. Life as a Highsided Racer...........

. Pain x 10


Jan 25 2004: Wrapping Up the Year
The WSMC banquet took place on January 17. Chris won the class championship for Aprilia Challenge, as well as a second in the Solo GT Series so we had to attend the awards ceremony. I also won something: the crash lottery; a high speed highside which allowed me to walk away, albeit a few months later. The crash, along with a conflicting work schedule, destroyed any chance I had of having a good race season. And on the months I did make it out and was ready to race, either Chris's bike broke down and he took mine, or Ruben's bike broke down and he took mine. Chris was fighting for a class championship so of course I let him ride it. I felt it best to assist him in his endeavors, lest I ruin my life of peace and quiet on the home front.

As for Ruben, he was vying for the Top Rookie Expert title and having a broken bike during a race weekend was catastrophic for his big goal. Twice he turned to me and asked for the services of the trusty 666. I wasn't in contention for anything so why not let him race it? Ruben grabbed the title by a mere single point and during his speech he wrapped it up by saying that last, but not least, he wanted to thank me for loaning him my bike. I was honored to have helped him with his title. He had made such huge progress during the season and was completely worthy of it.

2004 holds no changes for me. We're taking a break from racing since after three years Chris is pretty burnt out. It seemed like almost every month he was fixing a broken bike. Chris is likely to return in 2005 but until I leave my job which requires me to be online most weekends, I doubt I'll be able to return to racing with any focus. I'm looking a bit forward to that day of unemployment so I get my weekends back, but until then, it's my turn to vicariously live the life of a racer through other people... 
                                        
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Feb 16 2003: A Day That Will Live in Infamy
We knew it was going to be a tough weekend when we went in to get our tech slip and were told that our registration forms never got to the office so we had to post-register. In our two years of racing, this had never happened to us before. Not only was it more expensive to post-register, but you have to pay by check or cash - no credit card. Neither of us were carrying checks so we ended up getting the cash off Scott Cleff. Honestly, only pimps and drug dealers walk around with that kind of cash. I don't know which he is and I don't suppose I need to know; the cash was coming from a kind gent willing to part with it and that's what mattered.

Saturday practice went fine, with a good time down to 34 flat. We had tire issues because once again it was hotter than anticipated, but I ended up feeling good on the bike in spite of having the rear end let go in turn 5 after putting on the harder street compound tire. The bike started to lowside and I bounced off my knee, putting the bike upright again and then repeated the process once more. When I pulled back into the pits, my kickstart had flung out from behind the fairing � even though it's velcroed down � due to the left-right snapping of the bike. If only I knew what real snapping was in store for me...

I skipped the first Sunday morning practice and went out for the second one, staying in the back of the pack so all the excitable types could have their fun up front. About the third lap around, white smoke was pouring out the back of this guy's bike. He ended up oiling his own rear tire and going down in turn 8. He lay motionless when I went by him. "This is not good," I thought to myself. Funky vibe. And not one you want to dance to. A vibe that makes the hairs on your neck stand so they can wave like tule reeds in the wind.

I did my usual scoring of the first few races and took off when it was time for my Aprilia Challenge race. I suited up and headed out. We did our warm up lap and I lined up second on the front row next to Chris. We took off and Chris got the hole shot. Another rider just got in front of me so I was going through in third. The other rider wasn't easy for me to get around (really, I'm a pathetic passer), but I think on the third lap I put on my "try or crash" rally cap and finally railed by him in turn 2. After that I did a pretty good job of dropping him off and trying to focus on gaining some ground on Chris, who had left us well behind.

On the final lap, I took a peek back down the straight and found I had no competition on my tail so I ratcheted it back, realizing we were going to have a momentous Kelley 1-2 podium. As I was coming around turn 4, I could see Chris leaving turn 5 for 6. I plunged down into 5 and headed up over 6 in my usual manner but when I crested 6, I was in for a bad surprise. Just as I started coming down the dog-leg right hander, I was completely out of track! A wind gust had shoved me clear off. There was no opportunity for me to correct the bike or do anything while on the track � I was in the dirt headed straight for the cone.

Suddenly I felt the front end shake violently, heard the sound of grinding gravel, and then said to myself, "I am crashing." No fear, no excitement, just a matter of public record. The only thing I recall is smashing my face into the ground a couple of times and hearing "Oof!" both times that I did it. I know I was on my back at some point as my backside is badly bruised, but I don't remember getting a chance to enjoy the beautiful blue sky we had that day. There was no sky-ground-sky-ground-sky-ground revolutions; only ground-ground-ground.

Although I started losing control on the left side of the track, I eventually came to rest on the inside of the track. I could feel my head pointing downhill and I assumed I was off the track since I had thumped around on the ground for so long. I lay there in excruciating pain. I could barely move, but valiantly flailed my forearms a little to show anyone concerned – mainly Chris – that I wasn't stone cold dead.

I was staring straight up at the sky through a visorless helmet, but I didn't really see the sky. I saw what seemed to be the black outline of my entire body with me in it. I was absolutely perplexed at being in this place I had never been before. I heard bikes roar by. I wondered what they saw. I took assessment of my body: I could move my neck, my hands, my legs. Ok, at least I don't seem to have spinal injury.

In what seemed to be only a few seconds later, the crash truck driver appeared above me and said, "Zina, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?" I was delighted to be conscious and not paralyzed. "Wil-low Spr-ings," I said with exaggerated enunciation since it hurt to talk. He asked me a series of questions: Does your neck hurt? Does your back hurt? Does it hurt when I press you here, here or here? The answers were all no. He asked where I hurt. I told him I thought my toes were broken.

The EMTs appeared somewhere amidst the questioning and after they ascertained I probably didn't have any spinal cord injury they removed my helmet and my boots. The EMT asked me to squeeze with my left hand really hard and then with my right hand really hard. I said, "I can punch you too if you want!" Ugh, how the scrambled mind of the inherently violent works.

After a short bit they had me sit up. Holy cow, that's when the planet shot around my head like a tetherball. I thought of friends who had crashed and who had told me that after they proceeded to get up they fell right back over again. Now I understood why. A little head trauma goes a long, long way. (Still, there wasn't enough head trauma for me to not be mad about throwing away a podium. We may have been the first husband-wife team to finish 1-2 in the same race at Willow. I know we have more opportunities to achieve this, but I was really alternating between being happy to be "ok" vs massively peeved at myself.)

I was eventually helped into the back of the ambulance. (Chris later told me that both ambulances had converged on me, which is usually not a good sign when it happens. It suggests that something is not quite simple or obvious enough for one unit to make a decision.) I sat there while the EMT asked me some questions. When answering, I was spitting dirt and tiny rocks at her. Embarrassed by this faux pas, I apologized. She said she was ok with it as long as I didn't start spitting blood. I appreciated her willingness to work with me on this. She put me in a makeshift cardboard splint and said that she wanted to take me to the hospital. I've heard so many bad stories about the care at Antelope Valley Hospital that I didn't want to go there. In spite of her repeated recommendation, I signed the paperwork to decline the expensive ride over to AVH. I'd hold out until we got back to San Diego.

As we headed towards the Kelley camp, I could see the people staring at the ambulance as it rolled by, curious about the damaged goods within. I've been on the outside before and done plenty of staring myself. I felt a little sheepish when they opened up the doors and a gaggle of friends were standing there to assess the goods themselves. I hopped out of the ambulance and sat down on the folding couch by the van. I sort of looked around, dazed. People asked me stuff that I don't remember. Eventually, I crawled into the van and asked Chris to shut the door because I felt really cold. Chris started packing up the trailer and people drifted by to ask how I was doing. Tony D had given me his little bottle of aspirin, so the pain was starting to subside.

We hit the road and made the long drive back to San Diego. I kept my foot propped up on the dashboard, as it throbbed to have it not elevated. Hurting equally as bad was the upper part of my ass, which was swelling into a hard and inconveniently located mass.

When we got into San Diego, I called up my neighbor to see if he had a spare set of crutches. Sure enough, he had some in his garage so Chris went over to pick them up. It was hard to jump along while holding onto Chris; the crutches made moving myself so much easier. It was even easier than being carried by Chris, because when he had me hoisted over his back like a sack of 125 pound rice, it felt like my arms were going to rip out of their sockets.

I checked which hospital was on my insurance plan and we headed over to nearby Alvarado Medical. When I finally got my xrays taken, they confirmed that I had four broken metatarsals. The smallest one was fragmented. The one next to it was offset and ultimately trying to secede from itself. The final two were snapped but still touching. Well, I didn't need an xray to tell me my foot was bad off, but at least I could verify that this was no case of hypochondria.

The doctor was concerned about my other body parts since I was exhibiting little discomfort with my foot. He was thinking about xraying my hand and hip, but after making me do some gymnastics on the bed that proved I was ok he wrote me a prescription for Vicodin and told me to see a specialist in the morning. Four hours of emergency room care and I was ready to go home.

Feb 17 2003: Visiting the Ortho
I called the orthopedic surgeon that the ER doctor recommended, but he wasn't working on President's Day so I called up one recommended to me by Dr. Paul Canale, an orthopedic surgeon who sponsors Jack Pfeifer and who also won the middleweight novice race back in December (after being a bridesmaid a few times)! Dr. Canale has plans to do a study on foot injuries and racing boots so he found my case interesting and I've been keeping in touch with him.

So I called up Dr. Sharon Dreeben's office. She's not so slothlike as to vacation on President's Day and upon hearing that I had a broken foot, her office scheduled me to come in that day. Just after I got my foot xrayed, the xray technician mumbled, "Wow." I said, "Looks good, huh?" He said that there was no way I was hobbling around on crutches just for attention. I said as I thumped my chest with a closed fist, "No sir, this is from the heart."

Back in the examination room I got wrapped back up and they scheduled me for surgery on Thursday. Chris snapped a few digital shots of my xray so I'd have something to share on the internet.

I spend the rest of the day noticing the other messed up parts of my body. My left hand is almost completely purple because I was stupid enough to use a set of gloves I had previously crashed on and the carbon fiber knuckles were shattered out. Although the knuckles still had padding, it wasn't enough to protect my hand from the impact.

The concussion limits its guest appearances to sitting up and laying down, as well as to looking real hard to the right. There's light bruising on the right side of my head and the right side of my jaw hurts a little so the pain fully lines up with the damage to the right side of the Arai (and thank you Arai for not making piece of shit helmet; I really enjoy maintaining cognitive abilities). 

The upper part of my ass is brilliantly purple and blue. It actually makes the task of functioning on one leg that much harder because the pain resonates through the destroyed right cheek every time I hop up and down. A mildly sprained right thumb also makes gripping the crutches a little uncomfortable. There's a saying I like: "Fucked up 20 ways to Sunday." I don't know where it came from, but I fucked myself up on a Sunday and I can just about count 20 things to show for it.

Feb 18 2003: Waiting for Surgery
It's hard to wait for the surgery. I want it to happen immediately so I can start on my road to recovery. It's a little gross thinking about those messed up bones hanging out in my foot. At least it causes very little pain. As with yesterday, what seems to be vexing me most is the rest of my body. I'm still just sticking with ibuprofen since I want to remain alert.

The ortho gave me a signed DMV form for handicap parking yesterday and today we took it to AAA, where they have DMV services. They're pretty efficient and they're not as seemingly angry about their lot in life as the state employees so we prefer going to them when we can. The placard is good for six months. The question is, once I'm healthy will I specifically drive to hard-to-park locations I normally wouldn't go to for the remaining four or so months just so I can abuse the placard? Hang around and find out...

Feb 19 2003: Do What You Gotta Do, Doc
I followed the surgery instructions and didn't eat anything since the night before surgery. I wake up starving and desiring coffee. I have to keep reminding myself I'm not allowed any of it. Even when we walk into the surgery center, I almost go straight to the inviting drinking fountains in clear visual range.

After I check in Chris and I take a seat in the waiting area. We kill about fifteen minutes playing with our little electronic crossword puzzle game when my name is called. Chris kisses me goodbye and I follow the nurse back into BusinessLand. She has me remove everything except the shorts I'm wearing and tells me to put on the usual hospital gown. After I come out she seats me in a chair and hooks me up to a couple of monitoring devices. She asks me what happened and I explain, telling her that my foot was one of several treasures. This piques her interest and I said, "Wanna see my butt?" She says Yes and another nurse at a nearby station comes running over saying, "I wanna see! I wanna see!" When they're both ready I hike down my drawers and in unison they started squealing and the one ran back to her station.

Once my foot is soaked in an antibacterial solution, it's dried off and I'm handed a marker. The nurse says to draw a big arrow on my shin pointing to the foot that requires surgery. Now this is a smart move on their part. The patient takes some responsibility in the body part being operated on. If I draw an arrow on the wrong leg and that foot gets cut up, well, I guess I'll get to pay for round two on the proper foot.

Soon the anesthesiologist briefs me on what's going to happen and then I'm led to the operating room. I've never been placed under general anesthetic before, but nothing about this entire procedure makes me nervous. I am just too excited about getting the bones fixed and getting better again. What's the worst that could happen? I could die on the table and why should I care since it would be quite a peaceful way to go? Sure beats getting run over by my own motorcycle on a cold, dark road.

They lay me down on the table and decide that because my left hand is completely bruised they had better put the IV in the right hand. As they shift some of the tubes over, one of the attachments drops on my face. I tell them since they hurt my face they also owe me a facelift. Mmmm...they must not like jokes relating to any sort of malpractice as I don't get a rise out of them. There are five people buzzing around the room getting ready. I'm a little surprised so many people are required, but, hey, if they're all needed to fix one little foot, far be it for me to argue.

The anesthesiologist tells me that when he starts giving me the stuff to knock me out I might feel a little burning sensation; apparently the pH is different enough to cause this discomfort. As he puts the mask over my nose he tells me to think of a beautiful, peaceful place I like to go and to think about it. He tells me to take deep breaths and by about the third one I am gone. Lights out. Completely. I wake up later in the recovery area. I slowly open my eyes and realize I'm in a fog I can't shake. The nurse sees me come to and she says something to me that I don't understand. I eventually understand that she's asking me how I feel and I say, "cooooold." She brings me a warm blanket but I can't stop shaking. She explains that that's a side effect of coming off of general anesthesia and not to worry. My eyes open and close and I'm aware that my head is flopping about as I try to bring myself to clarity. I think just after I woke up I heard the nurse call Chris and tell him that I was awake and that he could come and pick me up.

It seems like it was just minutes later Chris appeared at my bedside with my stuffed bear, Finster. Finster and I go back like 15 years. I'm not sure how he's made all these moves with me. I suppose I've never been able to give him up because of his jaunty blue knit cap. Basically, he gives me unconditional inaminate love and I promise not to soak him in butane and set him on fire. To date, this has worked fabulously. I gave Finster a hug and welcomed him to The Land Where Broken People Get Fixed.

We stopped by the pharmacy to have my Percocet prescription filled. When we got home, I settled into the couch, propped my foot up, and waited for the pain to come. The nurse warned me, "Don't let the pain get out of control," so the minute I felt a twinge, I hit the Percocet. I managed to inform some people via email how I was doing before the drug floated through me like a vapor angel. "La la la," I said to myself and fell asleep.

When I woke up a few hours later, I had a painful, raging headache tinged with nausea. I took a couple of ibuprofen and lay there as motionless as I could. Chris came home from grocery shopping to find me holding my face. I felt like my eyeballs were going to explode if I didn't hold them in. Chris made me chicken soup and asked that I eat it, but every time I took a sip I felt like puking. So, I just lay there, knowing that some time down the road either I'd go unconscious or it would subside. I mean, what the hell can you do? Eventually I took half a Percocet and fell back asleep for the night.

Feb 20 2003: Why I Feel for Those in Wheelchairs
The foot feels ok so I quit taking the Percocet and opt for the friendlier combo of aspirin and ibuprofen at infrequent intervals. Today is the first day of SBK testing at Valencia and MotoGP testing at Jerez so there's a bit of online work to do. I know DJ would let me off the hook if I told him I didn't feel well, but, frankly, I didn't feel all that bad and there was work to be done, so I logged on (after getting up a little late) and helped him out with the press releases that needed to be published. Only now and then did I sit there and wonder what I was doing after I set down my cup of coffee.

After working and then taking a nap I called a healthcare company in search of a wheelchair. I'm interested in getting one so I can go on "walks" with Chris and the dogs. It's too hard for me to go far on the crutches as the sore ass and sprained thumb get to me after a short while. When the wheelchair is eventually delivered, we load up the van and head over to Balboa Park. Chris parks where there's plenty of light so if I get knocked off my chair and dragged into the bushes, there's a decent chance someone will witness it. He takes off in one direction with the dogs and I head across the bridge towards the Old Globe Theater.

After about 100 yards I am absolutely knackered. The wheelchair is a bitch to maneuver because it follows every imperfection in the sidewalk. In this particular case the sidewalk is barely sloped towards the street so the wheelchair keeps rolling towards the street. Instead of being able to just roll the wheels forward with both hands, I have to roll one side and brake with the other to keep it from rolling into the street. I drive all over the sidewalk like I'm a sailboat tacking into the wind. Brutal! I give up and head back to the van, absolutely defeated and sorry for every person confined to a wheelchair. I suppose you learn to work with it, but personally, I am moving with the grace of a chained hippo.

Feb 21 2003: At Least I Don't Have to Type With My Toes
I got up early to help with the news publishing for the bike tests. I pretty much have to stay lucid from hereon out as tomorrow is another test day and then Monday is the official Team Ducati Fila launch, for which I'll need to be up by 5:00 a.m.

I took another trip in the wheelchair. This time I made a loop around our block. There's a little downhilll section that I didn't want to get full speed on since I'm not used to the chair yet. It was a bit challenging since there's a little hill to climb. What I learned was that the Mechanix gloves I have will wear through if I keep using them on downhills. Next time out I think going to use a pair of motorcycle gloves.  There was broken asphalt at one point that I got stuck in. The wheels simply would not travel over it. I backed out of it and traveled my way around the mess. I hope handicapped people have a much better chair than I have because being at the mercy of these things suck.

Chris has been very supportive through all of this. He has not once said, "Be-yitch, I just done fixed that goddamn bike and now you gone and done unfixed it." He is willing to do whatever I ask, which honestly isn't all that much since I'm trying to be self-reliant. He does have to take over some of the things that I've historically dealt with, like the laundry. When he was a bachelor, he understood how to do laundry. Then when we got married, he no longer understood how to do laundry. Now that I'm gimped out, he's figured out how to do it again. I think when my foot is healed, he'll have forgotten how to do it once again. The brain works mysteriously, even for those who have not been concussed! 

Feb 22 2003: Ever-Important Ass Status
God bless my late dad and my still-living mom for awesome pain-tolerance genetics. My foot feels fine and I'm down to the occasional aspirin. Today is the one-week anniversary of my accident and my foot no longer throbs when it's not elevated. My dogs also no longer seem scared of the crutches. Used to be when I saddled up with the "loud sticks" they'd scurry off before I could get near. Now they just lay in my way and I have to actively stab them in the gut to run them off. Trip hazards. Everything's a trip hazard around here.

My ass continues to fill out with color. It's a little more bruised than the last pic I posted, but I think it's finally reached its peak and is now going to the green/yellow phase and then eventually back to normal. I did notice something odd with my hair; I think as I tumbled along the ground my hair was dragged beneath me at points. The ends are fragged, like they've been subjected to a bunch of cheap perms. I'm going to cut a few inches off. Besides, it'll make it that much easer to wash my hair, which is currently a non-trivial process that involves slouching over the edge of the bath tub.    

Feb 23 2003: I Must Be Getting Better
How do I know this? Because I'm beginning to notice the trivial things in life, like these furballs all over the house. Before my ass got broked, I used to vacuum every other day as our two dogs are constantly shedding. Now that I haven't vacuumed in over a week, the furballs are gathering like tumbleweed throughout the house. I'm currently zen about it because I'm actually curious how big these furballs can get. Check back with me later, though; I might be freaking out over This Filthy Pig Sty We Call Our Home.

I'm not sure if I'm using general anesthetic and/or the concussion as an excuse, but I seem to need to sleep a lot. Granted, I have always taken daily naps, but now instead of just being one or two hours total, I have a couple of multi-hour naps a day. I wouldn't worry about it except I'm a little bit like an alcoholic with sleep. I love sleeping more than just about anything. I think I really am using this episode as an excuse to jump onto my couch (which I call "Club Med" because it's my favorite vacation spot) at every turn. If I'da lost a vital organ in the crash, I would buy my own story about needing all this rest; as it is, I think I'm milking the situation. This is another situation in which I will have to file under "Check back with me later."   

Feb 24 2003: Let's Talk A Little More About Head Trauma
If it weren't such a bad thing for your brain, I'd say that mild concussions (emphasis on "mild") are really fun. It reminds me of being a teenager and drinking Miller Lites on an empty stomach just for the high. When the world starts rotating like I'm on an out-of-control Disneyland Tea Cup ride, it's a fabulous rush; frankly, I don't mind it lasting. But, alas, it's hard to enjoy it too much because I know it wasn't self-administered through excess alcohol. Instead, it was caused by that sudden slamming of gray matter that all medical professionals - even those who got D's in med school - will agree is bad. I suppose I will lodge an official complaint at this point: Why haven't we evolved to have more crash-proof bodies? The first two-wheeled vehicle was developed around 1880. We've had over one hundred years to evolve a thick exoskeleton and a smaller, less vulnerable brain. What's the hold-up already?

Feb 25 2003: My First Solo Trip Out
I hopped in the truck (automatic and not stick, thankfully) and headed over to the sporting goods store to see if I could find sweat pants that zipped down the side so my fat foot could fit through the leg without a lot of tugging. I found some, but I didn't like any of them; they were too youthful and too inner-city for a bland, chronologically-advanced Asian chick like myself. Right now I've worn the same pants for over a week. And, frankly, I've only had one shower in the past ten days. I've wiped myself down like a few times and that's hard enough. I can't imagine hopping one-legged into the shower with a foot bagged up, trying not to fall the whole time. "So hey Chris, how did Zina die?" "Well, she fell out of the shower and brained herself. Zippered off the whole damn shower curtain on her way down, too. And get this: She crushed her beloved collie, who was waiting for her on the other side of the tub. If she hadn't willed me all the bikes, I'd be gutted."

The public works department put in a handicap curb a block from my house yesterday. The timing is unbelievably spooky. Now everybody in the neighborhood's going to think I'm some cranky bitch who got on the phone to city hall and pitched a fit until they came out and made the sidewalk properly accessible just for me. This is especially odd because we're in an quiet, dead-end neighoborhood and I've never seen anyone rolling around here in a wheelchair except for me. A few of the neighbors use canes, but for the most part everybody is doing their power-walking or running. I'm pretty curious why these corners were selected for upgrading at this point in history, especially since several other corners around here still aren't wheelchair friendly.  

Feb 26 2003: Large White Man� Touches Vacuum
Chris felt bad about the furballs. He figured everybody reading this would think he was a shit husband for not taking care of the place while his wife lay in a hundred, tragic, broken pieces so he vacuumed last night. Truth is, I was seriously curious about how big the furballs could get. Maybe I'll still get to find out as the furballs have already started forming again and it's only 12 hours later.

I get to go back to the doctor's office on Friday morning. I am really excited about viewing my foot. I can see the toes are all bruised so I'm curious about the rest of the landscape. I've been trying to look down the bandaging but when Chris catches me he yells at me about it. To do this requires some major contortions and he thinks I'm going to nuke my foot doing it. I thought about unwrapping the bandages and then wrapping it back up, but I think Dr. Dreeben would go ballistic if I did this. I should try to be patient about this, but I'm also the type of kid who carefully unwrapped xmas gifts and then rewrapped them. Isn't there some clever Chinese proverb about impatience, like "He who is impatient will eat delicious dessert first and not enjoy celery appetizer"? Hey, sounds like a righteous deal to me.   

Feb 28 2003: My Foot Is a Map and "You Are Here"
I had my first post-op appointment today. The friendly medical person cut open the blue tape cover and slowly pulled everything apart. There was an insane amount of fluffy cotton, enough packaging to protect a precious Faberg� egg from a UPS guy with a huge hangover. 

I was very surprised to see the pins sticking out of my foot when most of the bandaging was removed. I had no idea they were there. I knew my soft cast was oddly lumpy, but I didn't know it was oversized to protect the small pins. I thought that if I had pins, there would be long metal rods protruding way out. Instead, I had these pins that looked the type you use to mark locations on a wall map.

Metatarsal 1 on the far left has two screws in it and will remain there. Metatarsal 2 has a pin sticking through it. Metatarsal 3 has an absorbable rod in it. Metatarsal 4 has the other pin sticking through it. Metatarsal 5 is living life large because nothing happened to it. I hear it taunt the other bones every night.

I can feel the pins a little when I move my foot. It's especially apparent when I'm wrapping an ace bandage over the top of the gauze and inadvertantly touch a pin; it feels like it's going to poke right out the other end of my foot. My ankle is a bit sore; I'm not sure if this is from the crash or from lack of use. Or maybe the M&Ms I've been eating have all settled in my ankle. You never know with the human body. When I was a kid I thought I was made out of stuffing like a teddy bear. Most kids are disappointed to learn there's no Santa Claus; imagine my disappointment when I learned that I had internal organs and could bleed to death. So much for the innocent joy of jumping off rooftops onto compost piles.
      
I'm still not allowed to put weight on the foot nor am I allowed to swim in open sewer ponds since the incisions are not fully healed. Today was merely an inspection visit and my current way of gimp living must continue on in the exact same manner. I do my best, however, to goof off (see picture on the left) without getting Chris or Dr. Dreeben too mad.




Mar 4 2003: Crashing: The Gift That Keeps on Giving
Not much is happening except me drawing more faces on my big toe. Remember? It's the happy one attached to the only good metatarsal. If you notice in the big pic, I'm wearing jeans again. This was made possible last Friday when they removed the honking soft cast. This was a big deal to me because except in summer when it's hot, I wear jeans every day of my life. I don't like wearing sweats all day because it makes me feel like, well... an invalid, which is a truth I am all too keenly aware of right now.

What I'm noticing now, 17 days after The Event, is how crashing is really the gift that keeps on giving. My hip socket seems a little shot. It hurts to lift my leg like a dog whizzing. It's not that I need to pee on hydrants anytime soon, but I just like to have that option open. I have moderate whiplash which I'll need my chiropractor to undo. Both thumbs are sprained, but they get no love because the other parts are so much worse off. And finally, the concussion continues to be a relative who has overstayed his welcome.

So all this leads to me ask myself: Why would I return to racing? I suppose because my husband races so I'll just return to what we did together; otherwise, I might very well pack it in on racing. I don't get paid to do this and it's costing me a lot of money. Consider the carnage: 1 Arai helmet ($400); 1 pair Held gloves ($200); 1 pair Daytona Security boot covers ($200); repairs to leathers ($300); repairs to bike ($1,000); medical deductible ($2,500). That's a conservative number of $4,600. The bike cost will be higher if the frame's bent. And the medical expenses doesn't include all the co-pays after I satisfy the deductible. So, as I mentioned before, I think I'm allowing myself one more Big Crash. After that, I am done.
      
Mar 6 2003: Giving Literal Meaning to the Phrase "Get Bent"
The bike is not really happy, but as with its rider, I suppose it could've been worse. Here are the currently identified problems:

�  bent upper and lower tripleclamp
�  bent steering tube
�  bent front rim (also 20� offset of wheel)
�  bent left handlebar tube
�  bent fairing stay 
�  bent left rearset
�  broken shiftrod
�  broken front fender
�  broken upper fairing
�  broken rear tail section
�  broken rubber mount for exhaust hanger
�  flattened aluminum hoops that seat hook into
�  bent, broken and flattened rider

My mechanic, team manager and wheelchair pusher says the fork tubes appear to be straight. We'll need to Computrak the frame to see if it's still straight. God forbid I get cut some slack and come away with an undamaged frame (this frame already cost me $1,000 to straighten once before). In general, the left side took the brunt of the damage and we'll be cannibalizing another Aprilia that we have to repair it (we were going to sell the other Aprilia, but I guess I changed those plans). 

Mar 7 2003: How to Help Orthopedic Surgeons Make a Living: Ride a Motorcycle
I had my weekly appointment with Dr. Dreeben today. She tugged at my foot a little and wasn't satisfied that the healing was done so she left the stitches in. Unlike last time when I was just too stupidly excited about seeing my foot to ask any questions, this time I had a written list.

I ask: When do the pins come out? She says: Not for another two weeks.  I think: Shit.

I ask: How are the pins removed? She says: We just pull them straight out. I think: Ouch.

I ask: When can I put weight on it? She says: Not until the pins come out. I think: Fuck.

I ask: Can I race in April? She says: Running? I say: No, motorcycle. She says: I've done such nice work. I don't want you ruining it. Don't do anything until you're walking normal again. I think: Double-fuck! April racing is probably out.  

She wrapped my foot back up with a lot less gauze this time and left the pins sticking out instead of covering them. I noticed that the second smallest toe now points down. I'm not sure if that's a by-product of the pin being in my foot or if the toe is just going to permanently point down now due to some post-crash rearrangement. Oh well, my feet were really goofy looking to begin with. I come from a peasant stock in Southern China and I was meant to have wide feet so I could stand firmly in a flooded rice field; instead, I grew up in a podunk town and had to wear shoes so my fat toes got bent into a funky, claw-like shape. 

Once Dr. Dreeben put the new dressing on, the appointment was over. There was nothing else left to do but go home and heal. Vini Vidi Vici: I came, I saw, I got sent away. We got back to the truck and I hopped in and placed my foot on the floor. When I pulled it up to move it, I snagged the protruding pins on the underside of the dashboard. OUCH! It felt like the bones ripped apart when that happened. If this recovery somehow doesn't go awry, I will be moderately amazed. I'm my own worst enemy at this point. I have to stop goofing off on the crutches; I'm going to either land on the bad foot, on my ass, or on my head. But man oh man, I am crippled, bored, and in need of some serious entertainment. I'm telling you, I am sorely tempted to start playing with those antenna balls on my feet...  

Mar 13 2003: Thi$ I$ The Part Where I Explain Why I Hate In$urance Companie$
You know, every time I see a commercial for health insurance, I want to laugh out loud. They purport to care about you, but what they care about is that you're perfectly healthy, pay your high premiums, and never make a claim. When you're sick, it costs them money. Pity the poor fool who has a pre-existing condition who's applying for insurance. He may as well start collecting aluminum cans for his medical fund because no insurance company is going to touch anyone with "a record."

Ok, so let me tell you what's chapping my hide. I open my statement from Blue Cross today and it says that of the $9,500 it costs to fix my foot, they're only going to pay $380. I used an orthopedic surgeon listed in my plan, but it turns out that the specific surgery center where I was operated on is not covered (I guess the center provides the anesthesiologist, nurses, etc.). And that's only what I know Blue Cross is rejecting at the moment. I've yet to experience the full breadth and width of their capacity to deny, deny, deny. I can understand that medical insurance companies only want to take money and give little in return, but for crissakes, quit pretending to give a fuck about the patient. Quit being hypocritical. Confuscious say: Assholes who pretend not be assholes are still assholes, but even worse.

Mar 14 2003: Minor Progress Is Progress Nonetheless
This is Robin. She's Dr. Dreeben's assistant and runs all over the place pulling stitches, wrapping ankles, taking xrays, etc. Like me, Robin is looking forward to the day my pins get pulled out because she's never seen it done (we have to wait one more week). She's very cute and if I were a guy I'd ask her out on a date because not only does she have great blue eyes, she'd probably be handy at the track the next time I tried to stop the pavement from moving with my body. Robin carefully pulled the stitches out even though I told her my foot had little feeling and she could go to town on it if she wanted to. Once the stitches were gone, she put bandage strips across the incisions to give them extra encouragement to keep acting as one nation, undivided.

The scabbing around the pins look interesting. Well, to be honest, they look downright gross. It looks like black mold has taken over around the base of the pins. I think Chris was a bit mortified at the thought of sleeping next to someone with this disease-like deformity and asked if it could be removed; Robin thought it unwise to needlessly cause blood to flow so she left it alone.

Dr. Dreeben came in to make her cursory visual pass and seemed pleased. Nothing looked out of place, not even the black mold. She wrapped up the foot and told me that next week the pins would come out. She also said that no anaesthetic would be used to do it. WTF?!! I have no idea if it was a joke or not and I didn't want to ask because making sure Dr. Dreeben is not unnecessarily perturbed is the most important thing. Never annoy your doctor unless you want your metatarsals pinned with ungalvanized four inch drywall screws after your next crash.    

A follow up on the insurance matter: Dr. Dreeben's office is looking into this problem. The billing person was nice enough to tell me, "My daughter had surgery and I got an unexpected bill for $700. I can imagine how upset you felt when you saw one for $9,000." What I felt was a gritty breeze as my checkbook crumbled into sand and blew right past me. But thanks to some understanding from the billing office, they may get this resolved for me.               

Mar 16 2003: Will the Wheelchair Pass Tech Inspection?
We were back at the scene of the crime this weekend: Willow Springs. Saturday it pissed down rain and they only had half a day of practice. Ironically, it stopped raining in the afternoon, but I suppose it didn't really matter; hardly anyone showed up anyways. For those who went out on the wet but empty track, it was like an all-you-can-eat buffet, except that the food being served was cold and undercooked.

Sunday was sunny and Chris got in his races. I scored, doing most of it from a chair instead of my usually standing position on the edge of the track. Nobody seemed really comfortable with me and my crutches so close to the action so they did their best to keep me seated and close to the retaining wall so I could be chucked over like a sack of potatoes if such a need arose. It made it a little harder to score, but it's nice that my comrades cared enough that they didn't want to see me t-boned by an errant bike.

I missed racing only a tiny bit this month, mainly when I watched Chris duke it out in the Aprilia race. I couldn't help but wonder where I would've been in the race. Otherwise, it wasn't much of an issue being a non-participant. Having a hardened foot with little feeling in it simply reduces one's desire to hit the track right away. It's like facing your wedding night with a canker sore on your...hey, I know you know what I mean...            
      
Mar 21 2003: Free At Last, Free At Last
I can't believe I'd say this, but I was actually a little sad my pins were coming out. They had become a part of me and I got used to looking at them day after day, almost like they were my buddies who hung out with me from sunrise to sunset.

When Robin arrived in the office (I was the first patient of the day), she said she got to see pins pulled and that I shouldn't worry as it would be ok. Now did that mean it would be ok because the pain of metal being wrenched from flesh and bone would only hurt a little instead of hideously? Did the other patient only cry instead of pass out? Robin showed up with a pair of pliers. Not even medical pliers, but a traditional pair that looked like it did double-time around the office repairing broken furniture or equipment.

Dr. Dreeben showed up and asked if I was ready. While she was talking to Robin I heard her say the word "Lidocaine" but I saw no evidence of it and was a little worried. With the pliers in one hand, she started twisting the pin with the other hand. Hmmmm...although she was slowly working the pin out, I felt absolutely nothing. Within seconds, one pin was out. The other pin was a little more imbedded and she did actually touch it with the pliers, but it quickly yielded. Just like that my buddies were gone. I will not deny that I am mystified as to why the bone or tissue did not bond to the skewers during the healing process, but I'm glad it didn't. Confuscious say: "She who has metal torn from flesh cry like cat duct-taped to hood of moving Camaro."

I had another xray done and the foot looks pretty good. The only thing that surprised me was how the foot continues to feel extraordinarily stiff. I thought having the pins removed would gain me immediate flexibility, but it turned out that the pins have virtually nothing to do with the stiffness. I asked Dr. Dreeben when the foot would feel normal again and she said "A long time." I suppose when one dessimates the foot with 300 pounds (appropriately labeled "666") and then has it brutally laid open via surgery, it's not realistic to expect things to feel normal in a month, or maybe even two. I'm allowed to put weight on it and I can slowly work up to walking based on the comfort threshhold. When I got home I put a pair of tennis shoes on. Have you ever had a time in your life when you were grateful to be putting on two shoes instead of one? It was epic and my left foot thanked me for no longer having to be naked to the world.

Mar 29 2003: Meet Mr. Sausage
Mr. Sausage: That's what I named my foot because it feels like a sausage that's in an overly-small casing. It's like a tubular piece of meat that only slightly flattens out when I put my weight on it. I shed the crutches the day after the pins were pulled and have been walking largely unassisted since then. Depending on the speed with which I need to expedite my walk, I look either like a) Frankenstein's monster, b) an arthritic chimpanzee, or c) a penguin being chased by a zamboni. 

I show a picture of my dog licking his lips near my feet because during my convalescence, the dogs were fascinated by my injury. They were constantly trying to lick my stitches. Nothing like the smell of dried blood to pique a dog's interest. And you know how people are always saying, "Dogs' mouths are really clean"? Well, why do I find this hard to believe after I see them eat dried cat poop in the backyard or after they've had their heads between their legs licking their privates? And just how can a real clean mouth smell like dead carp and ass all the time? And while we're on the subject, if urine is so clean (allegedly, one can urinate on an open wound to help cleanse it), why should restaurant workers need to wash their hands after they take a leak? If you ask me, just say no to dogs' mouths touching your body and to urine as an antiseptic.      

So today's big news is that I took Pogo out for a ride. Chris and I rode up to Palomar Mt and Mr. Sausage performed like a champ. He only got a little fatigued with upshifting after a couple of hours on the bike. (By the way, Mr. Sausage has a long memory. I went to put on my Daytona boots this morning and he said, "Oh, hell no." Although I wedged him in, Mr. Sausage was too swollen, so I had to wear my more forgiving Sidi Vertebraes.)

Santa Ana winds were blowing extremely hard today. It wasn't really bad until we got up near Palomar. The wind pushed the bike all over the place and after noticing my back muscles knotting into a hard mass from stress and over-gripping I thought to myself, "Hey, last time I was on a bike it was in high winds and I ended up off the bike!" So then I had to fight myself to not get mental over it.

We had pancakes up at Mother's with a fellow rider, Nick, who has glass packs on his Monster S4. It has a real deep note combined with a high, soft ticking sound. If you don't mind having exhausts that look like skinny oxygen canisters that will explode if you smoke near them, they're probably an inexpensive way to get some great sound.

Although a ride down into the desert would've been a fun return to motorcycling, it was far too windy to do anything but go straight home. As we headed down the clear, straight stretch of 79 through Santa Ysabel, there was a biker in the ditch on the side of the road being attended to by a CHP officer. There were no side roads for a car to turn in front of the rider so it seemed rather apparent he was blown off the road. Shades of launching into the dirt off of turn 6!! Just after we passed him I saw Chris screwing off in front of me swerving around in his lane...until I started swerving around and realized he was just fighting to keep the bike in his lane. Wind bad bad bad. No likey.

Overall, it was a challenging return to two wheels, but a very welcomed one. I'm really looking forward to the next trip with Pogo and an even less swollen Mr. Sausage.     

Apr 5 2003: The Road to Recovery Is Riddled With Land Mines, Trip Wires, and Punji Sticks
Two weeks of liberation have gone by and I'm still trying to figure out how to walk. Nothing about it feels natural. It's forced, it's ungainly, and, well, it still smarts. Some people say that the human body is a beautiful thing, a real miracle. I think it's an incredibly flawed device. So many intricate, articulated parts asking to be damaged. The perfect physical design? A big ball. Then we could just roll everywhere. No arms and legs means we can't type so we can't work so we just roll around all day. Is that so bad?

The foot hurts randomly and the right hip is equally random with sharp pains. Both sides of my body jockey for attention like snot-nosed children. The poor walking mechanics may be causing backaches, which in turn is causing neck aches, which in turn is causing constant headaches. As a journalistic experience, this state of dysfunction is... interesting. I can step back and say, "Ok, so if I'm 40 and I live till 80 at least I've lived half my life pain-free, like a normal person. And as far as chronic pain goes, I suppose this isn't too bad to contend with for another 40 years. I'll just take aspirin until I rot a hole in my stomach lining and piss blood." Now, as a non-journalistic experience, this all pretty much sucks the big one. But you know what? I chose to race and expose myself to the risk, so I limit my complaining to my little corner of the world here. Thank you for listening, as I do not have a therapist.

The potential upside of this is that now that I'm damaged goods, I've got nothing to lose, have I? Why not go back out on the track and really light it up? So maybe I highside again and break something else and have a lot of pain; what else would be new, right? Sure, I don't want to cross the boundary into paralysis or permanent brain damage, but for now I'll sort of pretend that can't possibly happen to me. But everything else... it'll be like checking things off on a grocery list of things you really didn't want to purchase but had to.

After I published last week's entry, I got an email from Richard T about a Hunter S. Thompson article called "Song of the Sausage Creature." He thought that perhaps I had named my foot Mr. Sausage because of that story, but, in fact, I had never read it before. I must say, it is one hilarious piece of work. Perhaps there is something about a sausage that brings out our deepest, most primordial fears. Look what happened to the pig: Its snout ending up next to its testicles in the physical afterlife. What human wouldn't fear that fate? If you want to learn more about Thompson's Sausage Creature, click here. If not, here's all you need to know about sausages, motorcycles, and Gonzo journalism:

"I was hunched over the tank like a person diving into a pool that got emptied yesterday. Whacko!  Bashed into the concrete bottom, flesh ripped off, a Sausage Creature with no teeth, fucked-up for the rest of its life..."

Upshot: You do not want to be a Sausage Creature.

Apr 13 2003: Atrophy Has Nothing to Do With A Trophy
Once I was a gazelle, a fleet-footed animal who bounded over the Southern California Serengeti with nary a thought but to avoid the urban predators and to search for the next succulent blade of grass masquerading as a burrito. Now with the lack of exercise, I have become a feeble member of the species, hind legs degenerated from weeks of inactivity. But rather than accept my condition, I hoofed it over to the sporting goods store and bought a stationary recumbent bike. A recumbent bike is different from an upright bike in that your feet are forward and your weight is more on your ass instead of your privates. And, as you can see in the picture, you can get in a nap while you're spinning. Gazelles are opportunistic sleepers.  

I cycle a little every day and I am gradually regaining leg strength. Chris and I went on a motorcycle ride yesterday and I could tell that it was easier for me to shift my weight side to side than it was on the last trip out. This bike only cost $200; it's a small cost for physical therapy so if you're a crash victim with leg weakness, you should consider one of these. Mine is in front of the television so I can watch COPS.

One fabulous thing about sharing your story online is that you get a lot of people writing you and telling you how fucked up they got in a crash. I'm not being insincere: I really appreciate it. Having a broken foot is nothing compared to some of the damage other people suffered in crashes. And we of the motorcycling community are packed wall-to-wall with stories of emergency rooms and interesting xrays. In how many other communities not medicine-specific will you find every third person with a story about casts, slings, splints, screws, pins, and perhaps the bone-rectifying king of them all, fixators? 

When you're done screwing off on the internet, be sure to give both your healthy weight-bearing limbs a big fat kiss. If you're too stiff to reach them, have your dog lick them and then french your dog. Do whatever it takes to show the proper homage to your ambulators.     

Apr 21 2003: Yea, Though I Walk Through the Valley of the Shadows...of Racer Indecision
I returned to the racetrack this weekend as pilot 666 of the Aprilia RS250. How did I feel about it? Very undermotivated. I didn't mind that I was at the track. I didn't mind that I was on my bike going around and around again. I just didn't care that I was there. I didn't feel like making an effort. I wasn't outright scared of turn 6 or any of the other turns, but I certainly had no burning desire to charge them at max speed. This limp attitude is in dramatic contrast to the fact that I was incredibly excited about getting back on my street bike and have been enjoying every moment on Pogo the Monster, so I know it's not about being on a motorcycle.

Am I learning that I don't have the heart of a race warrior? It could be. Some of us are "riding romantics," riders whose best self-expression take place in the road-ribboned expanse of countryside or on the hidden dirt roads of quiet mountains; riders for whom the clinical and precise technique of being a good racer doesn't come too easily, nor satisfies as deeply. I understand what I say is heresy to a racer. Don't get me wrong: I love to watch racing and I am stunned by the skills of the best. But I am not one of them and I question why I spend my time doing it. Of the five crashes I've had in my 15 years of riding, four of them happened on a track. Is that like a wife who returns to a spouse who beats her because she doesn't know better? 

When I went out for my first session on Saturday, I was riding like shit. I couldn't keep it pinned through 8 because the back end was wiggling all over. It was my first time out on Bridgestone slicks and Chris told me he was also having movement in the back, and that the slicks would do that. I went out another session, had the same disturbing problem, and I wanted to quit. The bike was wicked stupid retardedly bad. I'd sooner jog around the track than get back on the thing. While we were sitting there staring at the bikes, Chris says aloud, "Maybe I should check your swingarm pivot bolt." He does and it turns out it was only hand tightened! No wonder the back end was giving me the hearty "fuck you" through turn 8. The next session out was much better and lo and behold, you can drop five seconds off your time with a snug swingarm. Still, I was a bothersome eight seconds off my race pace. [A side note about getting accused of "being mental": A couple of years ago, we were riding to Laguna Seca. Through the mountains it was raining on us and I told Chris the bike was moving abnormally. He told me I was being mental because of the rain. Many miles later when we stopped to get gas, Chris looked at my tire and it was half flat from a nail! He's all about tough love when it comes to riding. I think if he had a motto it would be, "Just ride it, stoopid."]

Race day came and, like the practice day before, I was unexcited about riding. In fact, I had some of the novice racer jitters, a bit of the sensation of seeing the executioner. We lined up on the grid for the Aprilia race and when Craig waved the flag I pinned it like I meant it. I went into turn 1 in second place and proceeded to drop back to sixth before the first lap was done. I did get red misty and I rode the best I could, but that would only get me a fifth, and that's only because someone crashed out. The best time I could manage was a 1.39, six seconds off my race pace. What can someone with type-A personality say but "Man this sucks!"

In spite of my walk through the racer's valley of the shadows, I will try again next month. The support I've received for coming back out has been tremendous, and frankly, very touching. So many people, lots of them strangers, have wished me well and cheered me on. Without the racing community to push me along, I'm pretty sure I'd pack it in. For those of you who have written or approached me at the track with supportive words, keep it up - I need all the brainwashing I can get.

A final note of thanks to Chris for descending to the seventh level of mechanic's hell and fixing the Aprilia. The bike had to be stripped to the bone and then rebuilt. Repeat after me, "Marry your mechanic." (Never mind the silly swingarm incident; his wrenching ratio of accuracies to oversights is still fantastic). Thanks also to Scott "I'm going to call you Xaus from now on" Cleff for putting the lube into various cavities on the bike and making sex noises while doing it. Scott...that bike is a boy so try not to get so excited next time; you're giving Akos the Terrible a complex.   

May 4 2003: One Man's Walk Is Another (Wo)Man's Jog
I've gone jogging a couple of times at Balboa Park. I run only on flat terrain and on grass as I don't want to risk too hard of an impact at this point. I don't think I've gone more than 1.5 miles yet. The stamina isn't too bad; I'm more concerned about overuse. I run so slowly and plant my feet so cautiously that Chris can almost walk and keep up with me. In fact, the other day there was this couple power-walking behind me and I was so annoyed because I couldn't get away from them...I felt like a failure off the track too!

I never told my mom I wrecked; she's always had issues with my life as a motorcyclist so I'd be wise to hide this from her unless I wanted her to harangue me 24/7 about the dangers of motorcycles. Mothers whack out too easily. They won't accept the fact that maybe all their kids aren't the sharpest tools in the box and they'll go do things that put them at risk (9 of my 10 lives have been squandered). I didn't become a doctor, buy a big house in a gated community, and have a brood of genius kids...as a fatalistic Chinese, she should understand by now that that is not my fate. When I look into my Asian crystal ball, I see that my fate is to wait sullenly for the next email, drink cheap white zinfandels from chipped cocktail glasses, and ride Pogo. Expect nothing more of me, please.
                
May 11 2003: Confirmation, Once and for All, That Ruben Xaus and I Were Separated at Birth
I was going through a bunch of Ruben's reports for a story, and what do I find but this deja vu piece of text (from an SBK race at Phillip Island):

But there was a lot of wind, I actually got blown off the bike by the wind, can you believe this thing? The wind knocked me off my bike! It was simply incredible. I was exiting a slow turn and you always get a little wheelie on the way out, but this time, I turned on the power and boom, I was off. It wasn�t my fault at all, but it was like a cartoon - one minute the front wheel was there, and one second later it had completely gone from underneath me. It must have been very funny to watch, but it wasn�t that funny for me at the time, I was sitting there, thinking 'What the�' and then I had to go back to the box and explain this to my team. It was like a wave of wind just suddenly hit me.

"Like a cartoon"? You said it, Ruby. Only, an expensive cartoon, if I may add. We were separated at birth, you and I. Wind, wet, whatever: We will sled that bike on its side down the tarmac because we carry that chromosome for mayhem. Llamame, mi hermano. Tenemos mucho para compartir. Estoy muy orgullosa de nuestra apellido, Xaus. 

May 18 2003: Tarmac Triathlon: Ride - Race - Ride
Today is another race Sunday but I'm at home because I have to work. I did, however, race in yesterday afternoon's Solo GT race. After I was done publishing the news at 11:30, I hopped on Pogo, humped the Southern California slab for 200 miles, and got to Willow Springs at around 3:00. (It would've been sooner, but a car hauler caught on fire and blocked two lanes so I had to lane split for much longer than I wanted. The sight of a semi roasted is sad enough, but to see the new cars on it with their lives cut short is quite tragic). I had a couple of hours to relax and then the race started at 5:30. The warm-up lap of the race was all the practice that I got in. In that one lap I had to tune my head and tell the evil voices to quiet down. When the race started, I felt pretty good, relatively relaxed. I dropped a couple of seconds off from last month and brought the bike in without crashing. Then I got back on my Monster and re-humped the slab home. It got very dark and very cold and I thank the gods of electricity that someone figured out how to channel that energy into a heated vest. 

So lately I'm thinking I might want to race a Ducati 450 single. Can anybody out there help me get one that's not museum-quality expensive? Anybody reading this in Italy who's got a cheap one sitting around in the garage? Sell it to me for a good price and I'll even name it after you. 

I promised a concerned friend I would get my hip checked out since it's still clicking. I prefer to avoid doctors, always reverting back to the concept that caveman didn't have doctors and I'm sure they fucked themselves up pretty good getting run over by bison (or whatever meat product they chased after). Wouldn't time just sort these body ailments out? Oh, and I'm sure you're going to tell me that caveman only lived till like their mid twenties. Details!

On another rider note, today Troy Bayliss got his first MotoGP podium in Jerez, Spain. He is one seriously righteous cat, and if I could ask for some warrior mojo to be infused into me, it would be his (preferred infusion method should be perversely obvious). And while I'm making requests, I'll take a set of those eyelashes.   
             
Jun 2 2003: We'll Be Amputating at the Hip Just to Be Sure
After only 3.5 months of delay, the hip has been x-rayed. The latest orthopedic surgeon found no fractures to the pelvis nor is there any apparent damage to the femoral head. He thinks the popping is from an unhappy iliopsoas tendon snapping. Doc said learning to rehab the tendon through physical therapy should help, and if it doesn't improve in six months I should go get an MRI. Being someone who Officially Hates The Medical Insurance System, I found some iliopsoas-related exercises on the internet I can do so I'll skip the PT office visit because The Evil Empire Known As Blue Cross will probably try to stick me for the entire bill. If the hip can't fix itself over time, I'm just gonna have to fall back on Darwinism: The right hip gets weak and frail; the left one attacks and kills it and gets to take over the entire jungle. I have no problems with that.

Yes...if you stare really hard at the xray, you can see the shadow of my Flat Asian Ass™.

Mr. Sausage is doing well. Oddly enough, it also has started to click on occasion, probably jealous that the hip should usurp any attention. It only clicks when I walk barefoot, somewhere around where the rod was inserted. It doesn't hurt so it can be all the hysterical clickety-clacking prima donna it wants to be.

I've had discussions with Chris about what separates astute racers from less astute racers (who often become crashers). Chris has the ability to clearly understand what his bike is doing. He can say the front was pushing or the rear was stepping or evaluate a variety of other inputs. On the other hand, I couldn't even muster the proper alarm when my rear swingarm pivot was loose and the back end was chattering like mad. I can't read my bike the way Chris does, so ultimately I'm more of a danger to myself. In racing, where you ask for the absolute maximum performance from your bike, if you can't tell when your bike is saying "Hey stud, ratchet it back because your tire is gone, daddy, gone" you'll end up like Ruben Xaus in the gravel trap muttering, "I don't know...the bike...she just fall over." Ruby, I think you're missing something. Bayliss doesn't simply fall off. Nor does Toseland and he's a baby compared to you. See what I'm saying here? We want to ride hard but we just suck at interpreting feedback. Don't feel bad, though, because I'm sure we make up for it in other parts of our lives. If there's any justice, we must have some other sensory input that compensates for our failed bike sense, like being able to smell dirty diapers from hundreds of yards away, or being able to hear a car alarm go off anywhere in the city at 2:00 a.m.       

So I think this is it, probably my last entry for a good long time. This aging mortal canvas does what it damn well pleases; there's not much left to report unless you want to hear details about my suspicions on early menopause and ponderings on why the texture of gray hairs are like those found near the privates. I'm riding, jogging, cycling, pretty much back to normal. I even kick my collie in his bony ass with the same �lan I had pre-crash. To all my friends out there, may the karma of good motorcycling envelope you like a hermetically sealed superbubble. Ciao for now...        

Nov 20 2003: Didn't I Tell You a Crash Is the Gift That Keeps on Giving? Yep, I Sure Did.
About five weeks ago I woke up with a sore upper back. I figured I'd just slept on it wrong and that it would eventually heal. Boy was I wrong. About a month into the pain I start losing feeling in my fingertips. Then my arm started getting weak. I'm no medical doctor, but I know when you start losing the ability to push down on the pump for a skin lotion dispenser you're moving towards the area the medical journals refer to as "The Land of The F#cked." 

I saw a neurologist, Dr. Christopher Kenney, on Tuesday and I don't think he liked how much weakness I had compared to when I said I started having symptoms. He ordered an MRI asap so I got in this morning to have it done. I understand now why certain medical institutions make a big deal about having open air MRI units. Just before I was slid into the tube, I was wondering if I was going to go mental in there just because I heard that so many people do. Why should I be any different? The tech gave me some earplugs, told me to lay very still, and slid me in. I kept my eyes closed and pretended I was just lying in bed. I am somewhat claustrophobic so my heartbeat doubled its rate when I knew I was "trapped." I told myself nothing could be scarier than my first ever race at Willow and that calmed me down a bit. When I opened my eyes I could see the opening at my feet and I knew if I had to squirm out in a crazed panic I could. 

The machine made a jackhammering noise which was actually pleasantly distracting and comforting. I think the procedure lasted about 15 minutes and I was done. On my way out I saw an image on a monitor and I asked if that was me. The tech said yes and pulled up a side view which showed a couple of discs pushing towards the spinal cord. It's one of those things where you say to yourself, "Doesn't really look good, but I guess it could be worse." The cup isn't half full nor is it half empty; it just has water in it.

I have a consultation on Monday with a neurosurgeon to determine where we go from here.           

Nov 22 2003: My North Is Now My South
I just saw the PBS Nova show on the magnetic field that protects the earth from solar radiation. Turns out through geological time the polarity of our poles has flipped hundreds of times. We're in a stage where the field is weakening and may be on its way to reversing again. What does this have to do with me? I think the magnetic exposure of the MRI has caused my poles to flip because I've felt like shit the past couple of days. I'm probably just fighting a cold but you gotta admit that there's something much more interesting about thinking your magnetic core has been altered by the human bagel dog machine.

Nov 24 2003: "So Doc, Is It Supposed to Burn When I Pee?"
Actually, that's not happening...yet. However, I was asked by the doctor if I had problems with urinary or bowel control, to which the answer was, "Hee hee hee...noooo!" Even at 40 I am really too young to be soiling my drawers, except as a party fun-starter in big crowds.

Dr. Barba, the neurosurgeon, said that a disc was indeed pushing in and causing the problems. A couple of other discs also looked a little frisky, but not to the extent of the one above C7. In the pic, the white space next to the spinal cord is fluid, and the disc is completely invading that space. At the very least, a nerve is being pinched and when a nerve gets pinched, all delusions of superheroism are pinched off with it. Not until your body ceases to respond in a normal manner do you start clinging to what virility you have left. Up till a minute ago I continued to be in denial, even though I had fallen flat on my face trying to do a push-up just a few days back in the doctor's office. Determined to beat this, I picked up the weight with which I'd always done my tricep extensions. I hoisted the dumbell over my head and started to bring it down. At about 45 degrees I had no muscle strength and proceeded to drop ten pounds on my head. "Clank! Here's your rude awakening!" So now I'm just glad both legs are ok and my dominant arm is still good. I don't know what will become of my left arm but all I ask is that the god who grants motorcyclists favors leave me with at least enough strength to pull in the clutch and hold the handlebars.

In the world of western medicine, my options are a) do nothing, b) get physical therapy, or c) have a doctor remove the disc, replace it with a piece of cadaver bone, and fuse the adjacent vertebrae together. I like the idea of walking up to people and announcing "There's someone dead in me" but it's a bit drastic so early in the game. I'll try PT for now. Dr. Barba says with time there's a chance the disc will shrink back down and my problem will for the most part go away until I do something bad to myself again. Or, it may do nothing to improve and I will need surgery.

Now that you know my problem, write and share your disc horror story with me. I will endeavor to learn from your mistakes. What does that get you? A guarantee that if I ever have triplets, I'll name all three of them after you, even if they're girls and your name is Herman.  

Nov 26 2003: Your Mother Was Right About Telling You to Sit Up Straight
I spoke with a friend yesterday morning and he recommended a very enthusiastic physical therapist who helped him get through a comparable problem. I was lucky enough to get an appointment with that PT yesterday and we got down to business. First thing we talked about was posture. He said that poor posture was the root of many evils and told me that while I had bad posture, it was good for bad posture. Is that like being told you're "a little pregnant"?  Still, flattery will get you everywhere: How could I not embrace a PT who, in effect, tells me that in a world of complete spinal construction catastrophes, I had heroically salvaged a few unbent I-beams?

 Chris the PT � not to be confused with Chris the Husband or Chris the Neurologist � did some hard rubbing on my trapezius. He was rubbing so hard I had to ask him if he had killed any old people doing that. He claimed he had not and explained that he was trying to restore blood flow to that area. More like he was trying to destroy the tissue so it wouldn't need any blood flow ever again. After a whole bunch of pulling and pushing on my arms and neck, he gave me some exercises to do. These exercises were designed to verify that my sense of emasculation was complete. One of my exercises is to push my chin back towards my neck. This is exercise? I go from running and lifting weights to clucking like a chicken as my workout? If I weren't so beaten down already, I suppose I'd be humiliated and crying as I typed this. Still, I need to have hope or I may as well sell all my bikes and get a golf cart. I will be seeing the PT twice a week for a few weeks. He does seem to be on his game and if he can't help me I doubt any other PT can.

Ever had the electrical muscle stimulator used on you? You must, at least once in your lifetime. Have them set it on too high and let it fire your muscles so you're jerking around like a marionette at the hands of a drunk puppeteer. It really is interesting to have no control over yourself, but I'm sure it gets very uninteresting if it happened every day in the form of some palsy.

Thanks to all those who have written; it's very interesting to read the different experiences with tingly body parts where the tingle is not exactly where you wanted it to be.

Nov 30 2003: Pooh Pooh to Life as the Pillion
Being a little messed up, I figured that it would probably be better for me to go on rides as the bizatch and not as the pilot. How wrong I was. Last night we hopped on Pogo and took a short ride to dinner and I learned that being on the back was far, far worse. Turns out that holding onto the bars as the conductor lets me adjust for imperfections in the road so my quads absorb the shock and not my neck. I was just getting the snot bumped out of me on the back seat even though the road technically wasn't rough. And every time I went to brace myself against the tank, my arm went completely numb. I thought Monster Ass was bad? Bulging Disc Smashing Nerve Root is geometrically worse.  

Dec 04 2003: For That Amount I Would've Bought My Own Machine
I just got the insurance explanation of benefits on my MRI. For the pleasure of laying there for fifteen minutes it cost $3,455. Now this has got me thinking: I might buy myself a used MRI machine and offer MRIs out of my garage for half the price. I'll even provide a cup of fruit punch and Pepperidge Farm cookies for free (yes, Milanos!). Heaven help people without medical insurance. Thankfully, I only have to pay a couple hundred of it. For you people with full time jobs and full medical coverage (e.g., that skimpy $10 co-pay), be very very very happy.

So I saw my PT again today. He just pulled me around and then made me do a variety of weight exercises. He thinks I'm getting a little stronger. At least that neck "massage" didn't result in tears. Once again, for the record, good posture is extremely tiring. The PT says that once it becomes natural, slouching will be tiring. Frankly, having been a sloucher for four quality decades, I find that hard to believe. Slouching is like a natural state of entropy, of body chaos. It's where nature wants us to be, in a sloppy pile with a spine that looks like an ampersand.   

Dec 07 2003: About as Unprofessional a Look as You Can Get
 Using a fitness ball for a chair wasn't my idea. I asked my PT what he thought about those chairs you kneel on and he recommended getting a fitness ball to sit on because it doesn't involve putting pressure on the knees. You can actually slump on the ball, but it's just easier to perch yourself upright on it; when you slump you have to compensate with other muscles to keep the ball from rolling around beneath you. As a bonus, when you start getting bored or agitated with your work, you can start bouncing up and down to amuse yourself.

In the propaganda that's included,  they show a meeting in which all the participants are sitting on balls. Why do I think that any company that forces all its employee to look like weeble-wobbles will have a mutiny in short order? Or, at the last, the workers will come in one morning to find a bunch of deflated balls with stab wounds in them? Unlike me, I think most people still have their dignity.

Dec 09 2003: I Had a Taste and I Just Couldn't Stop
I rode Pogo to PT this morning. I've been making gains and it no longer hurts when I hit every bump in the road. So I do the PT thing and decide that I feel so good I want to go for a ride. I go down the 805 and then head east on 94. San Diegans, you know 94. Sure, it's often spoiled by exhaust-leaking cars going 20 under the speed limit trying to make their way back to Tecate, and sure there's a lot of Border Patrol that have you wondering "Do they care about speeders or do they just want the Mexican terrorists?" but when it's clear, it's a lovely, curvy trip. So I'm having a good time and feeling no pain. I don't want to overdo it, but I'm like that alcoholic who takes a drink and doesn't want to stop. I cut over Buckman Springs and head back west on the 8. Well, what is along the way but my beloved Sunrise Highway, the stretch of road that always begs for the "rinse and repeat" treatment. I tell myself not to go up it, to bypass it and give my neck a break since I've already been riding for over an hour and still have a bit of slabbing before I'm home.

But Sunrise...ooooo. I decide I don't care if my disc slips completely out of my neck, gets into my trachea, and chokes me dead. I go up it and find that nobody is on the road and even though it rained recently, it's very clean. Flowing through the curves is like sending 80 proof straight to the head. I'm lucky to be addicted to the right substance.
                                                                                          
Dec 12 2003:  Sit Still and Take It Like a Man
I went back to see Dr. Kenney, the neurologist, who performed a nerve conduction velocity test. This test checks the speed of conduction of impulses through the nerves. To get the readings, a small shock is sent out, some gentler than others. The stronger ones feel like someone is take a tiny hammer and belting you pretty damn hard. Not the worst pain ever, but I certainly wouldn't want it as a party favor. As a side-product to this test, we learned that I have a mild case of carpal tunnel syndrome in both wrists. Bonus.

The next test was the Electromyography (EMG) test which measures the electrical discharges made by the muscles. A needle is stuck into the arm at various sites and then it's moved around, kind of like how you'd wave a flashlight around in the dark to try to see something. As expected, the nerve through the triceps have reduced function, but he was glad to see it wasn't as bad as he thought it would be. As with the first test, I was surprised at how much discomfort this caused. For some reason I thought I'd just get some electrodes pasted to me and the machine would quietly and passively take my readings, like an EKG. I've never seen those people on the treadmill with needles hanging off them or having their hands flail from getting electro-cooked...why should I have expected anything different? Silly naive girl. I probably also think a heart is actually shaped like . 

The upshot of the tests is that Dr. Kenney is pleased with my PT rehab and I should continue doing that. He did ask me if I was taking pictures in case of a malpractice lawsuit, but I promised him I'm not the suing type. A doctor would have to do something really wrong: I think a penis attached to my forehead or having my whole head put on backwards, or any combination of both, would push me into the courtroom. Short of that, I'll live with it.   

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