Back to Biking

I don't remember ever not having a bike.  Growing up in Chicago, we lived across from Lincoln Park and would ride everywhere- to the park, the zoo, the beach.  My school had yearly Trike-A-Thons, and we would decorate our rides with streamers and balloons and parade them around the park with pride.  We moved to Evanston when I was six, and I was finally old enough to ride a Big Girl bike- a beautiful red Schwinn with a glorious sparkled banana seat.  I remember my father holding me up while I practiced balancing, but it was pretty natural for me and in no time I was riding solo.  

Riding away, circa 1983

For a few years we lived in Barrington Hills, which lived up to it's name and since Evanston is completely flat I loved the change of elevation.  I would go out every morning, climbing up the hills and gliding down.  It was a difficult period in my life, and biking was a source of joy and escape and a way to feel grounded. 

In college I was casually enjoying biking, swimming and running, so when a friend asked me to do the Chicago Triathlon with him I thought, why not?  Without a doubt, the bike ride was the easiest and most fun part for me and I'm glad it was sandwiched between the grueling swim and exhausting run.  Until a few years ago my participant number was still stuck to my helmet, and seeing it was always a source of pride.  I later studied in England for half a year, and I was able to find a shop that let me rent a bike for $70 for the whole time.  It allowed me to get to a job and take classes at a branch of the campus that otherwise wouldn't have been accessible.  At the end of the six months it was hard to give that bike up. 

I've had my share of accidents.  My chin has been stitched up twice and I got doored on my birthday one year. I crashed in the woods while trail riding and have stitches in the pattern of the gear that cut through my calf.  My friend made a tourniquet out of his shirt and took off to go for help but it was a good 45 minutes before the EMTs made it back with a gurney.  Finally, five years ago, thanks to a hit-and-run driver I face-planted into a lamp post and bit through my lip.  My top four teeth were all replaced, I had 9 root canals on my bottom teeth, I have 13 stitches on my lip and I can't bite down all the way on the left side of my mouth, even though I had 6 months of physical therapy after the accident.  I get really bad jaw and headaches, have to sleep with a retainer, and now have a goofy half smile that I default to- I'm pretty sure there was some nerve damage to the right side of my face.  Alas, I was up and riding again after as soon as the doctor ok'd it. 
I inherited a car a few years ago when I took Dad's keys away, and I know it's made me lazy.  If the weather is iffy or I'm tired, it just seems so easy to take the car instead of hopping on my bike.  Still, until this past winter I was still using my bike almost daily.  Then Chicago had Snowmageddon and the bike I've been riding regularly for 10 years got abandoned.  It wasn't in great shape to begin with, and six months of non-use took a real toll.  When I guiltily brought it in to the shop for a tune-up a few weeks ago, they said the cost of fixing it almost didn't make it worth it.  Instead, they sold me a completely refurbished Trek that had new brakes, chains, a new tire, the works for just over $200,  and I love it. 

In the past week I've reconnected with the joy I've always gotten from riding- the wind in my face, being self-propelled, moving past cars stuck in traffic.  I've already saved almost $10 on meters I would normally have to had paid by driving, and saved on gas.  It's better for the environment, and great exercise, but most importantly it's just fun, and I'm looking forward to a great summer on two wheels.

Man vs. Dog

Last Friday, Beau's osteoarthritis flared up after what was probably an averse reaction to his rabies shot.  Although he has no other major health concerns, at 16 years old his body just didn't take the medication well.  By 10am he had lost all ability to stand by himself, and my mom made a makeshift doggie area out of rugs, blankets and towels in the living room.  She spent the night on the couch next to him, trying to reassure him that everything would be okay.  By the next morning they weren't, however, and mom had some neighbors help take him to the vet.  After ruling out a heart condition or a neurological problem, the doctor put him on a low-dose steroid and said to keep an eye on him.  For five days Mom's neighbors and friends came over several times a day to carry him outside, and mom spent hours washing and changing the towels when he couldn't wait to relieve himself. 



Beau, taking a nap earlier this week

 On Thursday mom took him to a doggie chiropractor, who said the discs in his back were severely fused and his left hip was especially weak.  He told her point blank what nobody else was ready to say- that if Beau didn't start walking soon, his insides would start smooshing together and he would most likely suffer from organ damage.  I think this really hit home for Mom, who hadn't slept all week.  For the past eight years Beau has been her devoted accomplice, friend, and family member.  He is the best companion she could have found, and his easy, cheery disposition keeps her spirits raised.  They are perfect for each other, and although we both knew this time was going to come, I guess we hoped it would happen later rather than sooner.  I've often said that if Beau could just live forever, for Mom's sake, that would be really great.  If she were fully able-bodied, things might be different, but she doesn't have the ability right now to pick him up or thoroughly give him the care he needs. 

The decision to let him go would be easier if he showed signs of suffering, but the thing is he still looks like a gosh-darn happy puppy and his spirit is just as strong as ever.  When it comes to matters of life and death, I'm a pretty big believer in the Quality of Life question, and since I only see him twice a week I can't say exactly how much Beau's is affected right now.  I do, however, regularly see residents at Dad's nursing home who are completely unaware of their surroundings and are unable to do anything for themselves.  They either exist on Ensure or are spoon-fed pureed fish cakes and honey-thick soup base.  They have fits of rage, terrors and hallucinations, don't recognize their family, and as far as I can tell aren't responsive to compassion, touch or any other outside stimuli.  Their overall Quality of Life is heartbreaking, yet they can go on in this state for months and years without anyone suggesting "putting them down".  For the record, neither am I.  However, as I'm intimately involved with these two beings who are nearing the end, I can't help thinking of how dialectical our values are. 

Beau is Mom's dog.  While I love him dearly, I have never lived with him and don't have the same connection that she does.  I've witnessed a change in her over the past week, and she now seems to slowly be coming to some acceptance that it's nearing the time to let him go.  It has to be her decision, and I trust that she will know how and when to make it.