This Weekend
Eleven months ago today my back was opened up and operated on. Disc material was cleaned out, bone was chipped away, all to give my inflamed nerves room to breathe. I'm not sure if it was my actual spinal cord or one of the big nerves coming off of it and going down my right leg that was being choked within an inch of its life, but whichever one it was, my toes didn't move anymore. And the lower half of my leg had no feeling in it.
The surgery was a success, but the intoxicating dreams I had of improving my quickness at the track and perhaps one day racing were put on hold so I could rest in bed and watch endless repeats of Law & Order SVU.
Slowly I worked to regain strength and mobility. Two days after the surgery my mom began taking me on short ten minute walks down the street and back. The walks gradually became longer, and increased to twice a day. I was still on strict bed rest, for another six weeks, but I was instructed to walk, and walk I did.
I began physical therapy in late June. Still on disability leave from work, I continued my twice daily walks and visited the MORE Clinic in Santa Clara three times a week. The first exercise I did was a pelvic tilt; lying on my back, with my knees in the air, I would press my low back into the ground, then come back to neutral spine. I would then arch my low back, then come back to neutral spine. Lather, rinse and repeat.
Each day one or two new exercises were added. I had lost a lot of weight, all muscle, and was down to a willowy 125 pounds, not nearly enough for a five foot ten inch girl. I loved going to physical therapy because I loved getting stronger. I tried to eat a bit more to help nourish the extra activity. I listened to ass kicking music while doing my exercises at the clinic, visualizing myself back on a motorcycle, whipping around a racetrack. I was going through some challenging personal melodramas but the fantasies of complete ownage on a racetrack (which will likely always remain exactly that - fantasies) kept me bright eyed and bushy tailed.
It was sheer stupidity, really, the decision to go back to the racetrack so soon. In August I did a track day on my new little SV. People have crashed much harder than I have, certainly, but given the intensity of the impact of body on ground I felt in November and January, riding on the track in August was just stupid. Had I crashed at that point, I could have destroyed all I'd been working towards all spring and summer.
More track days followed and I got faster and faster, down to a still slow 2:12 at Thunderhill. I did some crashing, got slower again, and got faster again.
This Saturday I will race. I will wait on the starting grid for the green flag, take off in a charging herd of determined new racers, and have laptimes recorded in the books. To say I'm excited is an understatement, but I'm trying to temper my excitement with a little bit of grown-up maturity. My humble goal is to finish. Not be the fastest, not even to be faster than the slowest, but to just finish. And finish I will.
The surgery was a success, but the intoxicating dreams I had of improving my quickness at the track and perhaps one day racing were put on hold so I could rest in bed and watch endless repeats of Law & Order SVU.
Slowly I worked to regain strength and mobility. Two days after the surgery my mom began taking me on short ten minute walks down the street and back. The walks gradually became longer, and increased to twice a day. I was still on strict bed rest, for another six weeks, but I was instructed to walk, and walk I did.
I began physical therapy in late June. Still on disability leave from work, I continued my twice daily walks and visited the MORE Clinic in Santa Clara three times a week. The first exercise I did was a pelvic tilt; lying on my back, with my knees in the air, I would press my low back into the ground, then come back to neutral spine. I would then arch my low back, then come back to neutral spine. Lather, rinse and repeat.
Each day one or two new exercises were added. I had lost a lot of weight, all muscle, and was down to a willowy 125 pounds, not nearly enough for a five foot ten inch girl. I loved going to physical therapy because I loved getting stronger. I tried to eat a bit more to help nourish the extra activity. I listened to ass kicking music while doing my exercises at the clinic, visualizing myself back on a motorcycle, whipping around a racetrack. I was going through some challenging personal melodramas but the fantasies of complete ownage on a racetrack (which will likely always remain exactly that - fantasies) kept me bright eyed and bushy tailed.
It was sheer stupidity, really, the decision to go back to the racetrack so soon. In August I did a track day on my new little SV. People have crashed much harder than I have, certainly, but given the intensity of the impact of body on ground I felt in November and January, riding on the track in August was just stupid. Had I crashed at that point, I could have destroyed all I'd been working towards all spring and summer.
More track days followed and I got faster and faster, down to a still slow 2:12 at Thunderhill. I did some crashing, got slower again, and got faster again.
This Saturday I will race. I will wait on the starting grid for the green flag, take off in a charging herd of determined new racers, and have laptimes recorded in the books. To say I'm excited is an understatement, but I'm trying to temper my excitement with a little bit of grown-up maturity. My humble goal is to finish. Not be the fastest, not even to be faster than the slowest, but to just finish. And finish I will.