Yes...of course...I remember the act of actually running. Fleeing a scene, scurring in a blind panic from the wrath of older brothers, or chasing after a departing school bus in full-throated desperation. These are but a few of some very fine examples. Years ago, I also ran with a small group of other twenty-plus-year-olds as we trained and prepared ourselves to run in the annual Portland Marathon. We never did participate in the event, reaching twelve miles in our training and then, just as suddenly, losing interest. Why we didn't continue, I can't remember. Although I never did participate in a marathon, I continued with my daily runs. That, however, seems to be a lifetime ago...back before Ataxia put the brakes on.
Speaking of putting the brakes on...I have several fond, and not-so-fond, memories of riding a two-wheeled bike when I was a kid. Fond memories included the days of attaching stiff playing cards or sports cards to the spokes of my purple banana-seated stingray bicycle. I loved doing this when I rode around because I felt supremely cool. Of course, I'm sure that everyone who observed me thought I was riding a huge, mean motorbike.
I'd love to re-live those carefree biker days....by placing cards in the wheels of my walker. Alas, the wheels are solid....not an open design with spokes. I can only suppose that they are made this way in an attempt to dissuade gangs of older people at retirement homes roaming the halls with cards in their wheels. Soon biker clubs might begin to make an appearance in the homes...as the sound of Harley's continuously ran up and down the passages.A few of the not-so-fond memories include accidentally squeezing the front brakes instead of the back brakes. Braking of this nature resulted in an instant rising of the back of the bike. Which, in turn, would transfer into a quick Superman-like dive over the handlebars. Another "non-fond" memory involved running headlong into immovable objects, such as a curb, or a wall. At this point, I suddenly would find myself being propelled forward off of my bike seat. With both feet still planted on the pedals...I would come down hard to perform a random spot-check of the strength and integrity of the bike frame. Although I never saw these spontaneous quality control checks to be enjoyable...knowing that I was mounted on a sturdy craft gave me the boost of confidence needed. After all, I would be taking my bike over the makeshift ramps that all the neighborhood kids had set up in our backyard. Structures of excellent build quality and construction that we had so carefully slapped together out of whatever odd-sized scraps of wood we could find lying around. There were possibly four to five summers when my vocabulary consisted of, " what's for dinner?...can I go?...and, " I think we could make a ramp outta that!"
We were forever designing and building new ways to gain precious seconds of air time. Of course, the ramps that were made by the ten-to-fourteen-year-old professionals lacked any form of inspection for general safety. Neither were there checks for stable working conditions or the well-being of the kid going over the said ramp. Also unheard of was safety gear of any kind...for two distinct reasons. One was that any safety equipment only added unnecessary weight and drag that would slow a rider who wanted every bit of speed possible. EVERYTHING...from a helmet to extra padding in your clothes was off-limits. Everyone knew the risks...and clearly understood that they were running the possibility of a young death...severe pain...or worse of all, looking like a wimp to any neighborhood girl that happened by.
The presence of a single square of two-ply bathroom tissue anywhere on your person was grounds for scrubbing the jump. If this happened, you might also discover that your, "backyard ramp- jumping/disregard for the sanctity of your own life," privileges were now under serious threat of being revoked. No one wanted to return to the halls of middle school with the shame of having just spent a jumperless summer because of a vagrant rule infraction.
The second reason that safety equipment was not worn...was because it wasn't needed. Thinking that it possibly might be was unfathomable...end of the story.
When the televised antics of motorcycle stuntman Evel Knievel came to the forefront of our notice...well, our style began to change. Suddenly we saw the possibilities of a second ramp...this second quality structure being for the triumphant landing. In the long run, it didn't quite work as envisioned...and for that, I'm glad. Had it been a success I'm sure that the next logical step would've been to line up a few derelict school buses between the ramps. At the very least, it would've been politely suggested that several friends and I lay down between the two ramps, while one of my older brothers flew over us on his bike.
There was no scientific reasoning behind the placement of the second ramp or the distance from the first ramp, (known in pro circles as the launching-point), other than a non-committal shrug of the shoulders, and a muttered, "looks 'bout right." It was then kindly, and democratically, decided that one of my brothers should attempt the first jump. It was also determined that the two ramps should be moved to the far end of the gravel driveway...allowing for my brother to enter the jump zone at full velocity and not lose precious speed by the drag of the grass in the yard. The only drawback any of us could see was the possibility that attempting the jump on a gravel driveway could...just possibly... increase the pain index of an unsuccessful touchdown. Again, however, as none of us planned to crash, this notion was quickly set aside.
Like the failed attempt at jumping the Grand Canyon by Evel Knievel in nineteen-seventy-four...my brother's jump ended our two-ramp dreams. As we watched him approach the launching-point...pedaling fiercely, with a grim determination on his face...we collectively held our breath. We watched him as he hit the first ramp...we watched as he shot into the air...and we watched as he came down short by several feet of the second ramp. The front of the bike came down first and plowed into the ramp...and as we watched my brother begin to unceremoniously roll in the driveway...I knew that two things were now showing themselves to be painfully obvious. First, our days of ramp jumping were drawing to a close...and secondly, our quickly disregarded theory about the effects of gravel in the event of a crash was uncannily accurate.
To bring this back around to running...the ability to do so proved to be beneficial for me that day...as I went into a full-on panic mode and ran screaming for help. This story from my childhood returns me to my original point, which was...that I remember running...I just don't recall how actual running feels.
How does this help...or relate to Ataxia. I was thinking about how easy it is for us that have lost abilities to become negatively focused on those losses. I find though that letting memories become a joyful thing in my life...instead of negative ones that serve to only accentuate the losses...helps me to face the present in a positive way. It is not always possible...or easy...but I try to see "lost abilities" as opportunities to share memories from days past. Besides...I find that I no longer desire to jump a purple-banana seated stingray bike in the driveway!
Thank you for letting me share this one with you.
