Hands on Ass

I love water. Lakes, rivers and oceans are nice on the eyes but I like to be in the source. But in my disabled state, it can be difficult to get to the edge. Jumping off a dock is pretty straight forward and I can even dive if I know the area well (like my buddy Brian's beach near Angle Point on Flathead.) But during the week I have ventured out, in search of new waters I can go to alone.  

I grew up here and lived just past Somers on Juniper Bay Road.  And because I didn't even have to leave home, for a quick dip, I am not familiar with other swimming holes.  Familiarity breeds confidence so I started in Somers, the public beach where I kayaked with a friend. We pulled the boats into the water there so I was pretty certain I could manage.

I parked in the handicapped space near the main beach and unloaded my walker. The main beach was crowded with moms and kids and there was no shade so I continued to look for a spot. I spied a shaded, small, level beach, tucked among some tall shrubs shading the over-warm sunshine. The only problem was that I would have to make my way down a semi-steep, but short, rocky hill. 

My trusty walker would stabilize me, I was sure, and I reached my destination. The water gave me a chill as I entered but I knew from experience to keep going because I would be use to it within seconds. Flathead soon held me in her arms, rocking me gently as I floated on my back. I was careful to stay close to shore because my disability has made me, swimming, a not-so-pretty site. I can float, tread water and dog paddle but I would not describe it as swimming.

Soon after I arrived, an older woman arrived showed up her grandsons. She approached my inadequate piece of shade from the opposite side and planted her chair near my walker as the boys splashed into the calm water. We chit chatted about her grandchildren and her son who lived in Somers.  She was in town to help him as he recovered from an injury, but lived in one of the Carolinas.

I could tell she was looking at my walker so pointing to the rocky incline, I said with a chuckle, "I sure hope I can make it back up."  Her reply came quickly, "Don't worry, I'll help." I appreciated her comment but sometimes helping me can make it even more difficult.

I continued to flounder along the shore as I enjoyed watching her two young boys play. She pointed out the different ways they approached water; one was fearless, splashing and swimming far from shore and the other boy showed much less enthusiasm and more caution. It was easy to see that both were enjoying themselves, though. The scene reminded me of the many hours we spent in the water each summer; my brothers, sisters and other lake kids.

When I decided it was time to leave, I emerged from the water, hung a towel around my neck and packed up. I balanced my bag on the walker's seat and started up the slope. Two steps into my journey, it slid off the seat, and fell to the ground. As it's entire load scattered, I stopped to consider my next move. Right then, I felt two palms directly on my butt cheeks and felt a strong push. "Keep it up," the person behind the hands said, and I did.  I knew right away it was the women who had said she would help me. When we got to the top of the small rise, she motioned not to retrieve stuff I had spilled. She quickly gathered my things and carried the bag to me.

Of course I thanked her, profusely, for getting me safely up the hill.  Driving home, it occurred to me that I had friends that would have done the same thing but the fact she had been a stranger was different. It seems, just as I think the world is going to hell in a handbasket, I am reminded that there are still good people who are willing to do what is needed to solve a problem.

Dehydrating up Woodland Park Hill

Yeah, I was an athlete, back in the day.  Before kids, and an adult life came into focus, I competed for the University of Oregon.  Several records and accomplishments ensued but after my 1984 Olympic Trials 400 meter hurdle race, I officially retired.  5-K road races kept the athlete in me alive until my kids were born and then I was content to just be 'mom.'  My inner athlete took a nap as I began to raise my kids but then I suffered a traumatic brain injury that robbed me of the motor skills of my entire right hemisphere.

My athletic background, I'm sure, is part of the reason I recovered as well as I did but I never regained enough physical ability to actually run.  The athlete in me survived though as I now coach middle school kids.  And I ride a recumbent bike as well as jump and jiggle with a group of seniors three days a week to keep moving. But this last fall, I signed up for my first road race since before my accident.  With the OK to ride my bike while the others ran, I was set.

It was a mid morning start and I left the house early, on my bike, and got an iced coffee drink to enjoy on the way to the start.  I had not had anything else the entire morning.  Previously, I had ridden 70 miles in a not-race so the 5-K did not seem like a big deal.  Silly me.  Excited about the race aspect and envisioning myself riding along side real athletes, I made my way to the start.

Because I was the only contestant pedalling, I started at the rear and carefully steered my way past the walkers and slow goers.  We wound our way through Woodland Park and it was more difficult than I had anticipated; maneuvering my trike safely through the mass of runners.  I didn't break free of the mob until I reached the bottom of the hill.

Then, I thought, "Now I can really get after it!"  So I started up the hill, limbs a turnin' those wheels round and round.  I grew up near the top of the hill so thought I knew its scope but I was wrong. My head began to ache but I continued to push for the summit where I knew it flattened out.  The more I pushed, the worse my head felt until it began to throb. There would no more hills, I was certain, so my focus was getting up that hill.  The closer I got to the top the harder my head hammered; it was as if what remained of my brain was going to explode cleanly out the top.

Finally, the road evened out, and the hill was behind me but the pounding in my noggin continued. I had a water bottle in my carrier but to retrieve it I had to stop my bike and my competitive side took over. Before the race, I told myself I'd take it slow and enjoy, but because I wanted to catch those runners I had thought about riding with, I pushed on.

By the time I passed the Conrad Mansion, I realized I had to stop.  I was going to have to scoop up brain parts and the skull shrapnel because my head was literally ready to blow.  I slowed to a stop on the side of the sixth avenue between third and fourth street.  My head remained intact but the assault within continued.  Half a block down, a race official I recognized shouted to ask if I was OK.  Of course I said I was, as I fumbled for my cell phone.  I carry it in a pocket that hangs around my neck and it was then I realized it was for moments just like this.  Standing up to finagle myself off my trike was an impossibility because I knew I was on the edge of consciousness.

Finally, the battle in my brain eased slightly and I was able to ask my husband to come to the east side of town to get me. As I waited I was even able to pedal very slowly out of the race route.  When Dan arrived he had to help me off my bike and into his SUV, then he loaded up my bike.  My head still rang with pain but I was able to down a bottle of Powerade on my way home.  Again, with his help I reached my couch to lay down.  It wasn't long before I was up and hobbling to the bathroom where I vomited all the liquid I had consumed.  It took several hours for me to feel well again.

At what point, I realized I was dehydrated, I don't know, but when I did I couldn't help but think, "Oh, this is why I tell my KMS kids to stay hydrated."  Never, had I felt as physically spent as I did that day but I learned a valuable lesson.  HYDRATE