chapter in my ongoing and probably delusional refusal to let aging get to me — one of those annoying and surprising developments that present themselves like face wrinkles.
One day recently I’d finished 18 miles on the trail. I arrived back at the parking lot feeling victorious because I kept a brisk pace despite the heat and humidity. As usual I did a final loop around the parking lot and then rolled to my car.
I stepped off the pedals, applied my left handbrake to steady the wheels and began to throw my right leg over the crossbar to dismount. But as I lifted it, my left leg began to lose footing, causing the bike to start to lean, and throwing me off balance.
What the …?
I righted the bike and started over. Lifted my right leg and this time my right thigh got caught on the seat. I couldn’t get my leg over the bar. I was trapped.
I’d done that maneuver thousands of times, and suddenly I lacked the coordination and dexterity to do it. And so now what?
Maybe what I needed was to lift my left foot up a bit — get it onto higher ground – so that my body was a bit higher than the crossbar. I pedaled to a curb, waddled with the bike between my legs to position myself, stepped on the curb and …
Nothing. It was as if my hip flexors had bolted themselves into a locked position. I looked around the parking lot, which is at a brewery, and saw two young men at a picnic table drinking beer. Maybe I could ask them to grab hold of my right foot and toss it over the bar, please. Or I could waddle onto a grassy area and gently collapse, bringing the bike down atop me and then I could slither out from under it.
And then I saw my bike rack. I waddled the bike over to it, held onto the rack with my left hand and successfully lifted my leg over the bar.
Driving home I thought about how this complication would change my cycling. Maybe it was time for a step-through bike, the kind first designed to accommodate the swing of girls’ skirts. Or I could do yoga stretches on that leg. Or maybe I could join the Rockettes: they learn how to toss those legs very high.
This was just one of what will certainly be many small indignities of getting older. I’m reminded that some people my age have turned to e-bikes, or tricycles. My friend and loyal reader, Clarence, recently told me that he appreciates that I’m writing about the challenges of aging. Believe me, it’s not on purpose or with any sense of pride. It’s just that each week when I think about my life and what to write in this space, these little difficulties start popping up. At least I’m learning to adapt.
I rode my bike the next day, my usual 18 miles. The last few miles, I worried about the dismount. Could I do it?
I rolled over to my car, grabbed the bike rack and tossed that leg.
And stuck the landing.