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Sit Bob, sit (good bike)

Last Saturday, I threw a hamhock over the saddle on Bob (my 2007 Harley Street Bob) and hit the road. This was a special ride for me, because it was to be my first attempt at a nice, normal day ride in several weeks.

Here’s what happened: about 3 months ago, my left hip started hurting. It was annoying, but I plugged along, keeping my spirits up with ceaseless bouts of insufferable whining. I saw a chiropractor, I got a couple of massages, and I whimpered to my personal trainer, but nothing really helped. Then, I got one last massage.

Now, you wouldn’t think this to look at her, but “Nadia” (not Erica’s real name), an attractive young woman in her early 20′s, is apparently possessed of spider strength, a knowledge of human anatomy well suited for The Inquisition, and a deep hatred of middle aged fat guys.

In all fairness, she did warn me that the deep tissue work she was about to do would be quite painful. But she didn’t tell me that this session of pain was a gateway to a whole new level of pain.

When I left 45 minutes later, congratulating myself that I had not screamed, cried much or wet myself during the session, I had hopes that I was on the road to recovery. I was soooo wrong.

Within 48 hours, I was in the worst pain of my life. That’s saying a lot – I’m 54 years old and have some significant mileage on me, including being hit by a car 30 years ago that totaled the motorcycle I had been riding. This. Was. Worse.

A couple of days later, I went to the ER. Their best guess (without an MRI) was “sciatica,” which is latin for “you were Hitler in your previous life, and you are finally getting what you deserve.”

For three weeks, I could hardly move. I spent my days laying on the couch and my nights laying in bed. Most of that time was used trying to find a position to lay in that didn’t make me yearn for my own demise. While I normally don’t even like to take aspirin unless I have to, I now found myself eager for each of my three daily doses of cyclobenzaprine, ibuprofen 800s, and Vicodin. When those were gone, I got the Rx’s refilled. When those were gone, I found an unused bottle of Tylenol 3s that had expired three years earlier, and munched them over the next several days.

Since then, for about 4 or 5 weeks now, I have tried to get back to normal. I’m working again, and I’m going to the gym 4 days a week. I only have to use my cane about half the time now. And I’m off the Rx’s, although I do have to take 1,000 mg of acetaminophen plus 400 mg of ibuprofen 3 times a day to get by. (I know, but I’m hoping my hip and back will stop hurting before I actually need a liver transplant). 

The Comeback Trail

Anyway, the point of all this is that, after small test rides around town the last two weekends, I finally felt strong enough to try an all day ride. With a full tank of gas and a full bag of non-prescription painkillers, I left Portland and headed out Hwy 26 toward the Oregon Coast. It’s only a 90 mile ride in a straight shot, but the whole point was to get some mileage on Bob and myself, so I turned SW onto Hwy 6 and rode thru 50 miles of beautiful, gently twisting scenic highway to Tillamook, an Oregon coastal community known for it’s cheese and… uh…

Anyway, then I headed north on Hwy 101 to Cannon Beach, a small town that has embraced tourism the way the 1980s embraced bad hair. Once there, I took Hwy 26 east all the way back to Portland, stopping just once at a huge log cabin restaurant that evidently prides itself on serving the World’s Worst Clam Chowder.

At the end of the day, as I finally pulled back into my garage, I looked at the trip meter: 235 miles! I congratulated myself on an amazing comeback. Then I proudly fell off the bike and crawled into the condo, whimpering all the way.

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