Tag Archives: Health

Ugly cry. Well, almost.

A few years ago, I penned a post about ugly crying while mountain biking. I was working with a coach at the time and he took me out of my comfort zone. The outer limits at that time involved a steep incline with a sharp hairpin turn to the right followed by an equally steep descent. There was no backside or opposite side of the hill. It was climb, turn, descend. If you made a misstep you were going over the hill. Period.

I was terrified. I made a few approaches that I intentionally bailed on. A few times I climbed the hill only to bail at the top—which is bad because you now have to fight gravity as you make your way back down while maneuvering a bike alongside you.

I will never forget the feeling I had when I finally made it up and down safely that first time. When I got to the bottom where my coach was standing, I began to cry. Not just cry. I was sobbing. I cried big, huge alligator tears while full on snotting my head off. I was an absolute mess. The involuntary emotional relief I experienced after conquering this “mountain” was overwhelming to me. It was all the fear leading up to it followed by the release of getting over it that just broke a dam inside me.

You’re probably wondering why I’m reliving this experience, today. And no, it has nothing to do with #tbt. It’s because I experienced a similar experience today, on a much, much smaller scale.

If you know me, you know it’s been a long seven months of back-to-back injuries beginning with fracturing my left foot and tearing my ligaments in June, followed by a fall down the stairs in November, which re-injured the same foot and ankle—but worse. The pièce de résistance happened two days before Christmas when I fractured my right wrist while snowboarding, requiring surgery to implant a plate and nine screws. These events have left me at rock bottom physically and, more often than not, emotionally.

Blessedly, and despite my fresh injury, my husband drug me to his gym the day after Christmas. He urged me to obtain a membership and enlist the services of a trainer. I was terrified. I had so much self-doubt, I didn’t know which end was up, let along where to begin physically.  The owner of the gym paired me with a young woman named Rachel. He assured me she was experienced with injuries and would be very good for me. I trusted him and committed to a twice-weekly, three-month training regimen with Rachel. It was the best thing I could’ve ever done for myself.

I began working with Rachel five days post-surgery. This week marks five weeks we’ve been working together to get me back on track. I had (and still have) so much work to do on my physical body. When I began this journey back to me, my endurance was zilch. I couldn’t walk on the treadmill or ride a bike without being winded almost immediately. I lacked overall strength and had zero stability in my left foot and ankle. I felt like a newborn babe, but Rachel took great care with my “fragile” self.

Rachel asked me a couple of days ago how I felt things were going. I answered her honestly. I told her we’ve come so far from those early days of passive exercise. She has steadily added challenging and innovative exercises and increased weights. Mind you, I’ve been working out with ONE hand and ONE arm. We’ve adapted and kicked butt over the past five weeks. As of Tuesday, I am now free to work out without restriction.

Today, Rachel’s workout included box jumps. I’ve never done a box jump in my life and doubted my ability to do one on a good day, let along during my process of rebuilding. We started small, just three risers with an aerobic step. Rachel then set up five risers because she felt I was having too easy of a time with three risers. Oh, that girl, she challenges me. I approached the “box” and try as I might, could not commit to making the leap. I simply could not do it mentally. I would bend my knees, throw my arms behind me for momentum, go up on my toes and freeze. I bet I tried ten times before asking Rachel to remove a riser. After completing ten (mentally challenging) box jumps at this height, my heart was racing and I had an all-too-familiar lump in my throat. I was transported back to that day on the mountain bike trail. It was that same overwhelming emotional release. A different day. A different year. A different place. A different situation. A different woman. The same feeling.

Why am I telling you this? Why is it important? Because I want you to press on with whatever it is that has set you back. Don’t give up or give in. Push whatever it is that’s defeating you aside and take back your life. Living a life with a new benchmark for normal is better than not living life at all. Trust me when I tell you, it’s easy to sit on the couch and think of better days. But once you commit, it’s just as easy to get off the couch and make today a better day. You deserve it.

Inspire me.


When I first began riding a little over four years ago, Strava was a relatively new thing in our neck of the woods but was gaining popularity rapidly. Likewise, there weren’t a lot of women riding single track, at least to the degree we have now. When I first began riding, there were a handful of women I knew of locally (Palm Beach County) that burned up the trails. I was always star struck when I encountered them, calling them out by name when I met them. Because Strava was new(er) to the area, my ride results put me toward the top of the leaderboard with them overall, and certainly within my over-50 age group. I ironically became known as a “fast” rider—something that felt quite novel to me at the time but certainly doesn’t apply to me today.

Fast forward four and a half years and women’s riding (and racing) have absolutely ballooned in numbers on a local level. Now, you are as apt to find women on the trails as you are men. I may be speaking out of turn, but I feel the numbers are perhaps 10:1, men to women, and perhaps even greater than that on the side of women. This is beyond impressive. The women shredding our trails are of all skill and age levels, as evidenced by the ride details I frequently chronicle on social media.

With this surge in women riders, my almost-55-year-old self has fallen significantly in the rankings with respect to speed. To be honest—I’m way down on the list. This used to bother me a bit purely from a mortality standpoint. I look at riders in their 20s, 30s and 40s and know they’re only going to get better with training, while I’m on a downhill slope at my age with respect to increasing my physical abilities. There is only so much an aging body can do, due greatly in part to an imbalance in hormones. Interrupted sleep. Decreased muscle mass. Increased body fat. Arthritic joints. And the list goes on. This is a fact of life and, one that’s hard for me to accept at times. I’ve written about this before. My mind tells me I’m decades younger than my soon-to-be 55-year old body tells me. This is not a pity party but rather a celebration–an absolute, total celebration.

Ladies, I want you to know you inspire me each and every day. You inspire me to do and be better. When I ride, it’s you I think about. You are my imaginary “rabbit.” I know I won’t catch you, but I will not finish the ride without giving it my all. You, my beautiful fellow female riders, inspire me. And, I hope that you find some inspiration in me, too. I hope, that just maybe because of me, you’ll find inspiration on the trails in your fifties and way beyond. Who knows? God willing, I will be the septuagenarian, octogenarian, and maybe even nonagenarian to whom you say, “Rider back.” One never knows what (or who) you’ll find ahead.

Happy trails, my amazing friends. x

Summer Break Back in the Saddle

Boy, have I missed this. Until this past school year, these commutes played such a huge part in our daily lives. Not being able to ride our bikes to school (because of the distance) is a sacrifice I’m willing to make in order for J-man to attend a suitable school.

I’ve blogged extensively in the past about the role these biking commutes played in our lives during J-man’s first few years of elementary school. Biking the few miles to and from school and work afforded so many opportunities for J-man’s growth, development and betterment that we simply miss out on by riding in an automobile.

Summer is here though, and I intend to take and make as many of these moments as I possibly can.

See ya around town.

 

 

CycloFemme 2019

Twenty. That’s the number of stoked women of all skill levels and riding abilities who joined me on a ride I organized last weekend. Some of these women traveled well in excess of 100 miles each way, to participate in this 8:00AM ride.

This is the second year I’ve hosted a CycloFemme ride, and the 8th year the organization has been encouraging women to “band together and celebrate collective momentum” over Mother’s Day weekend.  The organization’s ethos is simple: “inspire one more woman to ride a bike, and we can change the world.” This is a philosophy I can back wholeheartedly.

Despite a few raindrops, we had a fantastic 36-mile gravel grind. Yes, the trails brought forth beautiful sights and fantastic scenery, but the true highlights lie in the friendships—existing, rekindled, and newly minted. We shared endless laughs, engaging conversation (sometimes serious, but for the most part lighthearted). We got to know each other or, in some cases, know each other better. We talked weather, bikes, saddles (and lady parts), kit, shoe fit, summer plans, bucket list rides and trips, family, and Mother’s Day plans. Mostly, we just rode along and enjoyed being together, celebrating our collective momentum.

Thanks for riding with me, ladies. I look forward to doing so again soon. And no, we are not waiting until next Mother’s Day to pedal together. X

(The following photos are in no particular order, but well worth sharing. Some of these photos are courtesy of Annia Martinez of Outcast Cycling.)

 

Fixer

Roughly 892 miles as the crow (and airplane) flies, that’s the distance we recently traveled for a second opinion for J-man’s epilepsy. Judging by the reaction to this news by many folks, this may seem extreme, but Cincinnati Children’s Hospital and Medical Center is one of the top-ranked hospitals for pediatric neurology and neurosurgery for serious neurological problems such as epilepsy, head trauma and brain tumors. They are the best of the best.

Last fall, after of eighteen months of easy-breezing, seizure-free “maintenance,” J-man’s nocturnal seizures returned in full force. After months of unsuccessful tinkering with medication dosages, I felt it was time to seek a second opinion. Hence our travel to Ohio.

At the conclusion of J-man’s initial examination/evaluation and consultation with a pediatric neurologist at CCHMC, the doctor recommended an MRI under sedation and an in-patient EEG that would take place over the course of three-full days and nights. I had a team of prayer warriors praying the EEG would capture a seizure. As fate would have it, J-man did not experience a seizure during his stay in the hospital. Only the erratic brain activity with pre-seizure spikes we know to be continually present was captured.  I liken this to taking your car to a mechanic because of a noise you’re hearing, only for the noise to be inconveniently absent during the mechanic’s inspection. That’s an obvious oversimplification, of course, but you get what I’m saying. (Of course, he had a seizure the night he was discharged from the hospital.)

Our stay wasn’t all for naught, however. We did learn some things about J-man and some of the things that go on inside his busy brain. We learned terms such as slight asymmetry, temporal horns, single punctate focus, frontal white matter, susceptibility artifact, right corona radiate, microhemorrhage, dystrophic calcification, and T2 FLAIR, just to name a few. I was a Google fanatic each morning when a new report appeared in J-man’s online chart. The term that sticks with me most is “prior insult,” as it relates to microhemorrhage and dystrophic calcification. As an adoptive mother, I’ve always wondered about the ramifications of a most likely absence of pre-natal care for J-man’s birth mother, as well as what the first few months of his life were like.

With respect to the EEG, the findings pretty much mirrored previous test results. Abnormal EEG. Focal epileptiform discharges. Focal interictal epileptiform abnormalities that have a high correlation with seizures that are partial in onset. The one bit of news that was news to me is that the discharges occur in the right centeroparietal head region. As odd as this may sound, I always wondered what part of his brain was affected.

Additionally, while in the hospital, we were fortunate to meet with Dr. Donald Gilbert, professor of neurology and pediatrics at University of Cincinnati and Cincinnati Children’s Division of Pediatric Neurology. Both J-man and I wanted to consult with someone regarding the tics he struggles so greatly to manage. What a blessing it was to sit with this man as he explained so thoughtfully and thoroughly what is happening in my son’s brain and how best to help him manage the uncontrollable movements and sounds that afflict him. We now understand that J-man’s involuntary movements are actually  Tourette Syndrome. We also know people with Autism Spectrum Disorder oftentimes have some degree of Tourette Syndrome, too. Dr. Gilbert provided information to J-man’s school as well as valuable information to be included in his IEP. Again, what a blessing it was to consult with him while at CCHMC.

None of this is earth shattering. And, God willing, this is not life threatening. It’s just a change of tack. J-man began a new medication and medication regimen that have absolutely changed his life for the better. He is a different person. The medication he has been on for the past two-plus years was a nightmare. It rendered him listless, fatigued, and unable to process and retain information–horrible by-products for someone who has significant learning challenges to begin with. I am so happy to say, as of this past Friday, J-man has been seizure-free for three-plus weeks. Praise God!

 

 

 

 

 

The last thing I need to mention, is that upon awaking our final morning in Ohio I had an epiphany moment. God spoke to me clear as day. To paraphrase, he said, “You are a fixer, but you can’t fix this. And that’s okay. Your son is perfectly made. You just need to let this be. Love him as he is. There are no surprises where I am concerned. Your son will be just fine.” This divine revelation lifted such an enormous weight off my shoulders. It was freeing. To me, these words confirmed that I’ve done everything humanly possible to get J-man the care he needs with respect to his diagnosis of epilepsy, and there is nothing for me to “fix.” Although I “knew” all of this, what a much-needed reminder that although I’m in charge, I’m not in control.

I thank each and every single one of you for your concern, prayers, positive thoughts and vibes, and support. You have no idea how grateful I am to have you in our corner.  x

B~

 

 

 

Dining Well

  

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well. ~Virginia Woolf

Weekends in our home usually include made-to-order breakfasts.  Well, they’re made by me in response to the individual requests of my son and husband.   [And I’m truly grateful for the opportunity and ability to do so.]  Conversely, my breakfast is a hastily, yet nutritiously concocted meal of oatmeal with ground flaxseed, chia seeds and pecans.  It’s a quick, easy, nutritious and satiating go-to for me, most every day of the week.  

This morning, after serving the men of the house, I decided to treat myself to a breakfast of French toast.  What a thoroughly decadent treat it was, not only in the deliciousness of the meal, but in the sitting down and truly treating myself for a change facet of it.  To not rush through breakfast, but to savor the meal and the moment was so good for my harried soul.  Why is it, we oftentimes care for the needs of others, without tending to our own?  

I [and perhaps you, too] need to remember, our greatest joys, pleasures and treasures are found in the threads of life’s tapestry, and not necessarily in the tapestry itself.  

Acceptance

Happiness can exist only in acceptance. ~ George Orwell


The above photo was snapped during a recent biking event.  I was participating in a time trial hosted by our local off road/mountain biking organization, Club Scrub.

At first blush, this photo depicts nothing really, except perhaps sheer determination.  It represents no great achievement for me personally except that I finished what I started.  I came in fourth out of four participants in my time trial class (sport).  Like the Olymics, there are only three podium positions in our club’s time trials.  The eight plus mile singletrack ride took every ounce of energy I had.  The day was unseasonably hot–88 degrees with 62 percent humidity resulting in a “feels like” temperature of 93 degrees.  Yes, it was incredibly hot, and I gave the ride every last drip drop I had within me, but the heat offered no excuse for the defeat I felt. The time trial was humbling. I don’t mean in an, “Oh, I’m so humbled…blah blah blah…” empty platitude kind of way. I mean humbled as in:  Oh!  My!  Gosh!  I’m 51 and my competitors range from YOUNGER than my daughter to (much) younger sister, and I simply could not hang with them.  I was so far out of my league I was in a different zip code.  I had a lunch of humble pie that afternoon.

As I mulled over my ride, I was really disappointed despite the effort I put forth–even though I knew I rode as hard as I physically could.  I simply couldn’t have done better.  And then it (slowly) dawned on me.  I am what I am.  I am who I am.  I am where I am.  I am me.  I was forced to acknowledge that I’m lavish with grace and acceptance with everyone except myself.  And dang it, I need to accept and EMBRACE my effort FOR just that–a whole lot of friggin effort. I need to be proud of myself for what I bring to the table. I can’t lie. That’s so darn difficult for me personally. As an overachiever to whom a lot of physical accomplishments have come easily, that’s humbling. But I’m gonna do it.  I need to do.  I need to do it for my own wellbeing.  So, I hereby resolve to cut myself some slack.  I’m officially giving myself a break and telling myself exactly what I’d tell my husband, daughter, son, mother or friend.  Bobbie, I’m proud of you.  You gave it your all girl.  Put on your big girl panties, find contentment where you are and celebrate those young(er) whippersnappers that kicked your tail.   They’re fierce gals–just like you.  Congratulations on a job well done, one and all.  #letsridebikes