Athlete

Growing up, the only athletic injury I received was a knee sprain from running across the asphalt playing kick-the-can. (Despite having Internet access, my friends and I still enjoyed the ancient physical art of kicking cans in the mid-’90s.) I planted my right foot on the ground while making a sharp turn and wrenched something horribly out of place. Nothing was broken or torn, but it hobbled me for a few days and made that knee susceptible to future re-injury for several years.

There has been very little sporting in my life since I quit karate lessons at the age of eleven. With other kids in the neighborhood I played a little basketball and rode bikes through the dirt, but most of the time I was instead reading books, playing video games, learning to build a website, or writing fiction in the style of Ann M. Martin. I hated athletics. In high school P.E., my like-minded friends and I put forth minimal physical effort but mustered as much sarcastic energy as we could. We aimed it at the teachers and students who had a healthy zest for being active, because obviously we knew better; we could see that the school was being oppressive by forcing us to confront our physical weaknesses instead of being content with our academic strengths. I was a healthy teenager, but I could never do a pull-up and could barely do a set of push-ups from my knees. During team sports I always took a defensive position way out in the middle of whatever field we were playing on and, in the woeful tradition of nerdy kids everywhere, prayed that none of the sporting action would come near me.

My resistance to organized athleticism comes from a basic dislike of being trained in any way. I’ve always been okay with academic lessons because I tend to grok those easily, but when it comes to more challenging pursuits I am inclined to either quit prematurely, or go it alone without proper guidance. This stubbornness has influenced the way I approached bicycling as a hobby: with an independent spirit and a foreshortened view of the learning curve. I started with modest rides, since all I needed at the time was a way to get around Portland without a car. A new group of friends introduced me to bicycle touring, which at the beginner level involved riding 25 – 30 miles to a campsite. I fell in love with the adventurous spirit of those trips. They wore me out, but never caused serious pain. I’d been led to believe that any person with a reasonable fitness level would be fine with biking such distances. I took that idea to an extreme, and learned the hard way that being in good cycling shape requires more than just a healthy stamina.

In the spring of 2012, I parlayed my amateur experience into a 30-mile ride from my home in Southeast Portland to Multnomah Falls. It was a beautiful day and a lovely ride. I was proud of myself for going the distance, and in fact exceeding my original goal of getting to Crown Point. During the return trip, at about the 45-mile mark, I started to feel a twinge on the outside of my left knee. The twinge evolved into a sharp pain that grew sharper with every rotation of the pedals. I winced, and considered catching a bus the rest of the way home: a wise thought, followed by the unwise action of pushing myself all the way to the sixtieth mile. Back at my apartment, I collapsed onto the couch with some ice cream and tried to keep the leg straight and still. I rested and stayed off the bike for a few days.

But the problem was too deep, and I’d set the bar too high for myself. Only a week after Multnomah Falls, I was slated to do a 100-kilometer (63 miles) bike ride in northern California. I stuck to the plan and drove to California with hopes that the injury had been a one-time thing. To test myself, I biked first around the small town of Arcata and then seven miles down the highway to Eureka, wishing in vain to not feel again that sharpness on the outside of my knee. I tried an Ace bandage, and an Epsom salt bath back at the hotel, but I was well and truly hobbled. The next day my friend drove me down to the registration desk for the 100K, where I picked up my “free” sweatshirt and water bottle and sadly told the staff that I had to drop out of the ride. I was disappointed, not just at my bad luck but in myself—for being too confident and enthusiastic to train properly.

My cycling life was hampered from then on out. At its worst, I could ride only five miles before experiencing the pain. I consulted my general practitioner, and he recommended a RICE regimen but offered no further insights. It was a long time before I found out, from a massage therapist, that my pain was stemming from the iliotibial (IT) band on my left leg. This is a band of tissue that starts at the hip and runs down to the outside of the knee. Since I hadn’t been adequately stretching, my too-tight muscles were putting strain on the IT band and making it extremely tender. I hadn’t known the extent of it until the massage therapist started poking and rubbing all along the outside of my leg. We found a particular spot about eight inches above the knee that, when pressed, made me cry out. After the session, he taught me a few good stretches to do after every bike ride. Great! I thought. Now I know what to do, so I’ll make a routine out of it and nip this problem in the bud.

Sticking to a routine has never been my strong point, especially when the routine is in my best interest. I continued to bike willy-nilly, stretching my hips and legs occasionally, wanting to believe that a few episodes of good behavior would have ever-lasting effects. The pain improved for a while, enough so that I decided to take a big chance and ride out to the coast for a late-summer camping trip in 2014. Most of the 60-mile route treated me fine, but the familiar knee twinge started up toward the end, and out of caution I accepted a car ride home two days later. I had pushed myself a little too hard, yet again. It was a pattern that continued for too long: taking minimal care of myself, getting my hopes up, planning and then failing to achieve the long rides I profoundly wanted to take.

Last summer, finally, I decided to see a physical therapist. After I told him my history he determined it was best to launch directly into a treatment called ASTYM, in which hard-edged plastic instruments were dug into my leg, all the way from hip to lower calf, to break up the tissues that had become glued together over the past three years. In between teaching me how to not only stretch, but strengthen, everything affecting my IT band, he said on behalf of his profession that “if you do any physical activity at all, as far as we’re concerned, you are an athlete.” I needed to hear that. I had actually felt a bit silly seeking out a physical therapist, since I had never considered myself an athlete, nor did I have an acute and obvious injury. But it turned out to be the most helpful thing I could have done. I was given a whole package of lessons and treatments, including adjustments to my bike and advice on riding with good form to counteract my particular chronic injury. More importantly, it hammered home the idea that being an active person—as I am wont do to—comes with responsibilities to my thirtysomething-year-old body.

I can’t say that I’ve been very disciplined with the new regimen. Due to other changes in my life, I haven’t ridden my bike much at all since the treatment, and my condition has not improved enough for me to start planning bike tours. At least, now, I realize what I’m up against. I need to train; I need to practice. I am an athlete … of a sort.