Rehabilitation

‘But haven’t we stopped evolving?’

My sister’s proposition provoked our thoughts as we strolled from the cinema discussing Lucy, the recently released sci-fi blockbuster. Her argument ran as follows: the developed world is insulated from the sculpting forces of nature by medicine and technology, meaning we no longer have to adapt to our environment. In other words, has progress put the kibosh on Darwin’s theory? 

Perhaps not, I suggested. If as a species we survive the millennia necessary for the changes to become apparent, will we not evolve to operate better within a digital world? Our brains will become larger to handle vast amounts of data, while our legs and arms, rendered almost unnecessary by the legions of technological aids at our disposal, will wither to pathetic protrusions capable only of pressing buttons. 

Personally I find this a hellish prospect. It made me consider my own body; its potential and its frailties, and my oscillation between fitness and injury during my adult life. Although I will not be around when the marriage between man and machine is ratified and we are reduced to blobs carried by robots, like Krang in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, I want to make the most of my natural abilities before we forget how to do things for ourselves. 

In 2003 I was hit by a car and later I had surgery to repair ligament damage in my right knee. The only benefit of this accident was that, despite my junior position, my boss at the media company where I worked arranged for me to be driven to and from the office. For two weeks I made the journey from Crouch End to Leicester Square and back in air-conditioned comfort, entertained by the driver’s gossip about the XFM DJs he usually ferried. The perk was curtailed when I abused it by arranging detours to the pub. On crutches, the Northern Line had never seemed worse.  

After the operation came physiotherapy. At the time I was complacent about my body and its functions. I was not motivated to dedicate myself to an exercise regime, which I viewed as a chore. Time, and fresh injuries, have changed my outlook.

In 2012, to give myself focus after the death of my mother, I hurled myself into training for a triathlon. The experience was hugely rewarding and the link between physical and mental wellbeing was etched on my psyche. After the post-race come down I joined a running club and was excited about the prospect of completing more events. I was gutted when I began to experience intense pain in my knees after upgrading from £40 running shoes to an expensive pair specially fitted for my gait. Curse you, well-known high street running store. 

I stopped running, had more physiotherapy and an MRI scan on both knees. I was relieved when it came back all clear as I was not thrilled by the thought of another operation. Then I crashed while cycling. One should never attempt to carry a clothes maid while using a fixed gear bike. Tangling the two, I stopped instantly, flew over the handlebars and landed heavily on tarmac. Following the accident my left knee swelled up like a melon and in the weeks afterwards it was painful to ride and walk. Running was out of the question. 

That was 6 months ago. Yesterday I ran 1.3km on the treadmill. It doesn’t sound like much but after half a year of gym visits, and thousands of repetitions of mind-numbing strengthening exercises, I feel like I am on the threshold of recovery. I am daring to dream of triathlons once more. 

There are two main reasons why I have been dedicated to rehabilitation in a way that was unthinkable after my operation several years ago. 

I realise my potential. And I want to get back to full fitness to make the most of it. 
I realise my transience. This made sound dramatic but I will get old (hopefully) and I will die (definitely). So I want to enjoy the years when I can run, swim, hike and be in the physical world. 

These realisations helped me to prioritise my health. This was important in coming to terms with one of the obstacles to recovery: cost. Excellent free physiotherapy is available on the NHS but this overstretched service is not designed to cater for those who are greedy for the thrill of endurance racing. It will mend you enough to ensure you can walk to the shops, it won’t set up you up to take on an Ironman. It is absurd that I had no problem splashing £70 on a pair of jeans or a meal but baulked at spending the same on a session of physiotherapy. Surely nothing is more important than your body? I shifted my perception, deciding it was an investment in my future happiness and therefore worth every penny. 

The posing, pouting, and puffing world of the gym, interspersed with monthly check ups, have been an important part of my life this year and will be for many more months to come. But I feel it is my responsibility to take care of myself while I am in reasonable condition, before age ravages me, or I am shoved into the belly of an android. 

I am inspired by those who overcome the severest impediments to create and add to the stock of human understanding. Consider Jean-Dominique Bauby, who following a massive stroke found himself paralysed from head to toe and speechless; his mind functioning perfectly but imprisoned in a useless body. I don't think I would have the mental strength to cope with such a dramatic altering of life. But he did. He dictated a book entirely by blinking: one blink for A, twenty six blinks for Z. Can you imagine?

I won’t experience a future where humans are unable to operate without micro chips and transistors. Thankfully, in 2014 we can still choose to be independent of technology and make the most of nature’s gifts. Faced with the humbling resilience of people like Jean-Dominique Bauby, I believe I have no excuse to take my body for granted. 

The last Golden Eagle in England

Have you ever encountered Jive Bars? If not I’ll warn you now, they are not rhyming boasts uttered by a 1970s pimp. They’re Twixes. The name might be copyrighted but the delicious combination of biscuit, chocolate and caramel is not and they sell them in Aldi. 

The other foolproof method for choosing trekking supplies, apart from the name, is weight. Heft an item in your hand and you will know instantly if its calorific content is sufficient to justify its place in your pack. Blocks of mature cheddar and slabs of moist fruit cake will sail through this stringent selection process. Rice cakes will not.

Having wrestled free of our urban schedules, and suitably provisioned, the three of us were eager to begin our long weekend in the Lake District by rejecting the dullness of flat walking. Up is the only way to go, where lungs strain and calf muscles burn; where sweat runs into your eyes and huge views are revealed like an almighty carpet seller unrolling his finest wares. 

The afternoon began as a warm up for the longer hikes and wild camp we had planned for the following days but when we arrived at Haweswater, a reservoir in the eastern part of the Lake District, and saw the sign proclaiming ‘Home of the Last Golden Eagle in England’, we knew we had a higher purpose.

The car park was full. We weren't the only ones keen to immerse ourselves in the fens and hopefully catch a glimpse of the largest bird in the UK. Thankfully we had free reign over the landscape as most of the other visitors were suffering from an affliction common to beauty spots throughout the world. B.A.D., or Boomerang Automobile Deficiency, to give it its full name, is highly contagious but not fatal. It causes in the sufferer a complete inability to venture more than 200m from the car park without rapidly turning around and heading back to the safety of the vehicle for snacks and texting.

With fresh legs and a buoyant mood we began the steady climb along the spine of the fen leading up and away from the pinewoods and water towards a ridge 600m above. There was the familiar sense of liberation and relief; mental clutter falling aside leaving only the simple task of getting from A to B under your own steam. 

Stepping over loose rocks and squelching through mud we gradually gained the height necessary to read the land around us. We began to see how one slope flowed into the next and how the ridges ran between the peaks offering a highway through the hills. Looking back, the reservoir lay in the basin of the valley, sparkling at the sky like a dropped mirror. 

At regular intervals we stopped to scan our surroundings with binoculars, hoping we might get lucky and cop an eyeful of the majestic raptor on the wing. Moss-covered drystone walls ran across improbable gradients where dishevelled sheep rummaged in the bracken. Shifting clouds chased their shadows over the steep, sparse slopes of the valley, tricking the eye. But there was no eagle.

We reached the summit, High Street, the site of a Roman road at 828m above sea level. It was easy to imagine the cumbersome wheels of carts rattling food and soldiers between forts many centuries before. The Lake District was spread out before us; Ullswater to the north, Lake Windermere to the south and the Irish Sea just visible beyond the higher peaks to the west. At the trig point we celebrated with a dram from the hip flask before beginning the descent to a small tarn we had spotted nestling in the folds of the fen.

The summit of High Street

Small Water, where we swam, with Haweswater in the distance

Eschewing the path we slipped and slid the quickest route down. Hearing the tinkling of a spring we stopped to peel back clods of sodden moss, revealing the crystal-fresh liquid and refilling our water bottles. On the gravel bank we threw off our clothes and plunged in with yelps of shock. Our limbs quickly became heavy in the cold and submerging one’s head was a fast-track to brain freeze. The swim was brief but exhilarating. 

Evening was seeping into the valley as we walked the final couple of miles back to the car park. The sun had packed off behind the hill, taking the birdsong with it and an unseen hand was turning down the brightness until colours faded and the edges of woods and water became blurred. We left the Haweswater valley to its feathered guardian and drove into the night, chatting excitedly about the days ahead.

Olly Davy on...The Gym

The gym is a con that is reinforcing a dysfunctional relationship with our bodies. It’s time to ditch the dumbbells and rediscover other ways to stay healthy. 

I first experienced the gym when I was 13. My PE teacher, Mr Johnson, was a huge man whose lifetime of training and operations had left him with no cartilage in his knees and a penchant for intimidating teenagers. During our ‘induction’, presumably to terrify us into obedience, he sat down at the leg press machine, ordered two students to stand on top of the stack of weights, and proceeded to lift the whole lot several times. The combined total would have been nearly 300kg, equivalent to three fully grown Giant Pandas. I was so impressed by this show of strength that I didn’t set foot inside a gym for another 10 years.

But don’t let me put you off. In fact, it’s unlikely to because more than 4.4 million adults in Britain belong to a gym and the fitness industry is worth £3.92 billion. Despite this, most people who join in January having overindulged at Christmas are unlikely to be attending a few months later. We waste £37 million a year on unused memberships. So why does our unhealthy relationship with these sweat boxes persist? Perhaps our motivations are not as noble as we think.

In the age of the selfie and TV shows like Embarrassing Bodies, it’s undeniable that we are obsessed, and often unhappy, with how we look. Where there is dissatisfaction there is money to be made and in true capitalist fashion the fitness industry is only too pleased to exploit our insecurities, disguising the desperate quest for a flatter stomach as ‘health and wellbeing’.

What’s worse is that we fall for the con like suckers. When I was inducted for the second time in my life, signing up on the orders of my physiotherapist, the helpful staff member spun the virtues of the establishment with Malcolm Tucker like alacrity:

‘Training outside is dangerous. What happens if you’re running and sprain an ankle? You might not have mobile reception. You might not even have your mobile!’

Good god, man. You’re right. I must immediately barricade myself indoors where I have full access to communication technology and no chance of jogging injuries.

I love exercising outside; to feel the sun, or more often rain, on my face; to suck in lungfuls of fresh air, well, air at least. It reminds me that I am alive. Exercise should not be feared, it can even be enjoyed. We don’t need arms like Arnie or the ass of Kim Kardashian. No one does. Except perhaps the aforementioned. It would be cruel to deny them body parts just to illustrate a point. 

Free exercise options abound, a fact that Fitness Ltd would rather we forgot. How about walking to work, cycling in the park or pushing bags of compost around B&Q? An active lifestyle won’t necessarily give you a six-pack but it will help you stay healthy. 

I’ll probably keep my gym membership, because I like playing squash. But I won’t bother with the Stairmaster, I’ll just take the stairs.

A Walk in the Woods

The cabin stood at 1,500m in a cloud, battered by wind sweeping up from an unseen valley. We made our way out of the forest towards the stone refuge. Soaked and hungry, we were glad of the shelter. We had not seen anyone for hours but inside there was eery evidence of human activity; a newspaper dated two weeks before and half-burnt logs in the fireplace.

We had climbed into the Pyrenees from the village of Saint-Pe-D’ardet in the Haute-Garonne region of South West France, through thick stands of fir, pine and beech. On an overcast day the views to snowcapped peaks were absent so we turned our eyes down, to the delights blooming in the undergrowth; dog roses, cow parsley, hellebores and wild strawberries - delicate splashes of colour on the carpet of green.

With it’s deep quiet, the forest felt like a forbidden place. I imagined we were downed airmen escaping occupied France during the Second Wold War. The secret paths of the mountains bordering Spain, such as the Freedom Trail twenty km to the east, offered salvation to thousands of such fugitives. 

We stomped upwards through the soggy shroud of mist. I peered at the laminated map folded many times over by other walkers, and my notes, scrawled on a piece of scrap paper. I wondered if the weather worsened would the notes become illegible, stranding us on the slope. 

At the cabin we had to make a call; to the summit or not? We looked at the vague impression of a path disappearing into the cloud and decided not to risk a snapped ankle for the sake of another glimpse inside cotton wool. 

Descending, we slid on muddy rocks next to a creek. The tumbling torrent played its gentle music to the trees. We passed a ramshackle hut containing a homemade stove where there were used shotgun cartridges strewn about. Nearby, a ladder rose high into the canopy. A treehouse was visible, luring me with the promise of spectacular vistas. I climbed ten rungs or so and the ladder creaked alarmingly. The construction had probably not been used since the previous autumn’s pigeon hunting season and was badly in need of maintenance.

Traditional pigeon hunting still exists in the Pyrenees. Decoys are thrown towards the masses of birds flying low across the mountains on their migration. Reacting as if under attack, the pigeons dive lower and straight into nets strung across narrow gorges. Thousands of birds can be caught without a shot being fired. The hunters get a better price for those left alive. 

The next day, 100km to the east, we stood under a blue sky on the shores of Lac du Montbel. Sparrows darted about our heads, tireless despite the heat. To the north, the ragged line of Pyrenean peaks was clearly visible, rising and falling above the landscape like ocean swell, their snow dusted summits like foamy crests.

The Pyrenees, seen from Lac du Montbel, SW France

Mr Sandman, bring me a dream...

Buying a flat has broadened my horizons. I have spent a Friday evening at DFS (walked away empty handed - I’m not quite ready for a cream leather sofa) and tackled a dead pigeon in the chimney (poked it back up and forgot about it). But the real excitement is DIY. To look on a newly installed bookshelf/toilet roll holder/machine gun emplacement, and say, ‘I did that,’ is a source of pride and satisfaction. Or shame and embarrassment, depending how it goes. Spilling your blood, sweat and tears on the pile of bricks and mortar you are now financially chained to creates a real feeling of ownership. As if by drilling into its masonry and painting its surfaces you are showing it who is in charge. ‘Take that!’ I cry, while fixing a cabinet to the bathroom wall. ‘You are not the boss of me!’

Out with the old

The floorboards in the bedroom had been finished with a deep brown stain by the previous owners. ‘It’ll be nice to paint them,’ we thought. We decided on a calming green. I did my research and set about the project with gusto, starting with hiring heavy duty sanders to strip the boards.

Anyone who has used a floor sander knows it is a beast imbued with satanic power. Once turned on, it revs into life with a screech like a banshee marshalling the forces of darkness. With barely contained fire in its metallic belly the machine tears into floorboards like a starved hyena locked in a cupboard with a zebra foal. These things could smooth out mountain ranges. Without physical restraint it will run away from you, smash through walls as if they’re made of Wotsits and drag you into your neighbours’ lunch. 

No pain, no gain

With ear plugs in and dust mask on, I sweated through 7 hours of back-breaking labour. The edging sander is designed to get in close to skirting boards, and also to cripple human beings. It is about 50cm high and heavy, shuddering with power. To operate, you hold it firmly and lower yourself into a squat. The kind of position you might adopt to strangle someone lying on the floor. From there you shuffle around the room, led by the furious device, feeling the muscles around your spine contracting by the minute. 

As the dust settled and the ringing in my ears subsided, I surveyed my handiwork. The natural beauty of the wood had been revealed once more. I toasted my efforts with a Polish lager and patted the still warm sanders with satisfaction. They glared back at me, red eyes glowing.

The next stage of the project began on a Monday. Painting 16 square metres of floorboard with a brush took two hours and with the sun shining through the window and Wimbledon on Radio 5 Live it was not an unpleasant task. I responded to Claire Balding’s request and Tweeted a photo of myself and the half-painted floor, #mywimbledonseat. I was abused by wood purists, complete strangers who assailed me for ruining ‘those wonderful boards’ with paint. Who knew you could be trolled for home improvements?

#mywimbledonseat

On Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday I applied the green floor paint - thinly, with a brush, allowing 24 hours between coats. With each layer the colour deepened, gradually assuming its final gentle richness.

One step too far

Thoroughness dictated that I should protect the floor with a final coat of clear varnish, to ensure the floor stays lovely for years to come. This stage is not essential but I imagined it would be infuriating to watch paint chip away with use simply because I had not done two more hours work. 

The varnish went on. I cleaned my brushes and left the house. When I returned after several hours the result was not what I had expected. The supposedly clear varnish had dried yellow, like streaks of piss, ruining the paint job. I felt like I was seeing my beloved floor through a pair of those tinted glasses so beloved of perverts and Bono.

‘It must not be fully dry,’ I thought to myself, hopefully. The next morning there was no improvement. If anything, it was worse. 

I showed the result to my girlfriend. I was firmly in the second stage of grief, denial, and reluctant to countenance the notion that it would have to be rectified. It was only by her coaxing that I came to see the truth. The rancid stains would annoy us for as long as we live in the flat. Action had to be taken. 

Destroying a week’s work is not a satisfying experience. The sander ripped through the paint all too easily and at the end of the day I was back where I had started. I was hot, tired and depressed. I made one final pass with the edging sander, removing the last of the green paint. I was jostling the machine close to the skirting boards underneath the radiator when a jet of water shot across the room. The sander’s spinning disc had sliced through the copper pipe sticking out of the floor. In panic, I shouted to my girlfriend.

‘Can you come here now please!’

She ran like a paramedic to a train crash. Perhaps the sander has ripped off his arm, she thought. It was much worse than that. After blasting brown liquid onto the freshly painted walls, the pressure had subsided somewhat but water was still flowing freely, soaking the floor. We relayed the mop bucket and washing up basin back and forth, emptying them into the bath, until the leak reduced to dribble, and then stopped.

All above board

The plumber came the next day, repairing the damage in exchange for wads of cash. Once dry, apart from the spots of paint lurking in gaps inaccessible to even the ravenous floor sander, the bare wood looked as good as the first time. I bought some quick-drying varnish, non-yellowing, and put on three coats in a day. Now it’s done and I will not touch the floor again, even if a priceless hoard of Viking treasure is tracked to the recess beneath it.

I have climbed a steep learning curve, with the occasional dramatic slip to keep things interesting. Thanks to the energy expended the flat does feel more like a home. I Tweeted a picture of the varnished boards to the stranger who had mocked me for vandalising them. He didn’t reply, but I know he’s out there, chuckling smugly. 

The River and Sea are One

We spread mum’s ashes in the River Wharfe at Burnsall, North Yorkshire. We found a quiet spot, undisturbed by walkers and dogs, where an overgrown island divides the water into two channels, making it run quickly over the rocks. The music of the river accompanied the scene of drooping willow trees caressing the ripples and a thousand shades of green fractured by intermittent rays of sun. 

I read on ‘On Death’ by Kihlal Gibran and was pleased with the line ‘just as the river and sea are one.’ It felt right that Mum’s remains would enter the eternal cycle, flowing to the ocean, evaporating into the clouds and then falling as rain on the mountains, before returning to the spot where we stood. The sense of movement was important, a current and a breeze, to help her on the way. 

The peace that follows an outpouring of grief settled on our small group. We spread a picnic blanket on the uneven bank and, harassed by midges, ate strawberries and drank Prosecco from plastic tumblers. 

The cork, fired skyward, landed among rocks at the water’s edge and lodged there. Suddenly all our attention was focused on this small object bobbing obstinately out of reach. It became symbolic of mum’s passing and her journey to the beyond. Nature heard our silent prayers, a duck appeared and freed the cork with her furious pecking. 

We threw the strawberry tops into the river where they were gobbled up by the same duck who pounced on the morsels before they were swept away by the current. She stuck near to the bank where the water was slower, all the better to grab our cast offs. Once or twice a greedy lunge launched her into the faster flowing water and she was swept downstream, backwards. She seemed unconcerned, expertly surfing the rolling flow until she could exit, like stepping off a travelator at the airport, and paddle back to us. 

The ceremony, which took place the day after our granddad’s (mum’s dad) funeral and a few days before the 2nd anniversary of her death, was an important milestone. I still get a shock when I open my wallet, see her picture and remember that she is gone. But by sharing grief, one can process it better and begin to accept what cannot be changed. 

Bridge over the River Wharfe at Burnsall, North Yorkshire

The Hand of Satan

I stared at the computer. The red text box stared back at me, its unambiguous wording refusing to budge – CALL AN AMBULANCE. If I was having a heart attack it would be sensible to follow the NHS Direct website’s instructions. I rolled over and went back to sleep.

When I woke the chest pain was still there. It worsened with movement, especially sneezing and made it hard to do much of anything. The pain had been slowly building since Boxing Day and my self-diagnosis attributed it more to industrial quantities of brandy butter than a cardiac complaint.

Boxing Clever

It was my girlfriend’s frustration at my transformation into a wincing invalid that drove me to seek advice. I phoned NHS Direct and spoke to a man who sounded exactly like Frank Bruno. I wondered if taking thousands of blows to the head is good preparation for advising people on medical emergencies.

He led me through a series of alarming questions, ending with ‘are you bleeding profusely?’ Thankfully I was able to answer no but I couldn’t help imagining a person so polite that they would wait until directly asked to point out this fact.

Frank continued.

‘Have you taken any illicit drugs in the past few days?’

‘Paracetamol.’

‘Not that kind of drug.’

‘Ah, um, no. Oh wait – there was a dubious cookie I accidentally ate on Christmas Eve. But that did more mental harm than physical.’

Frank laughed. The deep, reassuring laugh that I fondly remember from his ringside chats with ‘Arry. I felt confident from his amusement that whatever I had was not life threatening. This was confirmed when he put me on hold. An instrumental track filled my ears, relentless and devoid of melody. I can only speculate that this rhythmic bombardment is designed to act as a kind of sonic life support machine for the most serious of cases. The driving beat encourages the patient’s heart to keep pumping. Were they to play One Direction or Miley Cyrus, for example, callers would no doubt lose all hope and stave their own heads in with the telephone.

Frank came back on the line. He offered no clue as to what I was suffering from but he was clear that lights and sirens were not necessary. I phoned my GP and was able to get an appointment that morning.

I drove most of the way in second gear as moving my left arm to reach the shifter aggravated the pain. Other drivers reacted badly to my slow speed and high revs by tailgating me and trying to pass. It was an unwelcome glimpse into old age.

Call a Priest or a Doctor?

I explained my symptoms to the doctor and he asked me to remove my shirt, which I did. Painfully. Prodding of the ribcage followed and I winced at certain points in his investigation of my chest.

‘Could you have strained your muscles lifting or carrying anything recently?’ the doctor asked.

‘No,’ I replied, sure that shovelling Christmas pudding and operating a remote control could not have caused tears in my muscle fibres.

‘Well, in that case I think you have Devil’s Grip.’

He said this as if it was a perfectly normal sentence, like ‘have a good day’. I was somewhat taken aback and wondered what was coming next. Perhaps he would recommend that my firstborn should be left on a hillside to be devoured by crows. Thankfully his eyes did not glow red and he continued quite calmly.

‘It’s a virus that causes inflammation of the intercostal muscles between the ribs. Get some Ibuprofen gel for the pain and it should clear up in a week or so. It’s rarely fatal.’

So the Dark Lord had singled me out for special treatment but was not going to kill me. The doctor wrote DEVIL’S GRIP in capital letters on a piece of paper and handed it to me. As if I was likely to forget a name like that. It would be like forgetting your head was on fire.

Later on the internet filled in the gaps left by the medic. Its proper name is Bornholm disease or epidemic pleurodynia…

‘…the distinguishing characteristic of this disease is attacks of severe pain in the lower chest, often on one side. The slightest movement of the rib cage causes a sharp increase of pain, which makes it very difficult to breathe. The attacks strike with a feeling like an iron grip around the rib cage.’

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I don’t make New Year’s resolutions as I consider every day an opportunity for self-improvement. One week I might be learning Arabic, the next I’ll be perfecting the art of juggling while riding a unicycle. Life is one big adventure. But if there is one thing I will do my best to avoid in 2014, it’s the Devil and his excruciating grasp.

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