The Training Begins

When I first started writing about my pulmonary embolism, I looked around the web for blogs written by fellow sufferers, in the hope that I’d be met by dozens of tales of people conquering the condition and continuing to lead a normal life. What I found was a few blogs written by people immediately after they suffered the attack, and then silence after a few weeks recovery. What happened to these people? Were they dead? I wrote to them and found that they weren’t dead, they had simply stopped writing as they recovered.

And that’s what happened to me. I wrote for a while, but as I returned to normality, I began to realise that the early blog posts were simply a form of therapy. They were painful to write, and now I can’t bring myself to look at them. It seems like that was a different person who was able to share that raw emotion, and thankfully I’ve returned to my default status of internalising Welsh bloke who is deeply uneasy about sharing anything that may reveal a weakness.

But when I did write that blog, I was struck by two things. Firstly I was blown away by messages of support by all manner of acquaintance, and secondly I was humbled and shocked by the number of private messages I received from boozy, forty-something football lads who shared their own private health problems and deep, personal fears about their health. Us boys don’t normally talk about stuff like that, see.

And so here I am nine months later, meeting that commitment to chart my recovery, as I aim to achieve my life-long dream of riding a bike up the Alpe D’Huez.  There’s a reason why I haven’t posted anything for six months. It’s easy to be public about your intent and aspirations, but when you fail to meet your promises and targets, you feel like you’ve let everybody down. And when I weighed in at 18 stone 12 lbs at Christmas after sitting on my arse feeling sorry for myself during the Autumn, I felt more than a bit ashamed.

Yes, I have barriers, but I was using them as an excuse for not achieving my goal. Let me list them here and get them out of the way.

1. I’m overweight (BMI of about 37).
2. I have two torn cartilages
3. I have a rare neurological condition called transverse myelinitis.
4. I’ve got 2 blood clots in my lungs

The order of those barriers is important. By far the biggest issue stopping me from climbing to the Alpe D’Huez is the 7 stone extra weight I’m carrying on my bike. You give Alberto Contador a 100lb trailer and I reckon he might struggle a bit to get up there. But that’s great news. I can do something about that – and in 5 weeks since that Christmas weigh-in, I’ve lost 23 lbs, and now take the scales at a svelt 17 stone 3 lbs.

I was called into hospital last month to undergo surgery on the torn cartilages, but after discussions with the anaesthetist, we decided to call off the operation. There remains a danger of clotting during the procedure which could be life threatening, and I think there are other things I can do to ease the pain in my knees before taking that risk.

The transverse myelinitis is a hidden barrier. It’s been 17 years since the attack that sent my lower body numb and I’ve forgotten what it feels like to have normal legs. Yes, my legs often feel heavy and fatigued, and my spine is stiff,  but that may be the case for every other 44 year old bloke carrying too much weight. I’ve ridden 100 miles before now with these lumpy legs, so that excuse can’t be readily given.

The good news about the clots is that I don’t seem to have suffered any damaging scarring which causes pain during activity. I haven’t pushed myself to the edge yet, but I’m confident that the clots won’t be a barrier. The only thing I have to worry about is the effect of the warfarin that I take daily. My blood is thin, and any crash on the bike would be awkward. A head injury could be fatal.

So here we go – from now on this blog will catalogue my attempts to train for that ride up the Alpe D’Huez. It will be self-indulgent, egotistic and narrowly focussed, but I don’t care. Part of the reason that I’ve been able to get back out on the bike and even consider the possibility of completing the challenge was the public peer pressure I felt after making so many promises back in March. And this blog will help me carry on towards the goal when I might otherwise retire quietly.

After a month watching The Wire, and 24,  while sitting on on the exercise bike since Christmas, I ventured out on my old faithful 1994 mountain bike, an Orange C16 which I’ve often tried to replace, but have been unable to find anything which suits me better. After a 6km circuit completed solely in the granny gear, I’ve progressed slowly to a 15km undulating ride, which  has been really encouraging. For the first time, my thighs have been hurting more than my knees, which shows me the Alpe D’Huez is a real possibility.

I include the stats from today’s ride not as a matter of pride – the timings are embarrassing – but to show how far I’ve got to go.

Ride Time: 1:06:05
Stopped Time: 8:10
Distance: 15.74 km
Average: 14.29 km/h
Fastest Speed: 49.90 km/h
Ascent: 209 meters
Descent: 215 meters
Calories: 770

Her are the stats for the Alpe D’Huez:

Bends : 21
Departure : 716m
Arrival : 1,859m
Difference in height : 1,142m
Length : 8.89 miles
Average steep : 7.9 %
Highest steep : 14 %

My Targets:
March 1st, 2012 : Under 16 stone and progressing from mountain bike to the road bike.
May 2012 – under 15 stone – ride over Snowdon Pass
W/E June 9th 2012: Ride (Bangor to Cardiff?) to celebrate National Transverse Myelinitis Awareness Day July 11/12, 2012: Tour de France bypasses Alpe D’Huez – my 1st possible attempt
August 2012 – more realistic date for Alpe D’Huez attempt

http://www.preventdvt.org/
http://www.myelitis.org.uk/

 

 

My 1994 Tour de France adventure

My fascination with the Tour de France begin in the mid 1980′s when I saw a documentary on a rider called Robert Millar, a Scotsman who had finished fourth and won the King of the Mountains jersey. I remember being captivated by his skinny white body and his dark brown arms as he described the daily torture and suffering of a tour rider.

My interest in cycle racing was restricted by my obsession with football and music during the 1980′s. I rode quite often but I was more of a tourer than a racer, and nobody else I knew was into cycling. But when the start town of the 1994 race was announced as Portsmouth, I decided to catch a train down to the South Coast and experience the Tour de France for myself.

I loved it. I positioned myself at the stage finish, and to be honest the cycling was gone in a blur, but I hadn’t realised that the whole race would be led by a 2 hour procession of noisy and colourful promotional vehicles which threw out gifts and mementoes as the tension built up. I wanted more, and when I got back to Cardiff I followed the race on television intently. As the tour approached the Alps, I made a snap decision to book a flight to Paris, and make my way to Geneva.

Stage 18, July 21, Moutiers – Cluses

I flew out on Wednesday 20th, intending to travel by train to Cluses, via Geneva in time to catch the stage as it finished in the Alpine village on Thursday July 21st. Unfortunately, I made an ‘acquaintance’ on the flight across to Paris, and decided to stay in the French capital for the evening, eventually arriving at Cluses train station on the following day about an hour after the stage had finished.

This turned out to be a huge stroke of luck in adversity, as I decided to make the most of things by walking around the tour vehicles which were parked behind the finishing line. And it was there that I came across a rider sitting on the steps of the doctor’s caravan. It was Marco Pantani. I asked him for his cap, and he swore at me. How was I to know that he had smashed his knee earlier in the day, before riding heroically to claim third place on the stage? But I had met the great Marco Pantani, and I fell in unrequited love with a rider who would become my hero over the next seven years.

Stage 19, Thursday July 22, Cluses-Avoriaz (Individual Time Trial)

My vague plans were disrupted further when I discovered that there was no train out of Cluses that evening, and nor was there any accomodation available. These were the days before the internet, and I hadn’t been able to research or prepare anything. I decided to hitch-hike the 25 miles to Avoriaz where the following day’s time trial would finish. Again, I was stuck for accomodation, but managed to find an emergency bunk in the village school alongside other intrepid tifosi.

The following day, I rose at dawn and walked for hours up the hillside toward Morzine, finding a place about 5 km from the summit alongside a party of Miguel Indurain fans.

The Miguel Indurain Fan Club

A mountain time trial is one of the best ways to get a close up view of the riders, as they ride individually, passing you every few minutes in various stages of suffering. One of the first to go by was the Georgian sprinter, Djamolodine Abdoujapourov, another favourite of mine.

Djamolodine Abdoujapourov

Then I met my old friend Marco Pantani again, sharing a few warm words as he passed.

Marco Pantani

Then came the snivelling toad Richard Virenque, wearing Robert Millar’s precious polka dot jersey. I shouted abuse.

Richard Virenque, the most despicable man in cycling history

Indurain rode past as the fan club went mental, on his way to another Tour win.

Indurain, the machine

Stage 20, Friday 23 July, Morzine – Lac de Saint Point.

At the end of the stage, I descended quickly and caught the train back to Geneva, where I spent the night in an hotel at the side of the lake, before catching a local train to the small town of Annemasse where the tour would pass through once again. From there, I travelled to Paris by train.

Indurain rides through Annemasse

Stage 21, Saturday July 24th, Eurodisney – Paris – Champs D’Elysee,

After a night in gay Paris, I made my way early to the Champs d’Elysee as I knew it would be difficult to get a place near the front of the barriers.

The Champs D'Elysee

While scouting around for a good spot, I saw a familiar face. It was Phil Liggett, who presented Channel 4′s race coverage. “Hello Mr Liggett!”, I shouted, and he gave me a cheery wave.

Phil Liggett

I was right about getting there early. I found a spot just beyond the finish and settled down for a few hours. It was tough, and the worst thing was that I couldn’t leave to use the toilet. I was on my own, and had nobody to keep my place.  Agony!

Crowds on the Champs D'Elysee

The peloton on the Champs D'Elysee

The most impressive thing about watching the tour on the Champos D’Elysee is the noise made by the huge body of bikes as it passes at incredible speeds of about 45 mph. But in my opinion, it doesn’t really compare to a mountain stage. It’s an interesting element of the tour , but not the best one.

Djamolidine Abdoujaparov wins the stage

Ghosts of the peloton

And that was it – my first experience of the Tour, and looking back, I’m not sure how I managed to get round to the final four stages using only the sporadic train service around the Alps, and with no accomodation booked in advance. I didn’t even take a tent.

Back on the bike at last

I had the results of my MRI scan last week and the news was good. I have two symmetrical tears in the medial meniscus cartilages of both knees, and will require one or two arthroscopic operations  (keyhole surgery).  Now comes the bit where I explain this as I understand it, and my medical friends tell me that I’ve got it wrong. Nonetheless, here goes.

The meniscus cartilage is a rubbery fibrous mass which acts as a spacer/cushion between the thigh bone, the shin bone, and the fibula. I have splits in the posterior horn on both legs,  which is the bit at the back of the inside of the knee. As a result, there is some effusion (liquid) on the joint, and possibly some minor internal bleeding. There is some soft tissue strands in my intercondylar notch, which is a gap between the thigh bone and the tibia. These strands can affect movement of the knee. Similar damage in the left knee has resulted in a baker’s cyst. There is some evidence that a baker’s cyst can be connected to deep vein thrombosis and pulmonary embolism, which is interesting but not necessarily relevant in my case.

The damage was probably caused by years of football and cycling, and exacerbated by twisting the knee during a couple of charity boxing day games in 2008/09 which I should probably not have played in. I also worked in a heavy manual job for 11 years which would have compounded the stress on the knee joints and of course, carrying 18 stone will not have helped.

So how is all of this good news? Well, cycling is often recommended as a recuperative exercise for this specific injury. The rest of my knee is in good condition, and arthritis and ligament damage have been ruled out which means that the orthopaedic surgeon was able to pinpoint my problem and suggest an operation which could help me recover. There is a clean split in the middle of the cartilage and the suggestion is that they will remove the top half, and partially repair the damage, even though it will reduce the cushion between the bones. It may help, it may not.

I at least felt that I could move on in the knowledge that cycle training may be painful. But that it is not causing any more damage to my knee. So the big news is that I got on the exercise bike last night for the first time in months. After the initial soreness the pain eased and I was able to complete a tentative 25 minute session. On my second session I covered 10k in about 50 minutes. I am only spinning, and not putting any downward pressure on the joints. Where I used to train for an hour at 110 watts, I am currently spinning at just 40-45.

But at least I felt like doing it. The biggest barrier to my return to training since suffering the clots has not been knee pain, it has been lethargy and fatigue. The fact that I’m back on the bike at least suggests that physically, things are at least starting to get back to normal. I have no more pain in my lungs and am breathing easily.

With two operations on the horizon, I now have no choice but to lose the weight which has crept back on since my general grogginess and boredom led me to indulge in some comfort eating. You really don’t want to undergo general anesthetic when you are obese. It’s dangerous and raises the risk of airway complications significantly. They may even refuse to operate, which would not be good. But at least I’m back on the bike which is a huge positive. Those Alps seem a long way away with just 75 minutes of spinning under my belt,, but my target to ride the Alpe D’Huez in the Summer of 2012 is back on track.

The Surf Dude and the MRI Scan

Me, in 2001

My recovery took a small step forward today when I went for an MRI scan to detect the extent of the damage to my knees. I wasn’t looking forward to this at all, as my previous scan in 1994 had been one of the worst experiences of my life. It was then that I discovered I was claustrophobic, and I still don’t know how I stayed in the narrow tube while the scanner hammered and banged and God knows what else it was doing while I sweated and panicked nervously inside.

Thankfully I only needed to go into the scanner as far as my armpits today, but I was still a bit nervous. I knew it would be 40 minutes of Phil Collins on the headphones.

As I presented my appointment note at the desk, I noticed a sentence right at the top which I hadn’t read properly.

Patients are advised to bring a dressing-gown from home.

A dressing gown? Bloody hell,. the only dressing gowns I own have been given to me as presents. Do I look like the kind of man who has a dressing gown? I have a Kimono from Japan, a very long flowing linen robe from Saudi Arabia, and a red silk baby-doll with Chinese dragons  which rises sexily to reveal my ginger hairy arse as I sashay across the living room, worn only in candlelight on Saturday nights when the children are away from home.

A anticipated, I was presented with a standard issue NHS gown, the design of which reminded me of an incident in Cornwall about ten years ago.

We had gone to stay in a cottage in Newquay, which was fast becoming the coolest place in the UK. Eager to fit in with the general vibe, and to ward off my receding hairline, and impending life of domesticity, I had decided to buy a boogie-board. But after just an hour in the cold winkle-shrinking sea, I had realised why everybody else was wearing a wetsuit, and I determined to buy one myself.

I chose the hippest, funkiest, most inappropriate boutique that a 16 stone land-lubber Dad could have chosen to purchase his new shortie. I realised my mistake as soon as I walked in through the swinging doors, and was met by a soundtrack of Jack Johnson and a bevy of the most beautiful young girls that I had ever seen preening themselves at the counter in awe of the blonde Adonis who was working that day. I made a quick U-turn but he called me back. “Alrite there mate – can I help you?”

“Erm, err, yeah dude”. ( I actually said “dude”. I did – I called him “dude”).   “I’m looking for a shortie man – I left mine at home in the rush to catch dem well lairy waves”. I simply nodded to the first suggestion he made, and meekly let him guide me to the changing room where he insisted I try on my new purchase. It had to fit snug see. He offered me some talcum powder, which I thought was really strange because I wouldn’t be having a hot bath or anything.

The suit fitted pretty well, and he had insisted that I let him see it, so I drew back the curtain expecting to see him waiting outside. But no, – bloody hell – , he had gone all the way back to the counter on the other side of the shop. To make matters worse, he cried out when he saw me peeking round the corner. “That’s it pal, come here, let’s have a gander”.

I mustered as much dignity as I could in the circumstances, and strolled through the shop with what I thought was a confident gait. I threw my shoulders back and let my hips roll casually from side to side as I slowly lolloped past the large numbers of bleached-haired beautiful people that had come in since my arrival. “Yeah, alrigh, bro!” I nodded.

I could sense people stopping their conversations to look at me as I passed the rows of surf boards, and racks of Billabong and Quiksilver. Maybe I should have taken my Homer Simpson socks off before coming out. The Adonis stopped chatting to the girls and they all turned to give my suit the once over. I had been holding my breath in for about 30 seconds now, and was praying that I wouldn’t have to speak. “Is that OK? Does it fit?”, I hissed while making sure I didn’t release the wind from my red cheeks like a burst pimple.

“Erm, yeah man, it looks well good. …Just one thing dude….it’s back to front. The zip goes at the back.”

So there I was today, sat in the waiting room, with my NHS gown tied up at the back, which is where that wetsuit zip should have been, listening to the woman who had gone in before me making some terrible noises. She was exhaling and groaining as if she had jut been interrogated by the Khmer Rouge. She had my sympathy. Forty minutes of Phil Collins can do that to a girl.

My scan today was OK. I only needed to go in as far as my armpits, which is the important thing. I looked into that forbidding tube and realised that my stomach had only about 4 inches room before it would have pressed against the roof of the scanner. But once you add my arms into the equation, I’d have been in real trouble, as pressed tightly against my side, they would have pushed my belly outwards and upwards in a wonderbra effect, which was last seen in a Newquay Surf Shop in 2001 . Nonetheless, it’s over and done with now, and hopefully, the cartilage tears will be confirmed and fixed, and then I can recommence my life as a dude. Where did I put my wetsuit?

 

 

 

I’ve got a machine!

For the past 2 months, I’ve been stabbed about twice a week as the thickness of my blood is checked. Luckily, I have a yellow bucket . The yellow bucket is my disposal unit for all the discarded jabs and containers which have been used by my vampirical bloodthirsty wife as she pierces my skin while I snooze in the early morning. Far be it from me to suggest she enjoys this, but I swear I heard a cackle as she left me in a pool of blood one rainy Friday last month.

The treatment for the clot is a medicine called warfarin. You’ll probably have heard of it, as over 1.25 million people in the UK are dependent on warfarin as an anti-coagulant. It thins your blood and reduces the likelihood of another clot forming. It does not disperse the current clot however, and as it’s dangerous to let your blood get too thin, you need to regularly provide samples which detect your INR, which as well as being the international code for the Indian rupee,  means “international normalised ratio”. A normal reading is “1.0″, but I need to keep my INR between 2-3, which means my blood will be two or three times as thin as yours. Any higher, and you put yourself at risk of internal haemorrage, or bleeding from the brain.

But I now have a machine! Men love machines. We can’t go for a bike ride without some sort of GPS system attached to our handlebars which give us reports on heart rate and data which analyses our performance on the Sunday morning spin to get the papers. We use carb counting software when we diet – and websites to count the number of football grounds we’ve visitied. I have seen men masturbate over an altimeter.

Well look at that baby. The hospital has lent me one of those, and it’s great. I insert a small strip, and then use some sort of jabbing object to create a drop of blood which I drip onto the strip for analysis. An electronic egg timer works away on screen until your INR reading is displayed and the machine bleeps. It bleeps, I tell you! Who could want for anything more?

A lot of people have misconceptions about warfarin – “Rat poison!”, they squeal. And it’s true, it was once used to kill rats, but this is becoming less common now. But how did they find this out? Who discovered warfarin? Well in the early 1920s, a lot of Canadian cattle started bleeding to death at the simplest operation, like having their horns ripped off, or being castrated. It turned out that these bulls and cows had been eating rotten clover leaves. Then, when a load of boffins analysed the clover, they were able to extract the element which had thinned the blood of the cattle – and that became warfarin as we know it today.

As I’ve had clots on two seperate occasions, I am automatically advised to take warfarin for life. Initially, this wasn’t an issue for me – my main concern was that I wouldn’t be able to get a bit drunk once in a while. But after two months, I am now starting to suspect that there are side effects which lead me to consider alternatives. I am often dizzy – a sort of a feeling of vertigo – I get tired suddenly at different times of the day, and I think it might even be affecting my memory, though I can’t remember if my memory was any good before I started taking it. I am constantly cold and have taken to wearing three coats to football matches. I decided to have a discussion with my consultant about the options.

Basically, under my current treatment I am 2% likely to have another clot. If I come off warfarin, that likelihood increases to 10%. I have been able to manipulate the figures however, and have created the following scenario:

If I come off warfarin, I am 10% likely to have another clot. If I lose weight and remain active, that likelihood is reduced to about 6% (according to my consultant). If I do then get another clot, it is 50% likely to occur in my leg, which is treatable. And even if the next clot occurs in my lungs, I still have a 60% chance of survival, which by my reckoning means that with a fair wind, and in the right circumstances, my chances of survival after coming off warfarin are about 99%. That’s less dangerous than crossing a busy road on a sit-down tractor. I’m tempted.

Unfortunately, I’ve been experiencing other side effects which are not so easily dismissed. I still get occasional reminders from my lungs that all is not well. Nothing serious, just jabs, twinges and dull aches, which are a result of scarring caused by the clots. After 6 months if these pains remain, they will never go away. There is also occasional breathlessness – the clots are still there and are probably impeding oxygen supply to my blood. (Forgive me if I sound like I know what I’m talking about – I’m bluffing my way through this – remember my memory is wrecked).

At least I’ve now got a date (June 1st) for the MRI scan on my knees. Just eighteen months after I reported the problem to my GP, I am set for a final diagnosis to confirm torn cartilage. It will then be some time before surgery can repair that, and I can start training for the Alps. It will be next Autumn before I can assess whether my lung capacity has been reduced, and whether I will suffer discomfort from the clot scarring. That may be a bigger barrier to achieving my goals than I’d envisaged.

I suspect the biggest barrier of all may be my paranoia. After two days of library research in Cardiff this week, I began to feel a sudden and unexplained bruising just below my left buttock. As it spread to my thigh overnight, I woke up alone at 3am in a clammy sweat, semi-panicking about the possibilities. Instead of returning to the library I drove straight up to the hospital in Bangor where a clot was thankfully ruled out. It may possibly have been a bout of sciatica caused by sitting on my phone, but it was definitely a pain in the arse.

Swimming is rubbish

I went swimming yesterday and I remembered why I never stick to it despite several attempts over the years to include a swim with my weight loss efforts. Because let’s be honest, swimming is a pain in the arse.

It all starts off when you arrive in the knowledge that you are going to get wet. Humans don’t like getting wet even though they are provided with waterproof skin and have evolved from sea slugs. But still we are prepared to suffer a little dampness in the knowledge that swimming is the best activitity for you, that it places no pressure on your joints and blah de blah de blah.

The first thing we do is sneak a look into the pool as we wait to pay. Ooh look it’s empty. Quick – throw your £2.70 at the till and get in there while you can. Then just as you’re collecting your paper receipt in comes the group of pre-teens taking advantage of a free council swimming deal that you voted for but suddenly resent. “Jambo you tosser!” “Tyrone, I’m gonna give you such a wicked flick with that wet towel bro!” You already know that this is going to be a deflating hour of your life.

In my local pool there is a very friendly swimming attendant who likes to chat to me about football. He does this while luxuriating starkers in the changing rooms before he pulls on his too-tight speedos. He thinks nothing of standing there with his naked todger casually dropping and aeriating his hairy balls with a quick jiggle just a few inches from my face while discussing the prospects of Manchester City as if we were in a City Centre cafe. He makes absolutely no attempt to cover his tackle, and I often find excuses to go back to the car where I’ve “forgotten” my goggles. When he’s gone into the pool I can return.

Once changed, you have the dilemma of how to enter the water. It is not acceptable to lower yourself gingerly down the steps like the ladies do – a man must make a more impressive entrance. This masculine vanity is the reason that countless men appear in casualty having swallow dived into the 3 foot shallow end of an unfamiliar pool. You will notice that women never suffer from injuries obtained by diving head first onto a tiled ceramic floor. I currently favour the deep end dive bomb while holding my nose technique – it does the job of maintaining my masculinity while also emphasising my Peter Kay funster side. Unfortunately it does mean I have to walk the length of the pool while all the women ogle at me, but that’s a sacrifice I’m prepared to make. I think of it as a little treat for the ladeez.

Once you’re in the water you need to eye up the traffic and select the best route for your session. You will need to avoid that pair of middle aged librarians who put on their swimsuit and sit holding onto the rails in the shallow end for an hour gossiping about work. Tyrone and his mates are all over the shop like four-armed electric eels, but they can be easily intimidated out of the way with a hard glare and a sly elbow. The channel next to the wall would be ideal if it wasn’t for that soppy git swimming backstroke wearing flippers.

And so you begin – slowly feeling your way through the water with an inelegant breast stroke. You know that your legs are all wrong, that you should be kicking out when you stroke, but somehow that just doesn’t seem right, so you sort of waggle them ineffectually and let your arms do all the work. After about an hour the approaching wall signals the completion of your first length and you briefly consider a tumble turn before thinking better of it. Instead you turn around slowly and clumsily like an old creaking battleship.

You push away and glide off only to be startled face-on by the bullfrog face of a retired sailor who has been swimming in your slipstream since you set off. There follows a moment of confusion – which way to swim? You both swim the same way and only avoid a collision by stopping dead, which forces you to start up back again like a rusty old car on a Winter’s morning. This isn’t going well. The stress is too much. You’re only a length in and you want to leave.

You;ve done about 15 lengths when the pool starts getting fuller. There are now babbling babies and ladies who lunch to avoid in the shallow end and Tyrone’s mates are having a funny dive competition in the deep end. But still – they know you are in the zone and instincitively they move away when you approach. It may be the glower and that strange bulbous wildness in your eyes caused by those goggles that are creating deep red scars around your eyes and chiselling a painful ridge across the bridge of your nose.

Then he comes in. Action man. Six foot tall. Tattooes. Muscles. A shaved head. You know what this means.

The calm Guardian-reading, yummy mummy serenity of the pool is rudely disturbed by this master of the front crawl. Splash splash splash kick thump splash splash. He hurtles through the water creating a huge wake which throws the breast-strokers about a yard off course. He tumble turns an inch away from the librarians are watching agog, crouching in a foot of water. In danger of actually getting their hair wet, they leave. Tyrone and his mates make the decision to evacuate to your part of the pool. Bullfrog man gets closer to your channel and your arms knock as you pass, forcing you to doggy paddle whenever he gets close. You decide after all, that 30 lengths will be fine. You don’t want to overdo it, do you?

Your mate the attendant sees you leaving and follows you into the shower for a chat about Aston Villa. He stands there with a copy of the Daily Mirror and wonders why you are showering with your shorts on. As you wipe he sits directly opposite and you try desperately to act nonchalantly as your cold-water shrivelled winkle is revealed. Like all men in every changing room, you give it what you think is a discreet jiggle to wake it up a little bit. Attendant man is unruffled and sits there happily invading your personal space. while you saw-wipe your groin.

For some reason it is impossible to get your body dry after a swim. At home, it just needs a quick rub after your morning shower and you are dry as a crisp. But no matter how much time you spend rubbing and sawing and scrubbing away in a pool changing room, your clothes will still stick to you like a lycra catsuit as you attempt to ge dressed with some dignity. Your socks will land in a muddy puddle on the floor and Tyrone’s towel flicks will throw water across onto your best pants, specially chosen for your changing room publicness. Your straw-like hair refuses to be constricted by accepted laws of physics.

You will be hungry. You will feel raw, desperate pangs that can only be assuaged by a packet of pickled onion Monster Munch. This is why the swimming pool vending machines are full of corn-based snacks. They know that you will be desperate to ruin the work that you’ve just done, and are only to happy to assist with tempting displays of Wagon Wheels and Bacon Fries. Sod this for a lark, you say, I’ll stick to power-walking.

Now the work begins

It’s been a long time since I updated this blog. That’s mainly because I’ve been feeling so much better that I’ve got nothing to write about. It’s been about seven weeks since the clot and for the past couple of weeks I have been feeling great, apart from some weird dizzy spells which don’t really bother me.

There was some weight loss too. I lost twenty pounds in the first month to take me down to 17st 4lbs. But then I began to feel better – my appetite came back and I really, really fancied a pint. I had gone six weeks withuot a drop and hadn’t missed it but circumstances conspired to put me in a difficult position.

Firstly I spent a weekend in Cardiff which included a match against Portsmouth which meant that I had to drive back through Canton past pubs that I knew were full of old mates all celebrating victory. I was staying at my Mother’s house and if I couldn’t have a drink I was buggered if I was going to sit in on a sunny Saturday eating rabbit food. I had a pizza and bloody nice it was too. Then came a football tour over a long weekend in Holland. On a scorching sunny day, I felt the euphoria experienced by  a load of mates after a long day’s football, and submitted to my first drink in the bar of the host football club. Bloody fantastic, though the knowledge that I’d have to stop after a few glasses made me sad.

I hadn’t really given the long term much thought while I was ill, but I started to wonder about alternatives to a life on rat poison dominated by constriction and denial. I had a chat with my consultant and the news was mixed. He recommended that I stay on warfarin for the rest of my life. I am at high risk of another clot, and with warfarin my chances of another episode are limited to 2%.  I can come off warfarin, and that would raise to 10%. If I change my lifestyle, lose weight and stay active, that percentage mught come down to 6%. Even then, the clot would most likely be in my leg and treatable. And if it did go to my lung, then I would have a 60% chance of survival. Those odds demand consideration if I want a life free of virtual imprisonment by my prescription.

One thing that has helped is my discovery of alcohol-free ciders and beer. I’ve experienced just how much a night on the booze is psychological. It isn’t all about the alcohol, it’s about the shared experience and the act of drinking. On a recent campaign weekend, I had a couple of ciders before moving on to the alcohol-free stuff, and enjoyed the usual late night jopshing around a campfire without feeling left out of the party. It made me realise how much I used to drink socially just for the sake of it.And that horrible feeling I used to associate with camping? It turns out that it was down to the boozing after all.

So now I am feeeling great, but I’ve put half a stone back on. I need to get training but I’m really hampered by this bloody knee. I still don’t have a date for my MRI scan but I need to try something. My legs are next to useless, so I might start off with some swimming, and use a float between my knees. The thought fills me with ennui, but I need to start somewhere if I’m going to get fit and make those alps next Summer.