Chapter 8 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 8.

`It's a lightweight model, Sir,' the salesman said over his
shoulder, legs crabbing edgewise between stock as he withdraw a
cycle out of his window display.

`You're joking,' I exclaimed. The man was trying to palm me off
with a racing model on special offer.

`They've got extra gears, and are much easier to pedal, Sir,'
he stepped off his brown baize, balancing the bike single-handed,
stumbling upon loose laces as he hurried to reassure me, knotting
himself up in a demonstration of back-pedalling between counters
without moving forwards. His sonar detected a reluctant doubt in my
eyes. `The racing handlebars can be changed,' he recast his nets,
adjusting the bait. I prodded the saddle. Thin, mean, hardly
something one would wish to sit back upon when cruising over holes
in the lanes. `We'll change that at the same time,' he dipped behind
the till, his hands appearing like those of the daughter of Neptune
holding up alternatives until his counter was covered. `We'll
deliver the machine to your house tomorrow, fully customised,
without extra charge,' he resurfaced red-eared and winded.

Could we afford it, would Lena agree? But could we cope with
the alternative, me in a wheelchair, a millstone for the whole
family?

Next morning, just after Lena and the children left for school,
a van backed down our drive with the bicycle. He was in a rush
before opening his shop and was gone before there was chance for me
to give his delivery a test. `That's dangerously optimistic,' I
muttered, measuring my leg, marking its length on a broom handle by
licking my thumb before comparison against the height of the saddle.

I walked round, puzzling the problem, wondering how best I
could mount. Climbing on was impossible, but if the cycle was
tilted I just might get my leg over. Several bruises later these
efforts met with a partial success, except that my foot was treading
on air in search of a pedal. `Find it, you rotten bugger.'

Amazing how my contrived anger released adrenaline, or
something, which battered the M.S. into a fleeting retreat:
another discovery, and before it wore off I shoved off from the

garage against which I'd been leaning. Oh, no, the lessons learnt
on John's bike didn't apply, these pedals turned through only half a
rotation before refusing to go further, with me lifted high in the
air, straining to pedal a millimetre further, standing fully upright
to make use of my weight, much higher than the hedge and the
sparrows and the robins and,.. and wobbling and....

BANG! I rolled out from between the crossbar and spokes. `How
the hell am I supposed to get this damned thing out of top gear if I
can't get started in the first place?' I sat grinding for answers,
bum numb to the drive. `You'd think they'd deliver them in bottom
gear,' I chuntered on whilst the air moved as a flock of starlings flew
overhead, a maverick peeling off on its own only to peel back in
when the rest did not follow...... but for another maverick they
did. I wished to know why, rubbing my bruises, overlooking that
proper cyclists never had M.S. There must be a way, I searched the
instructions, but nothing, no hints for disabled people, let alone
any instructions of how to set off on one's own

Becalmed in the kitchen, whilst drinking a cup of tea, I
thought of a way. Find a gentle hill, like Chapel Street, where
thanks to Newton and gravity the bike would start on its own. The
bumblebees were out, first time this year, too busy to be concerned
with the world outside their world as I wheeled through the village.
Is this a good omen or does fate still have a sting? Ah, here's
a good place, I leant, pacing myself, resting against a stone wall
before mounting - at least I'd worked out how to mount on the tenth
attempt whilst still back in our drive. A quick scan all around,
nobody looking, and shoved off down the slope. This time my legs
managed to pedal, but it was only a gentle hill, too slow, too slow,
the front wheel locked in a wobble, aiming straight for the kerb.

`Is thee all right?' Two villagers within hearing were startled
out of their gossip.

`Yes, fine thanks,' I shouted back, bugger Newton, righting
myself, upending the frame, pretending to make adjustments whilst
hiding the pain, taking sore comfort in the knowledge that at least
some nerves were working, transmitting pain, numb though my legs
were.

`Does tha want an `and?'

`No, no problem, thanks,' I squeezed a smile, anxious to keep
them away to avoid being rushed, needing time to recover. The last
thing I required was for someone to realise what state I was in -
how could I explain, how could they understand?

`Just give us a shout, then, tha knows where we are,' they
returned to their exchanging of tales, face to face, as bright
sunshine bounced off the walls, mulling the spring air, whilst I
used imaginary tools, carrying out mock repairs, waiting for the
pain to subside before making another attempt. This time I'll start
where the hill is much steeper.

The cycle wobbled, yet again, Newton's bloody apple, once,
twice,... and then it gained speed. Good old Isaac, right after
all about objects in motion and I recovered control of the steering,
smiling, with a supreme mantle of confidence, passing the gossipers
who were lost in their world, tongues busy as the bumble bees,
oblivious of me changing the gears to demonstrate that I was well.
Perhaps I would always be weak, I wondered, never able to start in
top gear? I could have asked my neighbour, saved myself a lot of
pain. He knew all about bikes.

By the weekend my improvement had continued so dramatically
that, `How about a ride to Ouseby Hoff?' I asked John. He smiled,
cautiously, hoping to have a turn on my racer.

Perhaps his fragmented joy was because, though the Hoff
remained one of his favourite hills, great for adventure, he was
assessing the distance involved. It was much further than he had
ever cycled before. Yet, in my mind, there was an obsessive desire
to do something different and the Hoff was the only tree-covered
hill within striking distance, a giant sandstone hump, a geological
prank in the middle of nowhere, great for adventure, ideal for
playing hide and seek and pelting each other with cones.

True, but those games had been in the days when we drove there.
This time our view of the countryside was more leisurely, me leading
on large wheels, seeing over walls into gardens and between two
weeping willows that draped over the dike, John's little legs
whirling to keep up. `It says no entry,' he panicked as a pair of
wrought iron gates loomed larger.

`That's only for trespassers.'

He looked bemused, long enough for us to ride one abreast
through a side gate.

`Keep your voice down,' I hushed, we were cycling along the
main drive to Ouseby Hall, part of its grounds regimented with
wooden huts, wards of a convalescent hospital. `By the time they
realise we're not visitors we'll be out the other side.'

`What if they have guard dogs?' his worries persisted for these
huts had been built during the war as a prisoner of war camp.

`They won't, not now, not if they make a habit of leaving that
side gate wide open,' I pedalled faster, changing a gear, down
twice, three times, my legs loosing strength the more they strained
to race past the huts. Their patients, sitting outside, taking the
air, with pyjamas and bare ankle slippers and post-nuptial dressing
gowns, turned their heads and followed our slowing progress, letting
their rough folded newspapers hang lifeless or slip. At last the
drive curved, dipped, and we coasted past the mansion, pretending
not to see the Senior Administrator's office. `Don't stop, not
until we're through the tradesmen's entrance.'

`My legs are aching,' John puffed, hurrying to reach safety
beyond the last slope.

`Mine aren't,' I lied, urging him on, until they seized up once
outside the back entrance, not knowing their purpose in life. I
grabbed for the fence, hung on, recovering, unable to dismount.

`Hurry up,' he called, already running amuck amongst the pines
in the wood.

Time heals, so they say, and instead of getting off and pushing
I struggled on in bottom gear. It worked, I persuaded myself, only
to tumble pride over jockstrap into a sandy bank, eroded and gritty,
defenceless against his stockpile of cones.

`Just a minute, I need a bit of a rest,' I propped myself on an
elbow, in search of a strategy with this challenge to spur me,
rolling over to squeeze dry an exhausted oasis for energy,
collecting sufficient to pick up his sighting rounds.

Hauling myself over the bank my first salvo projected the cones
forwards whilst I went back, back, back down the bank - Bloody
Newton again, him and his third law of motion. I looked up to see
John revelling in his new-found power, Father dependent upon his
mercy, until his ammunition was spent. `Boring,' with me out of the
game he disappeared up the hill, inventing much more interesting
games.

Ages seemed to pass before I felt strong enough for the return
journey. `Time to go home,' I shouted, cupping my hands. Perhaps his
stomach heard the message for he zoomed down the Hoff, arms spread
out, as though going to bomb me again.

`The sun's be to the south, Jim m'lad,' he emerged from the
trees, doing a Long John Silver with a dead pigeon balanced on his
shoulder.

He was right, it was due south, where steam towered motionless
above the concrete cooling towers of a distant power station. `Put
that dead bird down.' How the hell did he know where south was, or
was it what they said in an advert? Anyway, it meant that two hours
had passed, we'd better get a move on.

The lane was downhill, a different route, avoiding Ouseby Hall.
But when we reached the bottom we steered full-faced into a prevailing
wind, cheeks billowing each time we breathed. Fool, no wonder this
morning's ride had been easy, apart for the slope past the hospital,
a stiff breeze had been giving a push to our saddles. `You go on,
John,' his legs able to whirl, whatever the conditions, turning our
climb of Simon's Seat five years ago on its head. The big wheels on
my bike were irrelevant as I persevered in bottom gear until his
outline merged into the distance. He was gone, I stopped, resting,
three times. Faith's all right, but I must be thoughtful about
scattering mustard seeds in the future for much of my topsoil of
health is still shallow.

`Your meal's been kept warm in the oven. It'll be burnt by
now,' Lena complained, her patience having been eked beyond
reasonable medical bounds by the time I stumbled in through the
doorway.

`Yes,' I agreed, `it was a bit stupid, forcing myself.' I
was anxious to retain her approval for my exercise regime. `Won't do
it again.' Gradually, in the future, I'll build up stamina, I mused,
and if there's a wind I'll cycle against it, outward bound, and be
blown back when I am tired.

Thank goodness my fears proved to be groundless. A bit tired
next day, but feeling good, though the cold air was back. Would
this spoil my enthusiasm for exercise?

Only way to find out is to try it, muffled beneath layers of
cast-offs, business suits now being a thing of the past. `I suppose
I should show my face at work, see how the sale of the business is
going,' I muttered, whilst pedalling. `But not until I'm fit.'

Several weeks of the same three mile circuit, passing and
barely noticing the dike onto which I had tumbled - the limit of my
range first time out. Coward,' squawked the sea gull, so I
contemplated upon the state of my mustard seeds. It can't be so much
of a risk, not now, not after so much exercise, so I continued onto
the main road, aiming for the house four miles away where Tom and
Ola lived.

They were watching a TV programme about captain Oates when I
cycled into their drive, against all odds, chuffed at having taken
just thirty minutes. It was nothing to a proper cyclist, of course.
But I had paced myself, easing off every time my muscles started to
ache, not daring to dismount for fear of being unable to get back
on.

`Come in, have a cup of coffee.' Several cups, and two hours
later, I levered myself out of a comfortable armchair, ready for the
return journey.

`We'll take you,' they were anxious to see me home
unsquashed by the heavy traffic.

`No, it's all right, thanks, I'll take care,' success again
having gone to my head. My legs might look a bit groggy, but Tom's
pleas were in vain. Yet, to be on the safe side, and to avoid making
a fool of myself, I took it easy, during the past weeks having
cycled past enough frogs on Brickpond Lane, their silhouettes
permanently Michelin and Firestoned into the asphalt. Forty minutes
later I was home. Another eight milestones on my road to recovery.

I have used a lot of Yorkshire dialect in “Dangerously Healthy” – an autobiography written under my pseudonym because some of the protagonists were still alive at the time, and also in a novel “Don’t You Dearest Me”. If any Themestream reader wants to contact me I should be pleased to translate any puzzling words . In fact, does anyone think I should produce a list of words and phrases for the series? If so, your e-mail would be welcome.

Read the following chapters that tell of how Martin "cured" his M.S. and climbed mountains by the following year.

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