Ok, so I wasn't in the movie....

But heck, I was in the vortex for 10 days, which is nine days and twenty-two hours longer than Jimmy Stewart in his 120-minute film.

I love Overlake Hospital, they have the best doctors! Dr. Gorman is a tall, slender gentleman with white hair and a coolish demeanor which is belied by his Native American nametag and groovy Teva sandals. He's also a crackerjack neurologist.

After posing me in assorted interesting positions and making me walk across the floor first on my toes, then on my heels, he put me in a pair of goggles that were designed specifically to make the wearer resemble Mr. Magoo. They have magnifying lenses in them which make it impossible to see out of them but very easy for the doctor to see the eyes of the wearer, which now appear magnified to the size of small salad plates.

He had me look up, then down, then to the right and left, all the while muttering, "Uh huh....yep....uh huh." He then pronounced me vertiginous, which I affirmed with great gusto and nodding of my goggled head.

After we both agreed that I had vertigo and looked suitably ridiculous in magnified goggles, I trotted off with a presciption for physical therapy to set the matter right.

Forty minutes later I was delivered into the capable hands of Holly, who used something called the Epley Maneuver to rid my of the dizziness. Apparently, there are small crystals in the inner ear which can sluff off and deposit themselves in unlikely places in the canals, causing vertigo.

I have been told that there are only three reasons why this occurs: damage to the ear, of which I have had none, old age, which I stoutly object to, and idiomatic cause, which basically means we have no idea and hope it doesn't happen again.

So endeth my vertigo.

Now if I could only get an Epley maneuver to rid me of the swirlies I get riding the dragon!

Things I Imagine Myself Doing While Waiting for Vertigo To Go Away

Underwater Bicycling...



Riding A Unicycle over 200 miles



Not Being This Guy



Thoughts?

Wishful Thinking

This could be me!

Ear Grounded

Well, poop. Woke up this morning to roll out of bed, only to find that I couldn't stand up straight. Bouncing off the walls like a pinball. Nothing heroic here, not even anything "bike" related - I simply was dizzy and nauseated from an internal ear blockage. Vertigo!

Jon was a sweetheart, taking me to the otolaryngoloist this afternoon, and after an hour of poking and probing with tiny, pointed silver implements(don't ask) I have it on good authority that I should be back to normal in a day or two.

In the meantime, I study websites like http://www.roadbikerider.com/articles.htm for notes on how to master the dragon. And I wonder - how much easier would this be on a mountain bike?

I don't want to give up on my dragon. But I sit here today, flabby and bruised and whirlheaded, and feel very very very forty eight. Sigh.

I noticed that the dragon is missing one of his little buttons - the kind that sit on the end of the handle to keep the wrap in place. For just a moment I felt a moment of pity for him. Maybe he is just as frustrated as me.

It looks like its clouding up a bit. Perhaps rain tomorrow. Perhaps a new perspective.

Small Sunday Successes

After yesterday's leap into the bushes and unceremonious fwap on the asphalt, it was time to take the dragon out once more.

I had very simple aspirations for today - walk the bike down to the end of our street and ride it back to our driveway without falling down or running into the path of a car, THEN falling down.

A very nice couple with a small barky dog was on my side of the street; two young bicycle riders were weaving figure 8s in the street from the other side. I didn't know which of the two unnerved me more - the kids weaving in their confidence, or the couple whose dog I was pretty sure to run over in the next five seconds.

I told myself to start easy, then stepped on the left pedal, pushed down, missed the right pedal with my right foot, stumbled for a moment until the pedal made it around again, found it and started up the street. I pedaled until I felt the speed, and stayed with it as long as I could. I left the couple, the dog and the kids behind. Not far behind, since I was moving rather slowly at first, but behind nonetheless.

I had to stop, but only twice; once about halfway through when I had begun to take up more speed than I was ready for. The other stop was when I reached the driveway. I tested the brakes, press, release, ride, press, release. The first stop was a little clumsy but I stayed upright, breathing normally. I looked down - no ground zooming up towards my face this time!

And the second stop -- oh, the second stop was worthy of a Tour de Francer. It was seamless, it was steady, and when I stepped off the saddle and put both feet on the ground, it was balanced.

I looked and felt like an adult.

And since I know that it is always best to stop a lesson on a positive note, I thought it a great time to celebrate by taking the dog for a walk. On my own two feet.

Aspirations

Crash and Burn

My major accomplishment on this glorious Saturday morning.... I took an allen wrench, fiddled at great length with the seat and managed to move it to the lowest possible setting. It gives me just enough extra room so that I can touch the ground with the tips of my toes when seated on the saddle.

Next, I took all my Sports Authority purchases out of the bag, put them on and took a good look in the mirror. I am pleased that the XXL sweat-wicking men's tee by Champion does the very thing for which I intended - namely, rest below my giant tushie.

I walked the bike down our gravel and pot-holed driveway until I reached the street. I strapped the helmet to my head, took a deep breath, and began to tentatively toe-walk the bike into motion until the pedal reached just to the front of my left foot.

I put my foot on the pedal, said, "Let's Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide" in my best biker growl, and pushed.

Lo and behold! Forward movement! I glided along, amazed with the ease of it, moving in a wobbly but foward trajectory at about half the speed of walking. I continued in this manner for about 300 feet, and then, drunk with the glory of my triumph, decided to try a turn to the left.

With considerable trembling and biting of my lip, I managed a perfectly acceptable left turn and continued down a cul de sac. I figured it would be a good, quiet place to try another turn.

The second turn proved more problematic than the first, mainly because at the last minute, I lost my nerve and continued rolling straight ahead, up onto the neighbor's lawn and into a small shrub, which cushioned my fall and made for a pleasant landing.

Once I righted the bike, I took it once more out into the street and continued forward again, as before. About 200 feet down the street, I encountered the most alarming sensation - my pedaling no longer seemed to have any relevance to the speed at which the wheels were turning. It was plain to me that the wheels had continued to rotate faster than I had been pedaling! I suppose the Red Dragon had gotten tired of such a pedantic speed and decided to take it up a notch.

Fully in command now, mostly from irritation, I stopped the Red Dragon from spiriting me away on a whim. I grabbed the hand brakes and wobbled to a stop, crashing off the bike to the right and landing on both knees and both hands with the bike firmly pressed between my thighs. I know this to be the case strictly by feel, since at the same time my ponytail and the velocity of the fall had caused my helmet to drop down into my eyes.




We waited there for a moment, the bike and I, to assess the damage, but more importantly to drive the point home. I am in control. I will decide when we plow into shrubs and when we crash on the asphalt. This dragon will obey, or I will sytematically remove all the top layer of my epidermis until it does. So there.

I said in a previous post that the dragon is merciless. Perhaps I misjudged it a bit.
Indeed, we got along quiet companionably on the slow walk back to the house.

On Choosing Apparel

For those of you who might be inspired to try this at home, a few helpful hints from my experiences at Sports Authority. They are as follows:

1. If you enter Sports Authority wearing wash and wear polyester pants, you are likely to get a few glances that could be construed as pitying. Ignore them.

2. If you try on spandex bicycle pants, no matter what size is indicated on the tag, be prepared to be astonished, repulsed and a bit out of breath.

3. Buy an extra pair of baggy pants to go over the spandex ones. I cannot stress this enough.

4. Be sure that the pants you are trying on are indeed women's. Men's pants take on a whole new character of ridiculousness when they come in contact with womanly curves.

5. Pay no attention to the smaller and more lithe bodies of the shoppers around you. In ten or twenty years, they will be as bulbous as your own. If not, they will circulate blood that is at least 40% Advil based after having spent 20 years clinging to the sides of cliffs, hurtling through space with skis attached to sensitive ligaments, crashing through underbrush on moutain bikes, or dislocating limbs as they abuse the lowly soccer ball.

6. Remind yourself that while their physiques are no doubt superior, it is you that has the superior medical coverage.

7. Choose black. It's slimming.

8. Ok, maybe it's not, but it will hide the bloodstains better once you hit the road.

The Face Off

REI. Memorial Day, 2010. Husband Jon (who has been riding all his life) takes me up on my generous wifely offer to forego my busy athletic regimen of naps and ice cream to consider the possibility of learning to ride a road bike, with the long term goal of accompanying him on a future STP - Seattle to Portland, 202.4 miles.

This is the bike of choice.



And this is me.



So.

You might notice that I am round, fluffy, well-fleshed, curvy, zaftig. I have not been on a bike in 25+ years, and that one was my brother's low riding banana bike with about 20 inches between me and the ground, for easy access should I have to scoot like a toddler on a Big Wheel.

We took the bike out for a test ride behind the store, along the service road for privacy. Which is good, because when you wedge a 4-inch wide saddle between much wider buttocks cheeks, slap a helmet on your head and say goodbye to reason as you pedal as fast as you can simply to not fall over, it's nice to have some privacy to preserve the small remaining sliver of dignity remaining.

Ok, so I had to have Jon hang on to the back of the bike and run along side. And I wobbled precariously enough to warrant the thought of actually having to purchase the bike simply because of the damage I would inflict on it. And I emited various squaks and squeaks most unbecoming to my age and station. And I had to get off the pedals and straddle-walk it around the other way since I couldn't imagine how to turn it with the handlebars. And I ground to a halt every thirty feet or so to catch my breath, stop hyperventilating, uncross my eyes and clear my vision of tiny white spots. Ok, the test ride lasted six and one half minutes. I admit, I am not a natural.

But I also did not experience projectile vomiting.

We took this as a good sign, and purchased the bike.

I named it "The Red Dragon" because it seems more reasonable to fear than with its actual name, "Scott." There is no good reason to fear a bike named Scott.

But I still wonder. As it sits in the hallway, leaning comfortably against the wall and blocking my way everytime I take out the trash, I think I can hear it whispering. S.....for skinned knees.....C...for concussion.....O....for Omigodwhatwasithinking....T....for Ta-ta, baby, cuz you're gonna die...and T....for.....Th'th'th'that's all folks.