"Cautiously optimistic"?

Obviously my moods are somehow secretly linked to the North American economy. I read in Metro yesterday that the economic depression is over, according to the Bank of Canada at least. Apparently the Canadian economy in particular is expected to bounce back at twice the rate of the American one, though I have to say I have my suspicions about that given how closely intertwined they both are.

Similarly, in my tattered little life it does feel like improvement or at least change is around the corner. The main factor in this is the job I went for at the nearby Apple store at Danforth & Chester. The interview went very well from my perspective, and from buying things at the store I had already developed a good rapport with the woman working there. At the end of the interview I was asked to provide references, but I'm reluctant to perceive this as a good sign when I've been disappointed so many times since falling out of PR, or perhaps with PR. There was a time, somewhere in the murky past, that I'd be supremely confident by now but in this case all I really have is hope. I've done everything I can.

The point is that getting this job would finance not only groceries and all the usual 'bla bla bla' of life but also an escape. Living where I am was the perfect fit at the time I moved in. It was quick, convenient, and easy. Plus I was left alone, and put under no pressure to do, well, anything really. Thus it was a good place in which to convalesce. Now though, the feelings I'm having are similar to those I had in my second year of university (1995-6) when I shared a house with four other guys, of which two were definitely not housebroken. At least not to the standard that I would expect. More importantly, I have simply developed a hankering for my own place...or should I say a place to call my own.

It struck me that I've never lived alone. When I left home at the age of 20 I moved into accommodation supplied by the company I was working for at the time. It was a mezzanine apartment with three bedrooms over the high street of an affluent, West London town, and all the rooms were occupied for most of the two years I lived there. From there I went directly to university and had the usual 'halls of residence' experience plus two houses in my second and third year when I shared with others.

Following a brief stint back at my folks' house (because I was skint) I moved into South-East London and, again, shared a house with two others. After that I was pretty much co-habiting with the woman who later became my ex-wife.

Of course, I'd like to buy a place of my own but despite my parents' most generous bail-out last month I still have zero savings other than my RSP, which isn't enough to cover a deposit on a place. I will get some money from the divorce when it comes through in three or so months' time but this won't be enough either, so I'll be renting again for now. I know it'll be a studio apartment too. The furniture I have from the divorce is all physically massive - a sofa, a sofa bed, kitchen table and chairs, all of which take up lots of space. There's no point in opting for a one-bedroomed apartment because it effectively divides the total square footage in half, and would probably mean I'd have to construct a double-decker sofa somehow. My carpentry skills stretch only as far as assembling Ikea furniture so this isn't a practical possibility. Additionally, many studio apartments are basements so it's likely the ceiling will be pretty low.

It would be a shame if the only reward a house guest got for clambering up a step ladder to get to the top sofa was a dislodged vertebrae from cracking their head on the ceiling as they tried to sit down.

So while I am endeavouring not to count my chickens before they're hatched, all I can think about is the sheer joy of having my own little place. Somewhere I can walk around starkers if I feel like it. Where I can smoke weed indoors. Where, in the words of a journalist friend of mine, "You can get up and make scrambled eggs at four o'clock in the morning if you want to". A place where I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, and however I want.

I don't even like scrambled eggs, but I totally understand what she's saying. I do find that I cannot help but react to my housemate, and it seems that affectiveness will continue to be part of my personality rather than just my personality disorders. I tiptoe when he's in bed. I avoid the bathroom when I think he wants to use it. I feel guilty if he mentions doing his laundry and I still have my clothes in the machine. And, most important of all, he's not keen on me having people over, which is in direct opposition to one of the facets of my recovery plan. I crave company, and whilst I do find social 'en masse' situations draining on occasion, when it comes to close friends I love to have them over and - if possible - to cook for them. It would feel like strong, certain progression in an upward direction. It would make me feel empowered, more in control of my life, more independent, and less emotionally injured. Less like 'damaged goods'.

If I'm really lucky I'll either find a place that's completely soundproof, or has deaf neighbours who can't hear stonking house music at several decibels when I'm letting off a little steam.

But, like I say, I am cautiously optimistic. If I get my hopes up and then for some reason I don't get the job at the Apple store then I will have a much greater height to fall from emotionally. It's happened before, and I think not getting a job as a bike mechanic at MEC was the biggest disappointment. Never mind a 'slap in the face'. Jesus, what a comprehensive kick in the balls that was. It was as if I was tied down naked with my legs spreadeagled, as Arnold Schwarzenegger took a run-up at my cowering testicles after donning a pair of steel toe-capped boots. How can someone who's been racing bikes since 1986, has five years' retail management experience, and who could probably disassemble a bike blindfold not get that job? If nothing else, it makes it easier to understand why such cognitive distortions as, "There's a national conspiracy to ensure I commit suicide because I can't fend for myself" were so difficult to fight at the time.

I have to go. Obsessing about how I could have done the interview better or, more aptly, what reason the store will come up with for not giving me the job won't do me any good so I have ensured I have social plans to execute and lots on my to-do list. Hopefully, one of my next few posts will be about how I've managed to get my first regular stream of income since Interbrand last year...hopefully...

A body of evidence

The good news is that I've recovered enough from my injuries to be able to blog again. I know, I'm sure you're all terribly relieved because there's nothing better to read on the planet than the indulgent ramblings of this particular nutter.

I took these pictures about a week after my rib-cracking flight over the Don Valley, the second crash in almost the same week I think...? It's a shame I didn't get these pics at the time (there was lots of blood/mud and the wounds looked really impressive) but it hurt way too much to pick up my camera! Actually, it hurt too much to do almost anything. Of all the injuries the two gashes to my left elbow (see picture right) are probably the most annoying. I must've landed in the trail elbows-first because a not insignificant amount of my skin and AB+ was invested in the dry earth there. It's annoying because I can't get them to scab over properly - they're both right on different sides of the bone so there's not much flesh underneath. Also, they're right on the pivot point of my elbow where the skin is constantly stretched every which way. Hence I've been going to bed wearing a long-sleeved top after waking up one morning to find that the bedsheet had mysteriously become part of my arm during the night. You'd be surprised how much one leans on one's elbows in an average day, although I'm starting to finally learn that hurts so probably shouldn't be done.

The most innocuous wound is where some vicious flora stabbed me in the back of my right thigh (see picture left) as I was somersaulting through the air...or should I say undergrowth. This makes it hurt when I sit down, and being the GAD sufferer I am I just assume everyone thinks I have haemorrhoids.

The most serious, and yet disappointing injury by far is the bruised and/or cracked ribs on the left side of my rib cage. There's no photo because there's nothing to see, and this is the disappointing part given how much it hurts.

And in different ways too. At the peak of the painfulness, getting out of bed was a humiliating five-to-ten-minute affair. As you can imagine, bending or stretching out from a prone position was impossible because of the ribs, and I couldn't prop myself up on my left elbow because that hurt too much too. I tried to roll myself out of bed and onto the floor and got trapped halfway on the ledge that runs along the side of the mattress one morning. Thankfully I didn't drop any money at this time, because reaching as far as the ground was an utter impossibility, and attempting it was enough to make me yelp out loud with the pain. If it had've been a $20 note then I'd have just had to stand on it with one foot, and remain in that place - wherever it was - for three or four days until my flexibility returned.

Good job it didn't happen on the street somewhere.

Basic bodily functions became a battle of endurance too. I lived in fear of the humble sneeze, which would take me by surprise and made me actually scream out loud. Coughing was out of the question too, particularly when you consider that it hurt too much to even clear my throat. This for a couple of days I sounded like Darth Vader dying of cancer as the phlegm death-rattled and rasped in my throat whenever I spoke. I couldn't blow my nose either so had to rely upon fingernails a lot of the time.

Going for a poo wasn't a barrel of laughs either. Did you know you used your ribs to poo? I didn't until I tried it. Damn, that hurt. My Mum had previously suggested I eat lots of fruit to make sure I didn't have to strain too hard, and I think she meant it as a joke but it turned out to be uncannily accurate. I'm not one of these people who treats dropping Mr. Brown off at the coast as a genuine day trip - I don't disappear into the bathroom with a book or a magazine for 45 minutes. Either I just don't appreciate it all that much or it doesn't stimulate my prostate gland as much as it does in other men. However, during my period of injury I found myself sat on the throne one day wishing there was a bottle of cod liver oil somewhere within reach. The idea would have been to chug the entire litre so that everything would just pour out of me as I finished off 'War and Peace'.

It's (literally) a relief to have all my *cough cough* movements working again properly, although the ribs are still twinging enough to make my shy away from the idea of an off-road ride anywhere. In a way this works out well because it gives me time to get the two pairs of wheels I've damaged fixed at the bike shop.

Equally, non-cycling parts of my lifestyle have been affected too. I haven't been able to grocery shop because there's no way I'd be able to lift the rucksack, get it on, or carry the additional bags I usually carry. Lifting weights is out of the question too, so the combination of zero exercise and only intermittent eating has my body looking in pretty poor shape...before you even consider the 'orrible yellow hue that the bruises currently are.

Anyway, the good news about all this is despite the pain and the inconvenience, I'm not really put off riding again, nor riding that particular trail. This is one of several signs of improved resilience lately, along with the communication breakdown I had with my magazine editor the other day. I seem to be coping better, which reminds me - I need to update my 'moods' line graph.

The simple love of a good woman...

...is what I'm really missing right now.

In another spectacular crash in the same section of the Don Valley trails I managed to plant the front wheel, 'endo' the bike, and bounce on my handlebars before being thrown over them and into the shrubbery. Similar landing as before, with the bike being another two-to-four feet down the slope.

I have bruised ribs. Well, I assume they're bruised by the symptoms. I don't think they can be broken because nothing in my rib cage moves when I press on it. So now I can't laugh, yawn, breathe in deeply, cough, blow my nose, move, or reach my hands over my head. Sneezing is fucking agony. Sitting down and getting up take 5-30 seconds each, as does getting in and out of bed. Anything that gets dropped on the floor, well, it's history. I'm typing pretty slowly too, though I am able to use my left hand as well. In fact I'm typing a lot faster than I'm actually moving right now.

Times like this make me remember I'm single - when you know there's no-one there when you get home. Nobody to dote, to nurse, to reassure, or even help me get into a comfortable sleeping position so I'm not screaming out loud as I try to wriggle myself comfortable. Nobody to tell me they love me despite the fact I feel like an invalid right now.

I'll type more when it hurts less. At least it gives me time to get the now S-shaped back wheel fixed while I can't think about riding anyway.

The jagged learning curve

I'd forgotten what a big deal career change is.

The last time I did it was from retail management to public relations, which required a trip to university in 1994 for three years, and a total of 123 rejection letters before I finally made it into a PR agency in London.

When I think back to that time, there was a lot if industry lingo I didn't understand. I didn't know the significance of 300dpi. I didn't know what "solus" meant. I had no idea what a DPS was. I even had to look up "stet" the first time I got a news release back that had been proof read by my boss.

Similarly I am having to learn many things the hard way when it comes to writing for a living.

The first thing I learned was that PR people tend to be reliable only for specific requests. I lost the best part of a week by e-mailing all my PR contacts just after receiving my first commission letter. I can now better understand that few PR people know their client organisations well enough to be able to select particular individuals that meet a story brief. However, I'd have appreciated more than two replies, and it was this that threw me the most. I thought my e-mail wasn't working, and the way I learned PR one ALWAYS responds to journalist requests, even if it is to say that you can't help this time around. I'd usually reply within 24-48 hours too, because it builds integrity with that particular journalist, and means they know no content is coming and its time to invoke the back-up plan. It's the best thing you can do when you can't actually give the journalist what they need.

It turns out that I need to scale back my expectations a little. Seeking information that way is very similar to applying for jobs. You send your request or application, and then hear nothing. Perhaps this lack of response is more a Canadian thing than a jobhunting thing?

My second mistake was in not getting back-up spokespeople. For one story I had a specific day and time in my calendar, as proposed by a spokesperson. He failed to show, and has failed to answer any of my e-mails since then. This lost me several days because the article I'd been commissioned to write needed to be based on an interview. I had no back-ups.

The one thing I've learned is that writing directly from web research is actually much quicker and easier than I'd previously thought. The trouble with interviews is just the basic logistics of them. Even when I'd found the right person to interview, just the simple task of pinning down a day and time when we could speak proved to be the most frustrating and time-consuming aspect of the whole process. Some interviews have been only 20 minutes long, but they've taken several days to identify the right person, and another few days to reach them...and another few days to find a slot in their diary.

The odd thing about writing is that the writing part doesn't take that long - it seems to be more about the research beforehand.

In terms of my ability to cope with all the above then I don't think I'm doing too badly. I'm a bit stressed when I'm on, or past deadline (for that has been the case a couple of times). However, depression has been noticeable only by its absence, and for most of the time I have been able to divert anxiety into action. I just wish my first proper writing assignment had gone more smoothly. I feel a little bloodied by the jagged spikes on the learning curve, and I'm embarrassed by the fact that my editor, through no choice of her own, has been 'along for the ride' on my rollercoaster of falling flat and picking myself up again.

The only way I can make it up to her is via better, more timely stories. So I'd better get on with it - I also need to drop my main MTB wheels off to get the cones tightened, the broken spokes replaced, and the rims trued. The new bottom bracket needs to be re-tightened and I may have to fork out $20 for the wrench that fits it. I need to find references for my application to the Apple store. The washing up is overdue, and I still haven't set up my 'work' phone line that'll enable me to claim the tax back in April next year. And I need milk and lime juice, amongst other things.

We live and learn.

plentyoffreaks.com

Phew.

Everything is an effort right now.

It's half-past-two on Sunday and I just staggered back with the grocery shopping, an experience made all the more interesting by the two days that preceded it.

Friday night was a bit of a sesh with the chaps, and as a result I had a bit of a sleep in on Saturday. Well, quite a large sleep-in on Saturday. OK, I admit it. I didn't actually get out of bed on Saturday at all. So, cue Sunday lunchtime when I eventually surfaced, one day and four hours behind in my drug regime. I popped the pills anyway, showered, brushed my teeth, dressed, wrote a grocery shopping list and stumbled out the door and into the street.

Cue weird withdrawal effects again, though this time I felt so sedated I was barely capable of emotions at all - they felt like too much effort. I walked slowly and carefully South down the street, feeling like a decent gust of wind might blow me over. My T-shirt felt a little slacker on me than usual, contributing to my overall conclusion that I am wasting away.

Tim Hortons was the next stop. No milk and no bread = nothing for breakfast and no coffee possible so a pit stop was essential to stop me from fainting from somewhere along the way. Surprisingly my dark glasses weren't enough to prevent the most persistent of women from speaking to me in Tim's, even though they and my overall body language clearly communicated, "Leave me alone". I wolfed down a BLT and guzzled my coffee so I could leave all the sooner. As I drifted into and along the Danforth my thoughts dwelled on the invisible woman again.

It's a week since I e-mailed her to say how I felt, how much I wanted to see her, and what information and preferences I'd need from her in order to visit her in hospital. For example, the name of the hospital might help me narrow things down a bit. That's where she's been, and that's the reason for the lack of communication of late. Yet a week has gone by and I've heard nothing, so it looks like it's all over. There doesn't seem to be a role that I can play in her life. I'm pretty sure she could use having me around, and all week I've had daydreams of showing up with a bag of grapes (which I'm lead to believe is the traditional thing to bring someone who's in hospital) and a tea light. Why a tea light? Because I could have lit it and placed it on her bedside table as I popped the occasional grape into her mouth, thereby proclaiming the occasion our first candlelit dinner. What a terrible waste of such thoughtful and romantic consideration.

The good news is that I don't feel depressed. I don't even feel sad right now, just exhaustively resigned to the fact that I am wasting my time trying. In retrospect, I have tried everything possible to invite her into my life and to get into hers without invoking a restraining order. From the start I've only asked two things of her, to be honest, and to keep me in the loop. Yet she seems unable or reticent to do either of those simple things. I am always out of the loop, usually last to know, and frequently fighting for even the slightest sliver of information. Sometimes that sought-after snippet of info arrives, but then it isn't always true so it makes the waiting worthless. And all that before I even mention the cognitive distortions I get every day, telling me she's not really real. I've tried to get these eliminated too, by asking her to meet with someone else from her life - her Dad, who also mountainbikes I'm led to believe. Her ex-husband, who appears to be doing the majority of the care taking right now, lives only a few blocks from me I'm led to believe, and could probably use an extra person to split the load with. Yet all these requests have been e-mailed into a black hole and never, ever returned.

It just makes me feel that I can't be that important to her. So, why am I even bothering?

This train of thought got me as far as Zellers as I ambled along, steering clear of other people and trying to disguise the fact that I was blatantly light-headed, and probably walking as much from side-to-side as I was walking forwards. I fought to maintain the absence of smoking I'd enjoyed by being passed out for a day but gave in by the other side of Zellers, stopping at a convenience store to grab some smokes. I already felt like I needed to go to the bathroom despite doing so before leaving the house, so I had a very slow walk under the shelter of the storefronts around the parking lot. I finished my cigarette at the ashtray affixed to the wall, and fumbled in my pocket for the quarter (25 cents) I'd need for the shopping cart in Metro. When I turned into the store, I wondered where all the shopping carts had gone before I realised I was in Staples rather than Metro.

OK, so despite the food I still wasn't functioning as well as I should be.

I turned around and made it into Metro, a few steps further along the sidewalk. I floated my way through three Men's Health recipes, the deodorant, and facewash I needed. Thankfully they have a customer bathroom there so I parked the cart and headed in with my rucksack, clutching my stomach as I went. The floor was as wet as the shower room in the last gym I was in, but - thank heaven for small mercies - they did actually have toilet paper. I mopped the seat thoroughly.

It was good that I did risk the public bathroom. Let's just say that what came out had a high water content so five minutes and 50 metres of toilet paper later I was ready to wash my hands and leave. Grocery shopping has been an arduous task since the separation, mainly because it was one of the few times I'd use the car. Along with the short pause at Tim Horton's it was a two-hour round trip. As I flipped and flopped across the parking lot towards the Victoria Park Avenue subway station, rucksack straining on my shoulders and the 'green' shopping bag in each hand brushing my legs as I walked, I reflected on the plentyoffish.com date I'd had Friday afternoon.

It was OK I guess, though on meeting her outside of the theatre where we were to catch a comedic play on Friday afternoon I realised why her POF.com photos had all been headshots. Still, she looked cute, wasn't unattractive, and didn't mind that I was a few minutes late. We chatted, sank a beer, caught the play that turned out to be funny because of its inherent and unrelenting un-funniness, and went for nachos. I thought the fact that she was a paramedic was pretty cool. We didn't click though, and before writing this I sent her a short e-mail to say as much. After all, there's nothing worse than ambiguity - the experience with the invisible woman has reinforced that belief, if nothing else. Unfortunately, I'm still subconsciously using the invisible woman as a 'gold standard' by which to judge other women. Those were the things I noticed on the date: "Hmm, I'm nowhere near as sexually attracted to this woman as I am to the invisible woman," happened almost immediately. "There's no innuendo, no ball-busting, no verbal jousting, no 'zip' like there is with her," was the conclusion I came to as we finished the nachos. I walked her back to her bike but we both fumbled our words when the conversation turned to the topic of a next date, so I hope that she's feeling similarly to me.

Still, at least it didn't turn into a POF horror-story that caused me titling my blog entry so. I've heard many horror stories from friends, and will probably either blog about them soon, or even turn them into an article if I can find the right publication to print it.

The other, sadder conclusion though was that - as lonely as I feel from time-to-time - I'm not ready for another relationship right now. I think I'll leave my POF profile up in case a woman comes along who cannot resist contacting me, but being a man that's unlikely even in this pseudo-female liberated time we live in. When it comes to dating, women are the buyers and it's a buyers market.

Me and my technicolour dream skin II

Click here to read the first part of this story. Hmmm...I'm a bit disappointed. The reason I chose this particular title is because I expected to be all colours of the rainbow by now. But I'm not.

Don't get me wrong - my numerous bruises are still pretty impressive, just not worthy of a bunch more self-portrait photos. That said, I am particularly proud of the bruise that came up around the 12cm-long slice into my left leg. It's so distinct that - were I educated in the appropriate branch of "-ology" - I'd be able to tell you the genus, species, and classification of flora/fauna that bitch-slapped my thigh.

When people ask my why I keep mountainbiking the answer is always the same - to put myself in harm's way, and challenge my anxiety head-on. Indeed, as in my time-trialling back in the UK some years ago, some of my best rides are accomplished with the right mix of aggression, assertion, and focus. I used to be pretty good on courses with rolling hills. I'd attack them and, instead of changing down a gear, I'd try to maintain the same pace by sprinting over them. One of the key indicators of my fitness level would be how much I was gasping as I crested the hill, and how quickly I could return to optimum speed and get my breathing back under control afterwards.

That's the key to breaking the other riders' will. It's bad enough to be passed on an uphill section, but if you get to the top and realise that the guy who only just passed you didn't even slow down to recover and is now a tiny speck on the horizon, it's pretty crushing. I expect Lance will similarly mutilate most of his opposition in the Alps and Pyrenees in a few days' time, which reminds me - I really must figure out which cable channel the Tour de France is on.

Point #2 about all this is that bruising and bleeding are side effects of the drug I'm on. Well, that's not quite true. I doubt the FDA or whatever the Canadian equivalent is would allow a drug on the market that directly bruised people who took it! I guess it'd be more accurate to say that the drug induces haemophilia-like symptoms. All it takes is for a shin to brush a table leg and - hey presto - the next day "Billy" or "Aspvik" is stamped backwards in purple on my skin.

Point #3 is that crashing usually isn't as bad as one expects. GAD is probably best described as the fear of fear itself. Sometimes one can be experiencing fear-like symptoms (increased heart rate, sweating, agitation, twitching) without being able to describe what it is that you actually fear. Sometimes there isn't anything, but the whole problem is that you can't just switch it off. This is why CBT is based on the idea of retraining the mind to be able to rationalise one's fearful feelings and say, "Is there actually anything I need to worry about right now? What's the worst that could happen? Honestly, how likely is that to actually happen? Has it ever happened before, was I mistaken?" So, in a way, the crashing is almost as important as the riding itself. It's the only way you can learn that it really wasn't as terrible as you expected.

That said, it's not like there's no terror. In the 'crashing' example on the first part of this story, there was muchos dreados as I headed towards the dog-leg right turn I was never going to make. Still, I can't specify what I was actually dreading - I wasn't imagining myself being impaled on a tree stump or similar - just a horrible, sickly, panic-inducing, "Oh no - I'm out of control" feeling that rose up inside me. It's kind of a shame because it makes me wonder, were I able to suppress those feelings, would I have actually been able to make the turn...? I guess it's the same as training soldiers to be calm when under fire. If you only have a split-second to get a shot off before somebody shoots you, then it's sorta important to remain calm and make sure your solitary shot finds its target.

This is why (point #4) me making a grab for the overhead branch in order to ensure the bike took the fall instead of me is such a worthy achievement. It means I was thinking rationally. I feared disaster, yes, and was caught in the grip of mind-bending anxiety admittedly. But, it means that in the split-second beforehand my thought process must have gone along the lines of:

1. "Gosh, it's lovely and sunny up here. Is that a chipmunk over there? Oh...hang on a moment...this suddenly doesn't seem to be going too well. I've lost control of the back end of the bike, and I'm now losing control of the front as well. That's not so good;"
2. "Yep, I thought so. I'm not actually riding this bike anymore. It's just going wherever it wants to go, and it just happens to be my feet locked into the pedals and my hands on the bars;"
3. "Oh dear. I can't imagine this is going to turn out very well. There's a massive, steep drop ahead of me and to my left, and that seems to be where I'm heading and there doesn't seem to be much I can do about it;"
4. "I suppose I could try really throwing the front wheel into the right-hand turn?"
5. "No, I don't think I'm going to be able to do that. I'm just going way too fast for a turn like that, plus I don't know what's around the corner;"
6. "Yeah, this feels like I'm about to take a flying lesson - do I really want to do that?"
7. "Hmm...bikes weren't really designed to fly, and there's lots of trees and branches around here so it's more likely I'd get caught up in those than actually get airborne. Besides, you just don't hear about people or bikes being able to maintain flight for any significant quantity of time, so perhaps I should think of an alternative arrangement..."
8. "Oh - talking of branches, there's one right there coming up in front of me. I wonder if it would take my weight?"
9. "Well, it looks pretty thick, and I don't see any other branches I could reach that'd be stronger. Besides, it's probably better to try to slow my body down a bit even if I can't slow the bike down;"
10. "Yeah, I reckon that's my best bet. The front wheel will probably turn at right-angles as soon as I let go of the handlebars, so I'll have to get my hands onto that branch pretty fuckin' quickly. Sorry Al Gore, but I think I'm about to vandalise a tree;"
11. "Got it! Yeah, it's bending under my momentum, but it feels pretty sturdy. That's cool, I should be OK now;"
12. "OK, here it comes...here we go...";
    
13. "SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!"

Cue opening my eyes, bloodied and cleaved, with a tree branch in my hands and a damp, soggy feeling in the back of my shorts (the wet mud I landed on - I didn't actually go as far as shitting myself).

Not that time anyway.

And afterwards:

"Wow! What happened there? I still have the branch in my hands but I seem to be a long way from where I was when I closed my eyes. OK, where does it hurt? Left thigh, left calf, left ankle, back of my right knee, left hip, left shoulder blade, and my ribs at the back. Oh, and the knuckles on my left hand. Yuk - my socks are full of mud. I still have my crash hat on though so I can't be that badly hurt. Where the fuck is my bike though?"

It's a running joke amongst cyclists in the UK that you can tell how badly injured a rider is after a crash by what he/she says first. If their first comment, assuming they're not winded, is something along the lines of, "Is my bike OK?" then you know they're pretty much OK no matter how much blood and gore there might be.

If they don't say anything, then call an ambulance.

Point #5 is that, once I'd got both me and my bike back onto the trail, I carried on riding. This is crucial because after a bad crash, whether because it was notably terrifying or notably painful, it is possible to be out-psyched by the crash itself. Kinda like a mini-version of post traumatic stress disorder. If you don't start riding again immediately, then it can take a long time to do so because you allow the fear to take control of you. Conversely, if you get back on the bike then you're using your body to combat your mind. Keep riding, and your mind has no choice but to conclude that the crash - whilst inconvenient - wasn't enough to stop you in your tracks. It makes it 'just routine'. Were I more generous, I'd conclude that there must be some semblance of courage or valour in there.

This is also why I made sure that I was out on my bike again two days later. I didn't do the exact-same trail again, but I might ride that today to see if I can do it better this time.

I think I need to change out of my pyjamas first though.

Me and my technicolour dream skin

Well, it's sunny this lunchtime, Simon & Garfunkel's live concert from Central Park in the late 70s/early 80s is playing, and I'm feeling good. All that despite having my most spectacular mountainbike crash ever yesterday afternoon.

I think I actually flew. It's difficult to be sure because I was riding on my own and hence there were no witnesses. However, I reckon I must've been airborne for two-to-three seconds. I think I somersaulted though, so figuring out which way up I was and which way I was pointing is kinda difficult. It all happened pretty quickly too.

I should've known it was coming. I'm still tweaking the front changer/chainset set-up and I managed to lose the chain off the smallest chainring as I was climbing earlier on in the ride. I couldn't 'ride' the chain back on and eventually ran out of momentum and had to unclip my feet and stop. It was only when I started to fiddle around with the gears and try to wind the chain back onto the chainring that I realised I must've ridden through the largest pile of dogshit known to humankind.

It was mustard-yellow, stank to high heaven, and had managed to get everywhere. The largest blob was on one of the cranks, but it had also spread all over the bottom bracket assembly, one of the pedals, the down tube of the frame, and even one of the handlebar grips. Somehow in the process I managed to get a small chunk of it on my left glove too. I'll try not to slip into a tirade about irresponsible dog owners...again...but what the fuck?! It's disgusting! Not to mention extremely unhygienic! I had to wheel the bike uphill to the next suitable dense clump of wild grass so I could clean the shit off my glove first of all. That's crucial because the water pipe from my Camelbak routes over my left shoulder, and I use my left hand to remove the dustcap from the mouthpiece whenever I want to take a drink.

Can you imagine happily riding along, using muscle memory to remove the dust cap and take a drink without even looking, and then suddenly realising you have dogshit in your mouth? Fuckin' YUK!

After that I made a point of riding through as many puddles as possible from those I encountered. When I dropped back into Taylor Creek Park I also rode at the perfect speed through one of the fords to give the whole bottom half of the bike a good rinse.

Blurk. Just the smell of it.

Anyway, I've been eating better lately and felt stronger as a result. I'd eaten a banana just before leaving the house too, and had a Camelbak chinking with ice cubes. As a result I wasn't necessarily fast on the South bound riverside trail, but I was expeditious. Smooth. The chainring got stuck again on the gravel hill at the end but I managed to reroute it by hand onto the smaller chainring, enabling me to battle the technical Northbound trail.

The technical stuff was pretty smooth too. I even saw a Raccoon en route. It looked at me with a bored expression on its face. As it wasn't going to do anything exciting anytime soon, I rode on. The rear mech is set perfectly now, so I zipped up and down the freewheel, through the three downhills from the Loblaws parking lot corner, over rocks and roots, through mud and shingle, in and out of the saddle. When I'd finished, I zipped across the parking lot and entered the harder set of technical trails, choosing, "Instant Gratification" over "Catalyst".

I chose it because the last part of the loop takes you back over the river, and a new bridge/obstacle has been built over it. I'll have to get some pics of the obstacles so you know what I'm talking about. Anyway, you climb in a gigantic wiggly clockwise circle for about two kilometres. It's not even though - there are dips, dog-legs, bridges, planks, stumps, concrete lumps, roots, off-camber sections, and water obstacles to navigate. All this and it's overgrown because of the rain and brilliant sunshine we've been having. It's taxing, and there were a couple of uphill switchback bends I couldn't take without having to put a foot down. Or two.

The top gets you above the tree line, and a construction site becomes apparent on your left as you break through into relatively open space. The trail gets much sandier - there's no tree cover or mulch to protect the soil there. Someone has built a couple of jumps out of wood, and with a couple of bends you're at the peak. I took the right hand trail, which takes you along the top of a ridge for a while, until a brisk, technical, and challenging descent.

The perplexing thing is that I've ridden this section before. With some aplomb, I might add. Yesterday my mind was distracted as my bike turned downwards like a submarine seeking depth. I picked up speed quickly, and the ground was dusty and rooty so it wasn't long before the back wheel was locked up in a permanent, writhing, jerking skid. I was OK at that point. Usually though, a lock-up means an eventual slow-down. In this case I picked up speed. Five or six seconds later I still hadn't arrested any momentum and a switchback right-hander was coming up. It followed the ridge too, so a straight line from where I was going actually ran out of ridge to ride on.

This is when one might most appreciate dual suspension. The back end was jerking around and, try as I might, I couldn't absorb all of its spasms with my legs so my vision began to blur with the violent juddering of the bike as the bend rushed towards me. By the time I'd realised I really had to lean the front wheel over to the right, it'd already been thrown from a root onto the left-hand lip of the ridge. By the time I realised I was still going too fast for my ability to cope with such a severe turn, I was at the point of no return. There was no longer any point in trying to actually ride the bike - it became about damage limitation.

The hard, dusty rubber of the tyre sank purposefully into the soft earth on the lip of the trail, and no turning of the handlebars made any difference. The front end of the bike twisted like a spatula in cake mix. Five centimetres further was a 20% gradient downward slope for twenty metres to another, lower trail. In-between were dozens of slim trees, overhanging branches, leaves and mulchy, muddy forest slope. The bike began to soar over the lip as, still with my feet clipped into the pedals, I grabbed at a two-inch thick, green branch slightly above my head.

I can't tell you exactly what happened next. For some of the time my eyes were closed, and it all happened very quickly. Suffice to say, the branch snapped in my hands but the arresting force was enough to peel me off the back of the bike, and my feet from the pedals. I must have travelled through a bit of dense undergrowth because - some time later - I noticed the various wounds I'd received. A deep scratch to the back of my right knee, that filled the pit of my leg there with sticky bloodstain. An impressive, 12cm gash was carved into my left thigh like scraping a tent peg through wet mud. Not very deep though. Oh - and as a friend attested to the next day over dinner, three large patches of road rash on my back and two more circa 4cm gashes to my ribs. I had a throbbing zit buried somewhere in my left eyebrow too, but I had that before.

My bike landed but I flew for another four feet or so, and I'm grateful for that. While the smaller branches did graze me like a brillo pad as I flew through them, I still landed in the underwgrowth with soft, well-irrigated mud beneath it. If I'd have landed upon my bike it would have been a great deal more painful. There was some slipping and sliding as I tried to get back up to my bike, and even more as I dragged it by the back wheel onto the trail again. To be honest, I didn't even have the wind knocked out of me. I was sore and stiff though.

On reflection, I congratulated myself on having the foresight to realise I was beyond the point of no return, and making a grab for the branch. The fact that the branch, twice the thickness of a cable remote control, broke away wasn't something I could have predicted, and had no control over. This is an important thing to remember as someone fighting back from GAD who, in the throes of symptoms, would assume it was their fault they picked the wrong branch.

I shit you not.

I got straight back on the bike too, though the rest of the trail was still a less-steep but just as technical downhill through more switchbacks and ultimately to the river obstacle which, regrettably, I ended up walking the bike over even though I have ridden it before.

But I did carry on riding.

To be continued...

Holidays...yuk...

A quick note to say I made it through the Canada Day holiday and avoided falling into the chasm of depression.

I hung out at a friend's place with the intention of watching a movie but we ended up chatting for hours instead. I cooked Moroccan Stewed Chicken, which turned out quite well, though the cayenne pepper gave the dish a life of its own somewhat. That spice appears a little unpredictable from time to time!

I think my shrink will say that it's good I anticipated a downward turn, fought not to be totally engulfed by it, managed to think of a contingency, and also managed to 'reach out' to somebody, as they say. Good stuff. Shame there's nobody around to give me my medal though.

That said, I'll be working my butt off for the next week or so because I'm now behind on my writing. Depression takes its time, even if it doesn't take its toll.

Phew!

OK, I have an out. I'm off to a friend's place to eat, drink, smoke, and get both stoned and - more importantly - distracted.

It'd be nice to be able to lead my life without needing this every time a public holiday rolls around.

Fuck, I need closure big time. One way or the other, anything is better than being left to speculate. It's like rolling out the red carpet for the cognitive distortions. I may have to contact the invisible woman just to force her to commit one way or the other, but not today. I'm just not up to it. Gotta love mental illness. It's true when they say the mind has power over the body...

Know thyself

Well, kudos to me, because I can feel a depressive bout coming on. It's true what they say when they remind patients like me that alcohol is a depressant. One minute I'm happily relishing a cold beer on a sunny day, the next minute the alcohol has taken effect, reduced the efficacy of my mind-altering prescription, and I suddenly feel like crying again.

I guess this is what PMT must be like.

I really hope my social plans come together this evening. I don't want to be alone, to end up consuming as much beer as there is in the house until I'm at the point of falling over.

At least I can tell it's about to happen so I at least have the slim window of opportunity to do something about it. That's actually a step forward. I even know that I'm abnormally sensitive and affective at the moment, thanks to my invisible woman escapades, but I will actually have to do something if I'm to avoid going over the edge.

Fingers crossed...

Latin name: Canadiana hysteriana

So, in the words of Wikipedia, today is a, "...federal statutory holiday celebrating the anniversary of the 1 July 1867 enactment of the British North America Act, which united Canada as a single country of four provinces."

As a result, all women below the age of 50 who weigh less than 300lbs are obliged by federal law to wear the national costume (see right). Thankfully it doesn't apply to men - those bikini bottoms look like they'd chafe.

Like xmas though, national holidays such as these can be a bit of a pitfall for GAD and CD sufferers. For me, it seems like everyone I know has something better to do and, more pointedly, has a family to visit. Cue lane-to-lane traffic jams on the 400 and 401 highways as everyone tries to get to somewhere else at the same time, wall-to-wall packing of cottages everywhere in Ontario with relatives, and carnage in every liquor store for the preceding 24 hours.

The stakes were raised this year by a potential LCBO employee strike that might've resulted in a dry Ontario for the country's birthday. I got to my local LCBO store yesterday afternoon and it was like the January sales at Harrods. I think the longship-ful of vikings must have just left before I arrived. The shelves were raped, the staff looked pillaged, and there was an air of thinly-disguised panic as people guarded their stashes of booze like their lives depended on it. I managed to get out alive with my MEC rucksack totally stuffed with wine and beer. I wish I had scales somewhere in the house 'cos I'd have loved to know how much the rucksack weighed.

Anyway, as a result of a quick e-mail I sent last night I have succeeded in my objective of ensuring I'm not left alone today. There'd be nothing worse. Being alone is fine, but being alone without having a choice in the matter tends to be a bit of a trigger. Again, as I think about the invisible woman and her alleged daughter, I imagine them ensconced in a big family get-together. Kids running about squirting each other with water pistols, adults drinking beer, chatting, and barbecuing various dead animals. There's nothing like a national public holiday to highlight the fact that such family get-togethers are not part of my life, that I have no such obligations, that I'm neither needed nor wanted that way.

Ouch.

That said, I decided last night that I won't be talking about the invisible woman on here for much longer. The only reason to do so would be if there was some kind of epiphany or volte-face in terms of her behaviour, quality and quantity of communication, and maturity - assuming of course that the important bits she has told me over the last few months are really true. If I'm honest with myself then I have to say that, deep down, I hope she's been recovering, preparing, and gearing up for us to finally get together. If she could muster the courage to be honest with me, then I could certainly reciprocate with the patience, understanding, and integrity to forgive her. It's still top of my wish-list, and a rare occasion where I'd gladly have all my suspicions proved wrong. But it's unlikely. During all the time I've known her it's been me that has been making the suggestions. It's been me coming up with ideas, brainstorming, laterally thinking, trying to figure out a way to get her over the hurdle of that first eye-to-eye contact so we can put all the shite behind us and relish what is rightfully ours. It's always been me offering to meet whenever, wherever, and however. But as Aesop said, "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink". In short I have had all power, control, and influence castrated. While I have tried every way conceivable to invite her into my life, and equally tried to get into her life however possible without terrifying her, she has tried nothing, risked nothing, explained nothing, and attempted nothing. It's one of those classic situations that is the arch-nemesis of the anxiety sufferer - where you have to admit to yourself that there's just nothing you can do. That it's beyond your power to change.

So, as in group therapy, talking out one's problems and issues is of huge benefit at the beginning. It's a relief to know you're not the only one suffering in the way that you're suffering. It's cathartic to be able to talk about how you feel without receiving the cocked eyebrow or having to explain what it means when you've had, "a bad day". But, over time, a different paradigm starts to apply. One reaches a tipping point when the best thing you can do is just put it all behind you, because reliving all the heartache and frustration just prolongs recovery rather than concluding it. That point is close - I can feel it.

All I have to do is accept that, if the majority of her words were truth, then it just wasn't meant to be. That her issues are greater than mine and without playing an active role in her recovery, there is no role for me to play in her life. Of course, if I could be sure she'd been telling the truth then I could wait for her but the only way I'm going to believe her is if she meets me - the one thing she insists she isn't able to do. Such is the cruel irony of the situation. Besides, all I have to show for this so-called relationship thus far is a renewed addiction to cigarettes, several anxiety attacks, an extended bout of clinical depression, and a massive amount of wasted time.

If she was duping me from the start then she did a brilliant job. I don't know what her day job actually is, but it would seem she missed her calling as a con-artist. She made me feel like she was tailor-made for me in so many ways it was - dare I say it - too good to be true. I don't know how she did it - there just isn't enough publicly-available information on me for her to have known me that well, and we have zero mutual friends. Equally, I felt I was tailor-made for her, that any physical get-together would be little more than a formality before taking the relationship to the next level. Strewth - it was literally hook, line, and sinker.

But all the above is a moot point. Regardless of which bits she said were true and which ones weren't, at the end of the day the only thing that'll keep me interested is actually seeing her. If she's real, but too busy sulking or brooding because of what I've said on here, accused her of, and admitted in terms of cognitive distortions...or still stubbornly insistent that she won't trust me enough or dare risk enough to meet me then it's over. If she's fake and can't meet me because she's actually married, a man, something other than what she's described, then it's over.

In short, the only thing I can hope for is that she either shows up here before I move house, or calls to say she's already on her way. Anything other than that and for me there is no reason to concentrate on anything other than self-preservation. Shame eh? 'Happy' Canada Day folks.