John McAleenan
"So", he said, "you've definitely severed your Achilles tendon and you'll probably have to have a stookie up to your hip. It'll be on for about three months but you'll be OK. After that we will have you off crutches by April and you'll be back on the bike by May".
HELLO "Welcome to 2003" NOT !by John McAleenan
Take a 40-something-year-old wean, a younger competitive brother-in-law, the Christmas holidays and a new sport - and you can kiss your well-planned training regime goodbye.
It was Friday, December 27th. Christmas had gone well, 8-mile run on Christmas Day, 35 miles on Boxing Day on the road bike, 2 Munroes booked for the weekend along with another serious bit of MTB. (Oh, and don't forget, there was a LOT of drinking. After all, it was the holidays.)
We were making up for lost time. 2002 had started poorly and only really got going after August. The bike had been left in the corner for most of the year. 140 miles to Kingussie as a bit of a laugh constituted the only serious cycle, along with the Black run at GlenTress to make sure that the Vee-Brakes still worked. The Glasgow Half-marathon had been completed for the third time (in 1.37) and the Dublin marathon was duly run just to make sure I had done one. Little did I know the effect of running an extra 11 miles without training *.
So on Friday, 27th December, at 3.30pm, Steven and I started to get stuck into Badminton. We had last played about six years before. We felt good, 55 minutes gone, three sets done, only 5 minutes to go when THUMP... Oh... how did I walk into that? - Oh f..k I didn't, it's over there. Oh s..t, my foot what's happened? NOOOOOOO... my Achilles.
Yes, just like that. On the floor, clutching your foot knowing what has happened, looking up into your training partner's eyes, knowing he will be fitter, better, faster, knowing you will be fat, fed-up, wasted - and then the pain.
You just know, everyone says "are you OK ?" "You'll be fine, it's just a sprain" but you know, there's nothing there, just a hole where you used to have a really hard bit above your ankle, your foot flopping down, your eyes watering.
We reach hospital, you hop to the door, a last defiant show of independence. Name, DOB, what happened, no pain - just a feeling of impending doom. You're called, you go in and then it hits, you are yesterday's (or last season's) man.
The bit in the middle is fairly straightforward, just go to the web, type in "Achilles severed" to any search engine and watch what happened to you, up to, and including the hospital treatment.
I chose (or was I told?) to have the operation. That meant cut from ankle to calf, the loose flappy ends of the tendon sutured back together, stitched back up and a plaster applied to keep it all immobile. It meant a general anaesthetic, morphine, overnight in hospital, bed baths etc. (But enough of the positives!)
The good news was that the operation meant that I would need only a below-knee cast, not a full-leg cast. It also was supposed to lessen the chance of a re-rupture (yes, it can happen again, on the SAME leg). So two days after arriving sweating in Lycra to Out-patients, I was shown how to use crutches, given enough drugs to make me a marked man, waved goodbye and sent home for a month to wait for an appointment to have a new cast, the second of potentially three, applied. Happy New Year!
So Sunday, December 29th was quite a day. I collapsed with my anti-inflammatory and pain-killers on the sofa, got the vodka bottle out and got wasted. Welcome home. Welcome nothing.
However at 3.00am when the leg swelled fit to burst the plaster cast and I needed to pee, I quickly realised that there may indeed be a better way to do things. I needed to think smart. I hit the www.
The hardest bit is not the pain, it's not the inconvenience, it's not even the boredom, it's the fact that everyone else is getting fitter and faster and you are going back, back, back. Forget the platitudes, the visits, the laughter - they love it, you're gone. You may not even recover. It will be a weak link, forever at risk. You feel like shit.
You can't run, cycle, climb, swim. Yes, you can do weights but only if some one will take you there (Oh, did I forget? - it was my right leg, i.e. no driving) and you like a sterile, poseur's paradise where sweat is frowned upon. And if you're like me, on about 4,000 calories a day since birth with about 50 units of alcohol per week, you would be just as well looking up www.youfatb.com and ordering your new wardrobe and a bingo pen - until you happen upon the most unlikely of saviours: The British Hand Cycling Club. Angels in disguise. My heroes (plug here for Tom Doughty, he da man) - and, believe you me, these are the most friendly, helpful, cyclists you will ever meet. Let me put that in perspective, I have a £2,000 cycle in my garage lent to me and they don't even have my address! Tom and his pals just seemed to understand. No fuss, no sweat, no discussion, just... "Yes we know, this is what you should be doing, glad to be of help".
I have had calls to check how I'm getting on, I've had calls from USA from people who have heard about my situation and are keen to let me know that I know I'm not alone. I feel like I belong. Guys - I do owe you.
Many of these cyclists are not able-bodied, I have little to complain about in the greater scheme of things. Apart from my ego and a few months' inconvenience, I'll be back doing it, unlike some of these guys and gals, but you'd never know that when they call you. All they are interested in is me and my well-being and if I am getting the best from hand cycling? whether the bungees that replace the steering damper are working? whether the gears are adequate? is the frame the right size? do I like the hand grips? and if I'm fitting into the seat?
And the truth is I'm getting on absolutely FANTASTIC. Hand cycling is superb. My arms ache, my shoulders are on fire, my chest is separating and taking my nipples East and West and I have never been happier on a bike. From trying to do 5mph in the middle ring on a hill to seeing if I can corner at 20mph while still "pedaling", the whole thing is superb. Everyone wants to know if you're OK. Cars wait at junctions. Pedestrians help on tight corners (wait till you try it!). An hour seems like 5 minutes. Look at my arms, they're huge!
I've only two months to go. I've put on 7lbs but I'm drinking quite a lot. I will get the plaster off in a month and then I can try the real bike but I might just keep this (I would if I could afford it but being disabled is expensive, the same steel and Shimano components on a conventional bike would cost less than a grand.). I've got about ten more spins before I can see over the hedges again and I will enjoy every one. The thrill of getting the big ring on the go as you charge along at 15mph is superb; the challenge of seeing can you keep it in the middle ring to go up the climb as your shoulders burn, cry, scream for the granny is what you train for; the look from the kids as they stare down from their car seats is pure adrenalin, they KNOW what you are feeling and seeing, it's their level.
Next month I'll describe what happens as the plaster comes off and I have to rehab. I've never beaten 24 minutes for a "10". I can't run or climb so I'd better do something about it this time round. If only I could get below 13stone.
Watch this space.
* After running the Glasgow Half marathon, I decided (on a whim) to run the Dublin. In the six weeks in between I ran only up to 15 miles due to breaking my toe. On the day of the marathon I was gone after 19 miles. 2hrs 30 mins to 19 miles. 3 hours to 23 miles. 3hrs 37 mins. to the end. "Fujidoed" as the Japanese say. Focused on the road for the last 5 miles, legs about to cramp, flat-footed. The following three days my Achilles ached. Never before, never since. I thought nothing of it until this happened. I had stretched them to buggery. Take this as a backdrop, an explosive sport like badminton that is rarely played by me (or squash, basketball, fives, etc) and you might as well have cut them just above the ankle. Even with fell running for a decade, the combined effects of no stop/start sports, no regular stretching and an extra 1.5 stones meant that I was an Achilles rupture waiting to happen.
You have been warned. Stretch, stretch, stretch stretch, stretch, stretch, stretch, stretch...
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