Could an e-bike get me back into my beloved sport?

I’ve been sniffy about e-bikes before now. During my time with the GB cycling team,  I scoffed at able-bodied cyclists using  battery assistance to get up hills because I was training my one-legged body to climb, even when it was really, really hard. Sometimes, if I lost momentum trying to ascend a particular bugger of a climb (Holme Moss springs to mind) I would simply keel over with the effort and, having picked myself up off the road,  find it virtually impossible to get going again without a push-start from a friend. Next time you’re riding up a big hill, stop mid-way, and try to simultaneously push off, get clipped in, and start pedalling without involving the other leg and you will experience the difficulties of a one-legged hill-start. But still, I considered e-bikes ‘cheating’.

But now, in my post-chemo and radiotherapy state (i.e. knackered), and lacking both my former fitness and hubris, the e-bike is appealing.  I am currently far too slow to ride with my former club-mates at Garforth Velo, yet I lack the confidence to ride alone. I worry that if fatigue hits (and it does tend to ‘hit’, without warning, and requires instant sofa-time), I will be unable to get home.

I wanted to find out whether riding a bike with battery assistance could help me ride further and faster and inject a much-needed bit of fun back into my life. My friend Graham at Dave Rayner Cyclesport, who supported me throughout my competitive career, offered to lend me his Corratec e-bike for the weekend and so the experiment began.

The e-bike has four modes: eco, tour, sport and turbo, which give progressively greater assistance. With pedal-assist, the battery only kicks in when you pedal, and cuts out again when you reach 15mph – above that speed you’re travelling under your own steam.  Leaving my driveway, I put the bike straight into turbo mode and whipped up the hill so quickly I felt like I was riding a motorbike. I instantly started laughing – it felt so strange!

Back in eco mode, the assistance is minor – it feels as if it’s just compensating for the weight of the bike (a massive 24 kilos compared to my 10-kilo road bike), but you also get a greater range of miles – the display on the handlebars said I had 65 miles left in the tank, compared to around 25 in turbo. Since I was nervous about using up the battery too quickly, I decided to stay in eco mode for the first half of the ride. The upright handlebars forced me to sit up and enjoy the scenery, instead of staring at my Garmin data on the stem. I still got a bit of a sweat on up the hills, but I wasn’t out of breath so I didn’t notice my reduced fitness as much as usual.

The e-bike came into its own at junctions, which have always been extra-tricky for me as a one-legged rider. I have to wait for extra-big gaps in the traffic to make sure I can get out quickly enough. If I miss clipping into the pedals on the first attempt, I have to put my foot down and try again; it can be a bit nail-biting. But with the e-bike in turbo mode, as long as I hit the pedal somewhere, the battery kicked in and got me out of trouble. It made riding the roads feel a lot safer.

But most of all, the ride was just FUN, especially on the way back when I flicked between modes to see the full potential of the bike. The road on the way back to my house is a si-mile drag uphill: it’s tiring at the end of a long ride. But this time, I flew up it with a big smile on my face instead of a weary grimace.

Arriving home after 30 miles , I still had 16 miles left in the battery in turbo mode (36 in eco) and I felt good. My leg muscles were aching (but not too much), I was slightly out of breath and I’d enjoyed being back outside with the wind in my face. Looking at my stats on Strava (old habits die hard), I saw that I had a new PB for the uphill ride home in turbo mode, but none for the rest of the ride in eco mode. It was somewhat reassuring to realise that at the peak of my fitness I was still stronger and faster than I am now even with battery assistance.

The e-bike can’t beat the satisfaction of conquering a big climb unaided, or the thrill of whizzing along country lanes with only the  swoosh of your carbon wheels in your ears, but it could be a great investment for my rehabilitation. Better start saving my pennies – this bike retails at around £2,000.

 

 

New do

Bev

Post-chemo crop

Beverley (aka The Wig) has had a hair cut. She’s gone from long and glam to an angled bob; what’s she’s lost in length, she’s gained in style.

I took her to Andrea’s Hairoom, run by Andrea Long – a hair loss specialist with an extraordinary talent for matching heads to hair. I went in feeling self-conscious in a scalp-covering headband, and came out wearing a swishy blunt-cut wig that actually feels like my own hair. Only better.

She also gave me the confidence to go and get my own multi-length, patchy, post-chemo hair cut at the hairdresser (“it will look immediately thicker”) so I now have a boyish crop which is a zillion times better than my messy bandana/toddler ponytail look of old.

I have a wedding to go to tomorrow, an occasion I’ve been looking forward to for months but didn’t know whether I’d be well enough to attend. I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to stay awake past 9pm or sustain much of a conversation, but I do know that – with or without Bev – I’ll give it a good go.

 

The club

When I was diagnosed with my first cancer at 26, I felt completely alone. I didn’t have any friends who were going through the same experience and I felt cut off, isolated and afraid: their lives continued in a whirl of work and travel and socialising whilst I battled limb loss and depression and anxiety. Friends visited and talked about parties and beaches and boyfriend dramas, and they would ask about me, and I would hold back – because the furthest I’d travelled was the chemotherapy ward, and the only reason for being up all night was the insomnia and the nausea and the pain. And who wants to hear about that? So I was alone, through my own making, because I cut myself off from friends who wanted to help because I thought they couldn’t, and wouldn’t, understand.

But now? Now I’m not alone. And that’s almost more frightening. I know too many women with breast cancer. And these are young women. Women who have jobs and children and caring responsibilities for elderly parents. There’s my ‘chemo buddy’ Vicki who has three children and has been valiantly holding down a job whilst going through chemotherapy; there’s the mum from school I bumped into at the breast clinic who –  unbeknownst to me – already had a year of treatment behind her. There are hundreds of women on the Younger Breast Cancer Network on Facebook – their timeline filled with single mums suffering chemo side effects without the luxury of childcare, and the bewildered newly-diagnosed asking for advice.

And yesterday, a good friend I’ve known for years and years – someone I don’t see very often because we are geographically far apart, but love dearly – told me that she has been diagnosed with breast cancer too. Another young woman, mum, wife, colleague, sister, daughter, friend.  And it breaks my heart. Because I am no longer a massively unlucky anomaly; I am the norm. One of many. Too many.

So I say to my lovely friend: I am so sorry you have become a member of the club that no-one wants to join. But you are not alone. We’ve got you.

 

 

 

Venturing out

A flat white and complimentary brownies: a cyclist’s dream

For the past five years, cycling has been a massive part of my life: inspired by the London Paralympics to ‘give it a go’, it soon grew from a hobby into a sport and then an obsession. My dreams of competing at Rio may have ended prematurely, after a stint on the GB development squad, but my love of the sport – and the freedom, fitness (and cafe stops) it brought was relentless.

But cancer has robbed me of that enjoyment this year. I’ve simply been too ill and exhausted to ride. Sure, I’ve been on the indoor turbo trainer (watching my power numbers drop dramatically week-on-week) and I’ve pottered about with the kids on canal paths in-between chemo sessions, but I haven’t ventured out onto the roads because, frankly, I’ve been too scared.

You see, you need guts to ride a bike on the road. Especially when you’ve only got one leg and your balance is ‘off’. You need confidence and a dose of devil-may-care attitude to dodge the potholes and brave the drivers veering too close with a ‘punishment pass’. And having cancer has made me doubt myself in so many ways, including my ability on the bike. Being ill changes your mindset: instead of thinking, “Of course I won’t get knocked off my bike/it’s just a bit of rain/it’s not that windy”, you start worrying, “If anyone’s going to fall off it’ll be me/I could break my wrist again/an injury could jeopardise my treatment”. All of which explains why I’ve been trapped inside, sweating it out on the turbo, even as the sun shone outside.

But today, I went out for a ‘proper’ ride. I only managed 19 miles and I was absolutely knackered, and I didn’t get any Strava cups or PBs.  I struggled up the hills and I fretted about my low average speed, but the sun was shining and the wind was in my face and the freewheeling downhill felt great. And I realised I need to stop comparing the condition I’m in now with the old me. It’s dispiriting to remember how 70-mile weekend rides felt easily achievable and power numbers were quadruple what they are now. And I know my fitness will soon be taking another hit, with fatigue-inducing radiotherapy.

But for now, there’s still joy to be found in a short and steady amble into the Yorkshire countryside, and new cafe stops to discover (see photo).  So I’m turning off the Garmin and lifting my eyes to the road ahead. I’m starting again: Cycling Ground Zero.

The best-laid plans…

All ‘marked up’ and nowhere to go

If Theresa May was having a bad start to the day, I was feeling more hopeful: my hospital bag was packed; iPad fully-loaded with films; childcare arranged. Hell, I’d even written A farewell letter to my boob. I was ready.

The positive vibe continued after arriving on the ward: the nurse told me I was first on the list (that never happens) and I had been allocated to a private room (that never happens). By 8.30am I was in my gown and compression stockings (sexy), had been ‘marked up’ by my surgeon (i.e. she’d scribbled all over my right boob with black pen) and I’d even managed to share a crap joke with the anaesthetist who seemed to share my gallows humour (they always do).

Then my blood test results came back.

The surgeon came back to see me with a grim look on her face. She explained that my white blood cell levels were too low to proceed with surgery. White blood cells help your body fight infection; too few of them and your body can’t defend itself against infection post-surgery.  Chemotherapy’s to blame for my paltry levels – it destroys white blood cells temporarily. Then your body makes more and your levels ‘bounce back’. But mine were seemingly too bloody knackered after six cycles of chemo to be bothered. I know how they feel.

It may seem odd to get upset over not having one’s boob surgically removed, but at this point I just wanted the tumour gone.  So obviously I burst into tears. And then removed my surgical stockings and threw them onto the floor. That’ll show them.

Then I got dressed, tried ineffectually to rub the black marks off my chest, and got back in the car with my long-suffering husband for the grumpy drive home (stopping off at B&Q on the way to buy the sodding smoke alarm that I’ve been nagging about for the past two weeks).

My surgeon is (of course) away next week so my operation will now be delayed for a fortnight.  I’m sure I will muster enough energy to psych myself up again, but seriously – why is nothing ever straight-forward?

End of chemo

I had my last dose of chemotherapy last week – and I had planned to write something celebratory, but when I sat down at the computer I found I couldn’t. The truth is I’m tired and fed up.

I had expected to find this cycle easier somehow – thinking I’d sail through the side effects on a tide of elation that this was the last time I’d suffer, but actually it’s been really tough. I struggled to get out of bed at all for a few days and when I did I was hit by waves of nausea, fatigue and grief.

There has been a lot of crying this week. Perhaps it’s because I’m now forced to think about the next step of treatment – masectomy. Since diagnosis five months ago I’ve been trying to convince myself that I’m not really bothered about losing a breast – because it’s nothing compared to losing a leg.

I mean it’s just a boob, right? It doesn’t help you walk or run or get you out of bed in the morning. It just kind of sits there lumpily, perhaps jiggling occasionally during exercise, but otherwise (in my case) hardly even bothering to add much in the way of womanly curves to a lanky frame.

But losing my leg made a huge dent in my body confidence, and now losing a breast is another blow – another bit of femininity gone. And obviously the feminist within me says, “Geez Sal – it ain’t all about legs and boobs you know – being a woman is about personality, humour, intellect, charisma, spark….” But the problem is chemo has robbed me of that too – I feel dull, dreary, tired…. really, really tired. It’s been five long months of hell, I have a mouth full of ulcers, a balding head and an operation in three weeks.

I know there’s a positive spin to put on all this – I’m making progress, the surgery will rid me of the tumour etc etc, but right now I’m too exhausted to make the effort.

Chemo round 5

Having (another) bad hair day with chemo buddy Vicki

Usually I have a couple of days’ grace straight after chemotherapy before I start to feel ill, but this time the side effects kicked in almost straight away – which is why I’ve only just got around to writing about it.  Also, my arm swelled up around the cannulation site, making typing painful – a sign that my veins, rather like their owner, are getting “grumpy’ (the medical term) from the repeated infusions.

The long list of unpleasant side effects seems to lengthen with each cycle of chemo and this time muscle spasms came, uninvited, to join the usual boorish party-goers of fatigue, sickness, dry mouth, lack of appetite, acne, diarrhoea, heartburn, mouth ulcers and hot flushes. Painful cramping in my leg and toes kept me awake for five nights after the infusion.

Apart from that, I was absolutely fine and dandy.

Luckily, I’ve since emerged from chemo hell to engage in activities that don’t involve needles, hospitals or feeling sick. Which is always nice.

This week’s loveliness has included: watching the Tour de Yorkshire in Wetherby and Tadcaster; tea-drinking and gossiping with friends; monster-chocolate-cake-making; scone-eating and bike pootling with the kids.

Next week is (fingers crossed) my final round of chemotherapy. I’m focusing on that milestone, rather than the mastectomy, reconstruction surgery, radiotherapy and Herceptin injections to follow.

There’s still a long road ahead but we’re making progress – one painful step at a time.

Some good news at last

This picture shows my nine-year-old daughter jumping for joy over waves at the beach last week. And it’s kind of how I’m feeling today.

Today’s MRI scan results show my main tumour is finally shrinking. The radius has gone from 11.5mm to 8mm, meaning the volume (V = ⁴⁄₃πr³) has shrunk from 6368mm to 2143mm – a much more impressive reduction of around two-thirds. (No, I didn’t understand the calculation when the oncologist explained it to me either, but my chemistry teacher husband did!)

The shrinkage now won’t necessarily have any impact on the course the disease takes in future, but it’s a massive psychological boost. Compared to the results of my last scan, when the chemotherapy showed no impact on the tumour at all, I will be going into tomorrow’s fifth chemo session feeling much more positive.

I’m taking today’s news at face value: the chemo is nasty but right now it’s working.

And I’ll take that, write it down, and be thankful.

Change of scenery, change of mood

Sea, sand, sunshine: it’s hard to be blue at the beach.

This week we went to Scarborough for a typically British seaside break, i.e. it was pretty cold and a little wet but we had a blast anyway.

We dug trenches and built sandcastles in jumpers and raincoats, ate fish and chips on the harbour at Whitby, dodged the crowds at Sealife with an early-bird pass, swopped iPads for card-playing, and spent a glorious day on the beach in Sandsend reading a book in a deckchair (me) and Boogie-boarding in wetsuits (Pete and the kids).

I did think about the Big C a bit (debating whether my headscarf/buff could pass as surfer chic or just screamed CANCER) but it didn’t dominate my thoughts like it does at home. I was able to enjoy the holiday for what it was: precious time with my family.

Massive thanks to my friend Linda, for lending us her house for the week – it was just the tonic we needed x

 

Infection

 

One of the (many) side effects of chemotherapy is immunosuppression. The drugs cause the number of white blood cells in the body to plummet, making it harder to fight infection. Which is how I ended up back in hospital on Friday.

As a prosthetic limb wearer, I’m used to dealing with skin breakdown, blisters and ‘lumps and bumps’ where my socket rubs at the top of my leg. It can be unpleasant and makes walking uncomfortable but it’s usually nothing a bit of Sudocrem won’t heal overnight. But on Thursday night, a nick in the skin had turned into an angry, red lump, and walking was agonisingly painful.

I phoned the chemotherapy ward the next morning and a nurse advised me to come in to the assessment ward at St James’. There, a doctor examined me and confirmed that the cut was infected, as I’d suspected, and I would need antibiotics. There followed an anxious four-hour wait while the team decided whether I needed to stay overnight on the ward, but after much pleading and a promise to come straight back if things got worse, I was released home with a big old box of flucloxacillin.

I escaped just in time to watch Beauty & The Beast at the cinema with the kids. At which I cried.

I blame the chemo. It’s turning me into a right wet lettuce.