A morning walk in Eggum to reach a nice old hydro plan where I ate another apple and nuts.

Before I finished packing for Norway (i.e the night we left) I had a list of journal entry titles which I thought I would hit along the way. A lot of them were puns. One title was this one.

In January, days after purchasing flights for an outdoor adventuring trip on the other side of the globe, my left ankle pain flared up so badly I could barely walk. I had been having occasional bouts of ankle pain for some reason, but despite making it painful to walk and squat they'd never persisted more than a day. Now, as the days passed and the pain didn't, I was faced with another chronic inflammation issue to go with the back pain, the wrist pain, the shoulder issues, the hamstring origin tendinopathy, and the ITB impingement all of which have marred my adult life.

The flights were not refundable, so back then I knew I was going to write this entry with one of two subjects. 1) How my stupid body ruined a great holiday. Or, 2) How I told my body to go fuck itself to overcome the pain and walk around the fjords and mountains and cities and archipelagos of one of the most scenic countries that glaciers have ever given us.

So, as with every other injury, I started rehab, and physiotherapy, and lifestyle changes. And every day, often multiple times a day, I did the stretching and the strengthening and the mobility exercises. And I pushed my joint and backed off and pushed and backed off again. I paid for MRIs and strain-counterstrain physiotherapy and I took drugs and I lay down when the pain was too much and I got back up again after I was ready.

By the time I landed in Oslo, my mobility in the joint was good, the pain was manageable, I knew which shoes to wear. We walked 30,000 steps on the first day. It didn't feel perfect, but my ankle didn't stop me. We drove to Aurland and we walked around Flåm and then in Kinsarvik we hiked up a rocky, slippery path that followed a waterfall. Every stroll or hike I was waiting for the pain to return, for the flare up. There were occasional twinges, but the swelling and instability of that day back in January never came back to me. I traversed over rocky terrain, up Sherpa steps and along trails carpeted with criss-crossing tree roots and soft with mud. I climbed mountains, and descended them.

Back in Adelaide, the weekend before we flew out, I was still having issues. We did Lofty and I remember spending the first stretch of that walk dictating in my head the discomfort I was experiencing and how I would soon describe it to my physio. And I remember thinking that I might spend the whole time in Norway doing the same thing, so I decided not to any more and just breathe. It still hurt, but it helped.

In our final week in Norway we spent five nights in Lofoten which included walks on sandy beaches, rocky hills and sodden tracks. It was a majestic place with amazing sights and walks. My ankle was behaving very well.

The weather forecast for our last night was for clear skies and sunshine from the afternoon into the next morning. There was a final walk - Reinebringen - that I knew I couldn't leave without attempting. A mountain which loomed over the town of Reine and the little islands and peninsulas which made up this extraordinary village of Norwegian architecture and stunning nature. The midnight sun. Over 2000 rough, uneven steps that rose up 450 metres in less than 1.2km of walking. I wanted to do this walk and prove that I was capable of overcoming yet another injury. Or I was going to die trying.

I drove to Reine under nice sunshine and arrived around 10pm. The village was picturesque and the light was perfect.

Vareid

Stop at Skreda

Vikten beach

Reine

More Reine.

I found the start of the walk and immediately started climbing. Almost immediately my ankle started to send signals of displeasure. Nothing different to other walks, but a bit more persistent. I carried on. When you're trying to get up 2,000 steps as quickly as possible it doesn't leave much energy to think with. I activated my glutes. I pushed through my foot. I tried to keep my hips working evenly. Ironically, it was actually my right ankle that was giving me the most pain. Something about the combination of my hiking boots and the pedals in a BZ4X seem to have given me an RSI that I'm hoping goes away once I'm back in a right hand drive car and country.

The moment on the ascent that I started getting concerned about the fog.

A few layers of clothing later, I reached the end of the stairs and the start of a muddy track that continued up to the summit. I wasn't actually sure I had reached the top because at the same time a thick fog had enveloped the mountain. I had reached my fucking goal and the reward of the view was hidden from me. It was 11:30pm.

A small crowd was with me at the top of the mountain, and no one seemed keen to immediately return down the stairs if there was a chance the fog would lift. So I waited in the crook of a rock to see what would happen. Occasionally the fog would lighten, then darken again. You could see the tendrils of it skimming the surface of the peak. I started a round of Balatro on my phone, which was good because not only is that game good for pissing away time with a fire-hose, but it can be played with heated gloves on.

After a while I heard excited gasps from nearby strangers. Looking down, far below, the line of the road could be made out through the fog. It was shit, but it brought hope. We all persisted. And then, the fog began to lift. Not like a curtain, but like a dance. A swirl here, a window there. The horizon of jagged peaks visible, but not the town. Slices of ocean and buildings, then the veil would lift up again. It teased us all over and over giving glimpses of everything but never the entirety. What we could see was beautiful. The still water, the tiny buildings, the mountains. The colours, so amazing. I took a lot of photos. My fingers were so cold I thought my camera had broken because I couldn't press the shutter down fast enough.

I did not actually get a clear photo from the top, but the experience was ethereal.

Eventually I had to descend. My ankle had survived the up, but there was still 2000 steps down to go and that was after an hour of cooling down to the extreme definition of literally. In fact my whole body was shaking and it took a lot of steps until I warmed up again.

I made it to the bottom. I'd made it through. It was about half past midnight. The sun was up, somewhere behind the mountains over Reine. The colours were vivid. The air was cool and crisp. My heartrate was pretty high. I'd had an anticlimax and I'd powered through. If I had to describe how I felt in one word, I couldn't. I felt like "Take that, you stupid fucking body. Whatever you give me I will fight. I won't win everytime. I still can't sit on most couches. But I will not give up. Not when there is experiences in the world like light spectrums from nearby stars to glow on intricate geography and calm waters. Fuck you, me. Fuck you and your stupid fucking body. I am a brain. I am bradism. One day you will finally get me, but you will not get me easily."

Reine on the way back to the car.

I drove back to Eggum from Reine between 1 and 2:45 AM. At sea level, there was no fog. The colours on the mountains and in the sky were unreal. I never want to forget that drive home. Windows down, tunes, every twist and turn bringing new sights. The hues in the valley. The silhouettes across the waters. The texture of a mountain that loomed up and up over the road. The mist lifting off the lakes and mulch piles as the temperature dropped to 5°. Occasionally, being blinded by the sun. I did not feel tired. I felt victorious. I had told my body to go fuck itself.

Kåkernbrua

View of Ramberg just after Flakstadbruene.

On the Eggumsveien towards Eggum.

Eggum Beach, 3:15 AM.

Edit: The next day my ankle was pretty sore.

In My Ridleyton Era.
In my covid era.
In my mulberry tree era.
My cycling era. My air-fryer era.
My upper limb surgery era.
My no mortgage lifestyle era.
My friends all having kids era.
My fresh baguette from the shops that morning era.
My savvy and not so savvy investing era.
In my meat puffs era. My New Holland Honeyeater era.
My watching Nash grow old era.
My integration architecture era.
In my working and working out from home era.
My local cafe knows me and my dog's order era.
In my noticing how bad the cold is in winter era.
In my driving twenty minutes to the beach nearly every second summer evening era.
Out of my Ridleyton era.

On June 14th last year I woke up twice. Once at six A.M. to take a taxi ride to the hospital, and again around lunchtime in recovery after my wrist surgery.

I felt pretty fucking miserable for a lot of last winter. I spent my days working, watching TV, playing Reborn with one hand, and wishing I could have a different life.

On June 14th this year I also woke up twice, the first time in Florence to have some breakfast and then a morning stroll in the Boboli Gardens of Palazzo Pitti, and the second time after a brief nap on the train as we pulled into Venezia Santa Lucia.

View from the top of Boboli Gardens

The wrist that this time last year was in a cast and dragging me down was now dragging a 17 kilogram suitcase for two kilometres of Venice's cobbled, car-less streets, and up and down bridges across the canals.

I took for granted that last year's surgery would have a short and linear recovery and I was wrong about that. I'm not taking anything for granted any more. Venice is an awesome place though, and I'm glad I have my life. Today felt like a chapter end in that story, and as chapter ends go it was a satisfying "fuck you" followed by a sunset.

For the past six weeks I have been living in the worst sock puppet performance the simulation has ever generated.

Mmmm, painkillers.

I have endured the harsh winter deprived of most of the few joys the season brings. No chopping up massive pumpkins. No driving to locations for low-UV hiking. No warm showers. No bike rides. Instead I've had this, the egg.

For six weeks I've been brooding. And keeping my arm dry, and warm, and nourished.

And after all of that brooding today it finally hatched!

Coincidentally my right ctrl button has also been broken the past six weeks.

Back in autumn I bought myself a few long sleeved thermals along with a new jacket with the intention of being able to leave the house over winter and not be cold. Or even stay in my house and not be cold... I did not foresee having an arm cast for six weeks over the winter solstice which, while good for helping two ends of my ligament scar back together, did not permit long sleeved garments unless they were closely related to an old Oody.

It turned out my garment purchases had been as equally ironic as the Vice Nights Duncan Robinson jersey ordered for myself at some point between tearing my labrum and diagnosing it.

Fortunately at the two week mark my hospital plaster was replaced with a fresh, fibreglass cast and while I was a little dismayed to be informed that it would on my forearm for another four weeks, at least this one was slim enough for my arm to fit through the sleeves of my winter wear. I can even fit a glove over it. This small piece of good fortune has motivated me to keep a positive attitude and aim not to sit under a blanket counting the days until July 27. I even ate a salad on the weekend although the ingredients were not as finely chopped as I'm used to.

Who knows, maybe Vice Nights will get a redemption arc too.

I feel compelled to complete the One (x) Down theme I started to track my shoulder surgery recovery process which started on May 19, 2021 and has only ramped up since then.

Sometimes when I go for a walk in the last light after sunset after doing eight plus hours of computering I reflect on the last year and all the stretching and rehab and medical bills I endured. And I think to myself, damn, I really did throw away a huge chunk of my life and time and energy to not achieve anything. I'm still in pain, and I can't shoot a basketball, but now I can't lie on my right side either. I need a minimum of four pillows to sleep comfortably. This is how my spiral into death will be measured, in cushions. One night in my late eighties sixties forties I'll be propped up against some pillows in a hospital bed with an extra pillow under my knees, another one padding my spine, two supporting the weight of my arms, and a well-meaning nurse will put just one more small neck cushion behind my head and I'll literally cark it.

I have to try harder not to think about it.

In April 2021 I attended an orthopaedic surgeon and showed them an MRI of my shoulder which showed my AC joint was inflamed. I had come armed with an internet search and a chat with a physio and I believed an AC excision would be the solution to my oppressed desire to wear my new Vice City Duncan Robinson top. When the surgeon diagnosed me with a labrum tear I believed them because I'm not an orthopaedic surgeon so I'm not going to argue. I mean, the lesson here is to advocate for your own health when you have doubts, but you're often going to need hindsight to nail that.

After a gruelling, highly motivated recovery from the surgery (I really wanted to wear that top, hit a corner three on some suburban hoop, and like high five some buddies right after, and feel alive) I still had the same discomfort and limitations and after paying for a whole bunch of extra physio I was sent for a second MRI which showed that my labrum repair was looking super good, oh and my AC joint was even more inflamed than the images taken in 2021. Hmm. Somehow I had torn it since the surgery? Hmmm. Or both injuries had happened at the same time back in 2020 when I hurt it. Hmmmmm.

I declined to have any follow up surgery, as Omicron was making life a problem for Adelaide at the time and I was only just recovering my sick leave from the last surgery. My plan was to stop lifting weights and just enjoy life with pain by riding my bike and going bushwalking.

These all sounded like good ideas but I wish that my surgeon had advocated for my health and encouraged me to have surgery, instead of happily letting me walk away to be my own problem instead of his. If I'd been in a sling in February it would have been a lot harder for me to crash my bike and break my elbow and wrist. Now that those injuries are healing my shoulder pain is returning.

If there is some advice I will share with anyone in their mid to late thirties who is suffering from shoulder pain - which was the intent of the shoulder recovery series to begin with - it is this. Don't stop resistance training, no matter how bad your knee and shoulder or anything else is feeling. At least at the time of my last MRI I could pick up a barbell off the ground, hang from a bar, twist side to side. The loss of the limited power, flexibility and core strength that has occurred since I spat the dummy about health and fitness only four months ago has really cost me now that I've realised I'm going to need it back if I want to make it to that hospital bed in my late forties.

This morning I took another pleasant ride to the sports hospital and locked my bike up at the now extremely familiar bicycle parking.

After yet another nap inside an MRI yesterday I was to learn what was happening in my shoulder. I was expecting bad news: failure of the labrum anchor from May, another surgery, no explanation for my shitty tissue.

Instead, my surgeon shared his surprise that the labrum repair was intact and unremarkable. My AC Joint, however, was extremely inflamed. Instead of surgery he wanted to try a cortisone injection to confirm the location of the problem, and give me another month of structural integrity limbo.

I suppose this is relatively good news, although a microscopic part of me was disappointed that I couldn't write today's journal entry about the torn labrum omicron variant.

I had been beginning to feel queasy that every year was going to follow a pattern of coronavirus mutation, shoulder injury, significant lifestyle changes.

I'm trying to suppress the memories of the last time I got a cortisone injection into a chronic injury hotspot in the weeks before Christmas.

Then I cycled home.

My shoulder surgeon said it would take six months to fully recover from my labrum repair and biceps tendon reattachment. My surgery was on May 19th so allowing conservatively for any impact from daylight savings I should be fully recovered from today.

I am not fully recovered. I did all my resting, stretching, rehab and conditioning as prescribed and by the start of October I was about 90% there. I still had pain under load pushing or raising anything. I never got to the point where I could shoot a basketball. That is, I never got to the point I was at before I had the surgery.

After cutting back my strengthening at the start of November I still made no progress, and then last week my shoulder has regressed further, to the point that I'm in pain from simply lifting my arm. Maybe the physio will have some idea when I see him on Thursday. Maybe he'll just give me another rub.

I'd been really optimistic about the operation, but this year has really reinforced how fragile my body is. Unlike mine, the hands of the clock are working efficiently and I don't really know what I'll do when all my limbs are net negatives.

I was in considerable pain on my morning walk yesterday. My shoulder was throbbing and I had a whole day of work ahead of me. I didn't know how I was going to get through it. But I wasn't depressed. I realised that I have been at this point so many times in my life - back, wrist, knee, hamstring, hamstring, hamstring, shoulder, knee, shoulder - where pain completely owns me that I've become inured to the feeling. I know that I'll grind through the resting, stretching, rehab, beer, and conditioning until I get back to the point where I can injure myself all over again. Another recovery down, onto the next one.