Cautiously optimistic

Lordy, that was a rough one. Definitely more depression than anxiety - the doldrums beat the anxiety attacks on a three day emotional disorder bender.

I'm better.

I wanted to say that before all else in case anyone has been unduly worried. When I write with candour I don't mean to terrify, but I guess if you're peering inside my head for the first time then it might be just a little...surprising. Don't forget that my shrink is CC'd in on all this so that I can be a walking, talking case study, which means it helps to be as candid as possible.

Isn't it strange to think that I'm proverbially scribbling by flashlight under the duvet, yet what I write can be seen be people on the other side of the planet. Instantly.

So the chaps in my life have been keeping me busy. Andrew and Ian on Friday, Sa'ad and the other Ian on Saturday. Sunday I had the most spectacular no-front-brake-ride in the Don valley. Alas yes, the saga of the ordered but not yet received hydraulic brake pads continues, though when I rolled out of bed today there was a note from Canada Post to say that I'd missed the 9.00am to 9.01am 'window' to collect them. Nice. So now I have to wait until after 1pm tomorrow to collect them. Fuckers. I used to have the same hate-hate relationship with Royal Mail in the UK too.

However, as said, it is still possible to ride. The riverside trail is navigable without a front brake, as is Tommy Thompson Park/Leslie Spit.

Talking of the latter, a funny thing happened the other day. As I zipped my way back towards mainland from the grassy side of the spit, my left crank started to fall off. This is weird and ominous and stuff, because the same thing happened in my first 'open' ten mile time trial in the UK, circa 1986. The reason I bring it up though, is because I was strangely calm. All because I simply didn't believe that I would have to walk my bike the whatever-it-is miles from South of the Lakeshore Boulevard to North of the Danforth.

The first person I came across was a twitcher. He was very helpful but had only a Swiss Army knife on him. My problem was that I needed an 8mm Allen key to re-attach my left crank. Alas, it wasn't that I needed to remove a stone from a horse's hoof, file my nails, open a bottle of champagne, trim the leaves from a fine floral bouquet, or poke something with that funny pointy thing. I wished him well as I replaced the crank and tightened the bolt attaching it to the rest of the bike as tightly as I could with my lillywhite fingers.

Ten minutes later I repeated said tightening process, having ridden the nearest path possible from shrubland to tarmac, or should I say asphalt. The chap manning the gate and the end of the spit didn't have a toolbox with him, but I spied a guy fixing a puncture just before Canadian Tire.

The point is that he had a 8mm hex wrench, I fixed it, and all with not so much as a single flap. No nerves. No dread. And that's the thing about anxiety - there is no rational fear behind your feeling of dread. When my shrink asks me, "So what did you fear would happen?" I can't answer, because it's intangible. It's the fear of something so horrible I haven't even though of it.

There's never details. No specific bones broken, no bloody crime scene...just that sickly feeling.

My mind is backing up with thoughts so I'm just going to post this and try to catch up in the background.