A Retrospective on Cycling

The following post was first published here on my blog UpStreamRose on August 21, 2021. I knew at the time that I would eventually leave Japan for good. In August 2021, I was ready to dip my toes into what America had become over the pandemic. I did not know that my love for cycling would eventually bring me to Atlanta group rides.

Riding a bike in Japan brought me a unique sense of freedom, joy, and adventure. Here is my reflection on riding around one of the world’s largest cities.

About four years ago, I boarded a one-way flight from Atlanta, Georgia to Tokyo.

Today, I fly out of Tokyo (after two COVID vaccines and one negative PCR test) and make my way to visit folks in the Americas. I will return to Japan in a few months but still feel nostalgic leaving this place. Despite the Olympics debacle, urban life in Tokyo is surprisingly enjoyable. As a sweet ‘see you later’ I took a friend for a fancy high tea at the Peak Lounge last afternoon. We arrived by bike and parked just across the Park Hyatt.1 From the 42^nd floor, the city sprawled in all 360 degrees around the three pyramid-topped towers. We luckily caught a glimpse of Fuji-san as the sun was setting.

              This last evening in Tokyo epitomizes what I love about life in Japan. My daring blue mamachari has been my most reliable companion. After tea, we biked into Shinjuku2 to see the holographic cat outside of the JR east exit. Though I was biking around the world’s busiest train station, it felt refreshingly carefree. Cars are cautious, and a few bike lanes exist. Compared to the United States, it is an absolute joy to move around in Japanese urban areas. Here, there are sidewalks, greenways, and crosswalks throughout the city. I have the choice to walk, bike, or use excellent public transport.

              Since I have been here, I cut myself free from the responsibilities of car ownership. For 3 years, I biked from my apartment to work. The 10-minute morning cycle ride through Suginami-ku included two blocks of street traffic closed off to cars and made available for elementary and middle school students walking to school in the morning. The quintessential backpacks, cute yellow hats, and chatter put me in the right mindset for work. After teaching, I often headed to Inokashira park. The ride there was pure bliss. I pedaled along the Kanda River greenway which has one side reserved for pedestrians and cyclists. As I biked west, on one side was the river, and all around me, a near canopy of trees and flowers

              The American cities I grew up in and lived in were always car-based. Invariably, this made for urban challenges. I once tried to live in Atlanta without a car. As a pedestrian, I sometimes had to walk on tiny shoulders on busy main streets. There were inattentive SUV drivers that endangered my life on every prosaic walk.  As a law student in Baltimore, my experience driving was not much better. The Wire’s portrayal of Baltimore crime is spot on. After searching for directions on Google Maps, I had to be careful not to park or stop in dangerous neighborhoods. Property theft and car vandalism were common in the Inner Harbor area.

              Here in Tokyo, when I don’t bike, I can easily hop on the train. As I explore a new area, I know that I can roam free. I can be certain there is no risk of mugging, nor any need to be over vigilant for my belongings. There is a liberty in physical safety that is totally new to me. As a frequent traveler, this sense of security is transformative. I can enjoy the leisure of getting lost without worrying about my physical safety. It is immensely freeing to focus my mental energy on enjoying a place and becoming absorbed in city life. I notice the bonsai trees on tiny front yards, the torii gates before a shrine, and over-the-top window displays at boutiques. Without worrying ‘Do I look lost?’ I can lean into a fun exploration of my surroundings. Anywhere I go, I can always count on a bus or train later.  I am confident that even from unknown neighborhoods, I will eventually make my way home.

              After nearly four years in Japan, I am convinced moving here in 2017 was one of the best decisions I have ever made. While Americans dug into their political partisanship and Trump helped push America to its darkest days, I knew I needed a break from America. At the same time, I had little idea of what I would find here.  I wrote a piece for Verge magazine describing my minimal knowledge of Japan, but my enthusiasm for new experiences. Then, I did not know the magic of Tokyo. Being here has given me insights into myself, my adopted country, and the Americas which I watched carefully from abroad. Living in Tokyo has inspired a whole host of ideas on what city life can be. I hope that American car-focused cities look east for some inspiration.

Riding into 2024

This winter time, I have been operating at the pace of molasses. I appreciate the pace, as it allows me to contemplate and reflect. In my last Substack, at the beginning of the holiday season 2023, I shared the juxtapositions of contrasts along my recovery. The previous two months have me inching further away from 2023 and sliding into better momentum and higher hopes for 2024. (As usual, I wrote a year-end review on my blog.) Today, the last day of January, is a delight of blue sky and sun-kissing. I am thrilled that we are past the low-sunlight hours part of the season.

Unexpected changes to my family plans allowed me to visit a friend over Thanksgiving in Florida. Deep in Red Florida, the sign at an Italian market made me want to burrow in the sand and pray for peace. Walking in the ocean and playing in the surf, I thanked fate for my surroundings. I was physically safe to stroll and play at the beach. On a distant shore abroad, no one is safe. The sound of waves brought me ideas for upcoming political writings.

When I returned to Atlanta in mid-December, I had two long-awaited follow-up appointments with foot and wrist surgeons. Each specialist was satisfied with my progress, and I was discharged from further follow-ups. Bring on all the good rides!

My dictionary dictates that a good bike ride motivates more bike rides. In December and January, I have had a few such rides. On Christmas Eve, I joined the Palestine solidarity ride with Atlanta supporters of the Gaza Sunbirds. They left from downtown Decatur and headed into the city. The pace was physically demanding. As I tried to keep up, I sensed a deep metaphor. Every day since October, my heart has struggled to confront America’s foreign affairs. During the ride, I appreciated the challenge.   Again, as I think of my injury and the close community around me, I wonder what it is like to be ignored by the world. As I practice going after, I am also working on my stamina so that I might be able to keep up with that group again in some weeks.

On the last Saturday of December 2023, the week following the Palestine ride, I attended the memorial ride for Tom Duncan. I did not personally know Tom. He was a ride leader killed during a ride by a careless driver. I doubt the driver will have any repercussions. I felt moved to participate in the memorial after hearing of his loss. Riding with such a large group showed me again that we have so much power within our cycling family. The local news was there, and I chimed in (at minute 1:07) about riding in Atlanta. Though I did not know Tom, I felt filled with respect and admiration for the collegiality in our community.

I returned to Lee and White on a nippy Sunday morning the next day. This time, I came to join the Bike Church ride. I had only ridden with them once before, on May 14^th. It was the last Atlanta Cycling Festival ride I completed last year. On our December ride that Sunday, I noticed that the pre-ride instructions differed. There was a special admonishment (for would-be trick-doers). Kevin changed some instructions after my crash, he gently reminded me. Post ride, I had a good hang with the congregation; it was another great ride and managed to hold me over into the new year.

Last week, we had Critical Mass on a magically warm Friday in January. Many of us missed our regular rides in the past week or so because of rain. The last Friday of the month had many strange hiccups. It started with my sister’s unexpected and worrying call. Her call, fortunately, came after I had just finished a morning meditation. My spirit was in a better place to follow the flow. Later, on my MARTA ride to the city, I crossed paths with d a friend of a friend and fellow cyclist heading to town. I felt encouraged to see a well-wisher in such a spontaneous way. While we were waiting to begin the ride that night, I learned someone photographed me at the accident scene. I asked for the photo to check out later. GNARLY!

The Critical Mass Ride was a beautiful loop of Atlanta. I loved how it crossed from the Atlanta University Center to the Georgia Tech campus. The contrast in infrastructure, lighting, and vibe left a mark. Along the ride, I met yet another person who knew about my accident; he saluted my return to group riding. Many shenanigans went on during the Critical Mass ride. I stayed a safe distance away. Afterwards, a small crew of us rode further into Estoria to enjoy the perfect temperature.

This past Monday, I joined, for the first time, a small, regular Decatur ride. There, I again met another well-wisher in our beloved cycling community. She shared with me how she began choosing her rides differently after reading about my accident. When we hung out at Thinking Man’s Tavern afterward, I contemplated a lot on the continued purpose of this newsletter.

Confrontations with death bring you a bit closer to life. I began this Substack to communicate with those who showed me so much support during my recovery. I write now to acknowledge that support with gratitude and seek to create dialogue. My temporary disabilities reminded me of how essential we are to one another. This interconnectedness is food for our spirit, supports our mental health, and strengthens our society. Yet, I know, and continue to see, that many of us lack a social safety net in the world’s most prosperous country.

I feel fiercely about this, especially seeing the dichotomy of our government’s ill-advised expenditures. Nourishing human potential should be the front and center of any society. Our spending on war, weapons, and fake diplomacy is making us spiritually and financially bankrupt. As I work to bring awareness and urgency to this issue, I feel the call to hear and discuss this thread within my community. I see, everywhere, and over and over again, warm-hearted people changing the world. In some way, I sense a calling around sharing words to bring people to see our common humanity. Only then, it seems, can we be on the same page on nourishing all human potential.

These last few days past Christmas have been wet and dreary in Atlanta. It feels like the appropriate way to wind down the year. I opened my annual happiness jar yesterday to properly reminisce on the gifts and trials of 2023. In March, I introduced my principles for living joyfully and my new bike, Luna. Two months later, in my previous post, I discussed my ambulance ride from downtown to Grady Hospital. While it has been a wild year, my happiness jar is a small practice that reminds me how to find gratitude and reflect through the year. This year, alongside my bike, I held incredible moments of kindness and tough soul-shaping pains in the same breath.

In spring 2023, I had a series of cycling firsts. I finally tried (supported) bike camping with the Atlanta Cycling Festival. In that week of their trip to Rockmart, Georgia, I met my peak week distance maximum at around 100 miles. In March, I took my first bike-based birthday ride for Borith on his BeltGrind route. Ride joy is contagious, and it carried me to lead an April ride to my favorite Indian plaza in Decatur. Then, in mid-May, a cycling accident took me off the road. It was an abrupt reminder and wake-up call. We are so very mortal. The loss of independence during the following eight weeks in a wheelchair was transformative. The combined inability to care for myself, prepare meals, or write was challenging.

In response, I had a beautiful outpouring of support and compassion from my community, friends, and family. My favorite aunt, Sheru, made a surprise visit to Atlanta from Toronto to get me from Grady. She later helped me bathe and read Urdu poetry to me. Just a month later, she suffered a stroke. Now, her motor functions and language abilities are a little different. When I visited her in November, I tried to reciprocate warmth to her. Already aware of the dilemmas of diabetes and heart disease in my family history, I am even more attuned to the requirements for preventive medicine. My concern about holistic health has grown firmer.

Good health begins inside the body. Not long after addressing my physical injuries, I proactively sought the help of a therapist. I learned to carry the simultaneous gratitude for support along with patience during my temporary disability. Discussions with my therapist have highlighted the beauty of slowing down and bringing compassion to myself. Again, this reminds me that the first component of health is having the right mindset. A senior member of my care team noted that your self-image can benefit your healing. As I see myself as an outdoors lover, I was motivated to return to operating under the power of my limbs.

Community is the second component of my health and has been the best miracle of this year. My expedited recovery is thanks to the benevolent energies and grace carried through my cycling community. People I did not know well checked in on me. Friends visited, brought me meals, and transported me to appointments. I am getting by this year with a LOT of help from my friends. Through many deep conversations, I am reminded how interwoven our lives are. As I shared my concerns, others shared their hearts. We are now woven closer together. Healing really does happen in community.

Finding and enjoying meaningful work has been incredibly arduous this year. I supported a progressive, community-based developer for a short contract this year. In the happiness jar, I recalled a February public comment I gave at the Dekalb County Commissioners meeting. I had the chance to complain about the Dekalb Police Department and express my disdain for Cop City in one truth-to-power moment. In other joy, I led a bike-sharing theme camp at Alchemy, our regional burn. Through this community project, I got to spread the joy of riding, and advance the cause of adventure.

An important part this year was the continued efforts at writing. My focus shifted from UpStreamRose to a series of emails via Substack. While my right wrist was broken, the difficulty in writing became an unexpected gift. I started feeling bloated with words and feelings when I could not hold a pen. It was a reminder to keep at this craft. Thanks to voice-typing applications, I kept some writing going. I have been grateful as people have connected with me through conversations via writing. Through these interactions, I sense we have collectively drawn ripples of awareness and expansion in 2023.

I punctuated the year on Christmas Eve with a bike ride for Palestine. I still feel shocked that so many Americans cannot acknowledge that this country is funding genocide in Gaza. This horror is happening before our digital-and-always-connected eyes. A global collective awakening pushes Americans to realize that they are on the wrong side of history. With some invitations to holiday parties and seasonal festivities, I look forward to hugging friends and celebrating the end of 2023. Ultimately, I am happy to tuck the horrors and humanity of 2023 into hopes and efforts for a smoother and kinder 2024.

Updates from Recovery Road

In my last post, I wondered if another update would be relevant.  I had not fully considered the whole picture of my recovery.  As an optimist, I tend to want to share only the best news.  Yet, with time, I am beginning to accept that some traumas take an indirect course.  My accident on May 15 forever changed my life.  With some wisdom from Dr. Tara Brach, I am confronting this reality with Radical Acceptance.  Some of the physical repercussions of my broken body will always be with me.  My heart, too, has its own non-linear healing progression in returning to the road.  

Beyond riding bikes again, I have still been dealing with ongoing medical concerns.  After losing two temporary fillings to baguettes, I had another dentist’s appointment two weeks ago.  I have now visited the good dentist almost six times in 6 months.  Fortunately, he was a cyclist on my fateful M+M ride and offered to do my repair work pro bono.  Beyond teeth, on my upper lip, there is still a visible slash and clumps of scar tissue underneath it.  These issues are out of the dentist’s sphere, and I had to see a more special specialist.  I requested an oral-facial consult from Grady, which took almost five months to receive.  Finally, on November 3, I discussed with the young doctor the ongoing numbness in my upper lip and the dental pain and sensitivity I continue to have.  Per the doctor’s advice, there is nothing to be done about the alternating pain and numbness.  I was advised to massage my facial scars.

Next month, I have two more appointments with each of my surgeons, one for the hand and another for the foot.  Each surgeon will take x-rays and test my range of motion.  With my ongoing physical therapy, I have made generally good progress.  I anticipated that my insurance would cover both types of therapy.  But, just two weeks ago, I received an unexpected bill for my hand physical therapy from Emory; five visits are costing me over $800.  Tender love and care (TLC) are not free!

The heart knows the need for TLC.  My capacity for socializing in huge groups has been waning.  My favorite Atlanta festival, Chomp & Stomp, was going on during a bright Saturday morning in Cabbagetown.  I usually hop out of bed and run over there, but this time, I had mixed feelings about going (a premonition, perhaps?).  After slowly deliberating, I pulled myself into motion and wandered down in the afternoon amid music and chili.  Some favorite MWRollers were relaxing in the sun when I found them in Cabbagetown’s park.  A few of us wanted to see the band Wasted Potential, so we joined the band in their parade for Dexter the Cat.  In the crowd, I met a group of old Atlanta acquaintances.  They had heard of my accident and were happy to see me stomping around.  For a moment, I again felt surrounded by care and support.

In this human mélange, unexpectedly, I crossed paths with my bike assailant and the proximate cause of my crash.  I said little about this individual in my prior posts for his safety.  Let’s call this person JK.  He did not just leave the accident scene (as some people asked); I am told he was around and tried to help.  While JK was able to leave the site of the accident without an ambulance, he did also have a wrist injury.  He later came to visit me in the hospital.  In my wheelchair days, at JK’s insistence, I allowed him to see me at my home with a neutral party present.  There, I asked him how to be accountable for putting me in this condition.  He had no answer.  A lawsuit was not an option for me.  Though his random meal delivery was one gesture, he has not offered nor provided any form of financial support for the injuries he caused.  Nor has he shown any support for the myriad tasks that became my burden.  When I saw him at Chomp & Stomp, I felt sick to my stomach.  Therapy has helped me process some of my feelings.  Still, I was raw after I saw him hanging out in the parade with some of our mutual friends.  Balancing between civility and rage is difficult.  I returned to my bike posse and danced about while Wasted Potential played.  

Last month, with two others, I brought a bike-themed camp to Alchemy, Atlanta’s Regional Burning Man event.  We brought bikes to share!  It was cathartic and beautiful to see other people riding around on bikes.  It was a boon to those with mobility issues.  For me, riding in a car-free space was also glorious.  After getting messed up in a very public accident, I am learning what it feels like to be called out in public.  At Alchemy, a cyclist rode by me, pointed, and yelled: “You’re that girl from M+M.” I never knew what it was like to be a celebrity.  Occasionally, such a comment seems like an accusation.  I wonder, was my accident the reason that the Monday ride ended?  In time, I have expanded my heart by trying to handle such comments gracefully.  

Among the recent rides with MWR, I met a few new-to-me cyclists who had heard about my accident.  It still surprises me when people know me by my name and the details of my story.  I have come to welcome the opportunity to share a bit about my recovery and discuss what it feels like to be back on the road.  I now wear special compression socks and occasionally a wristband for support.  I still feel a sense of anxiety behind the handlebars.  Yet, I persist cautiously.

Despite the known dangers, some people still put others in precarious situations during group rides.  I am much more careful about my surroundings now.  I mainly keep a healthy distance from assholes.  Irrespective of riding experience, no one can predict the behavior of riders around them, the trajectory of vehicles, or the impact of Atlanta’s potholes.  I actively avoid people doing tricks like placing their feet on handlebars while riding or demonstrating hands-free balance.  Surprisingly, one of these assholes has a deep knowledge of the consequences of my spill.  It is callously self-centered to endanger others to show off.  Does maturity ever counteract braggadocio and selfishness?  Alas, some people just want to fuck around and find out.

As I anticipated in my first post, the path of recovery involves humility and education.  Essentially, I learn and relearn the lessons of Radical Acceptance.  I may not be able to persuade an individual to be less self-centered.  But I can adjust my life to avoid the carelessness of others.  Out of love for those who helped me heal, I will do my best to move forward with integrity and care.  While I ride and share my experience, I aim to remain respectful within my community.  There continue to be plenty of opportunities for mischief, camaraderie and laughs. I look forward to nourishing those moments while keeping limb and life safe.  

End of Summer Updates

I have exercised and expanded my mobility in the weeks since my last update in early August. As I regained strength in my hand and leg, the world of adventure called for me. I noted that I have a finite energy reserve and have been selective in picking where (and with whom) to play. I picked a few excursions for myself; the universe picked a few others for me. I chose playing in the water in Lake Hartwell and bicycling in the desert. Later, COVID caught me, and I napped a lot and then dealt with car dilemmas. Let me catch all of you up on the whirlwind of the last two months.

Water-based activities were high on the list as summer was ending. Last year, on the invitation of a Greenville, South Carolina-based friend, I attended the 2022 Lake Crash organized by local Couch Surfers. I made new friends there and met a handful of the Atlanta cycling community. This year, the organizers proactively reserved a waterfront campsite for me. The lake was perfect for connecting with friends, nature, and myself. Mayuresh and some non-CouchSurfing Atlanta cyclists joined our excursion to Lake Hartwell. I set up my hammock with peak water views and brought my two ORU kayaks to share. In addition to the joy of paddling on flat water, the group rented a pontoon boat for shenanigans. In the weekend’s excitement, I felt moved to try my luck on a spontaneous first bicycle ride post-accident. I managed a loop of the campground on a friend’s bike. I rode fine until I saw a crowd of people ahead of me, panicked, and dropped myself and the bike on my right side. Fortunately, I was going relatively slow. Still, it was an excellent first-run reminder: people are unpredictable. I would need practice in controlling my internal post-trauma alarm reaction.

While preparing for the Lake Crash, an even bigger bonanza was brewing. Clint is a regular at Burning Man. At a pre-MWR dinner, Clint invited me to ride in his vehicle on his annual pilgrimage to Black Rock City. I had always wanted to go to Burning Man. As I simmered on the idea, an offer for a Playa-safe tent and a loaner bike sprang up from my friends. Through the support of my community, I sensed the universe inviting me on a massive adventure. Of course, I accepted. Burning Man was unequivocally incredible. The scale of the city and art were intense. I rode a beach cruiser on the flat, sandy desert through most of the week. Yes, it rained. Yes, it got messy. NO! I was NOT stuck. By definition, I contend, you are only stuck if you want to be somewhere else! At the Man, I again met my limit. I biked and explored as much as my body allowed. As needed, I stopped or slowed down.

Thanks to our flexible schedules, Clint and I stayed to see The Man burn on Monday evening (two days later than expected.) On the way back, the trip got spicy. Just outside of Salt Lake City, Clint’s car needed a tow. The car troubles (and UFO podcasts) strained my psyche, and I felt the urge to go home. The next day, I boarded a flight to Atlanta via an excruciating and accidental 20+ hours layover in Las Vegas.

When I finally came home, COVID caught up with me. After avoiding the plague for three years, I learned that the `Rona was hanging out in our camp at Black Rock City. I returned to Atlanta with a dancing spirit and a wiped-out body. My main symptoms were exhaustion. I slept for what felt like ten days straight. With a positive COVID test, I again had the cringe feeling of wanting to go out and see people and not being able to… Instead, I slept odd hours and anywhere. In bits of wakefulness, I packed my personal belongings into moving boxes. (Also, BTW, I am looking for housemates!) Before heading out to Burning Man, I had decided to move to Decatur. As I waited out this surprise illness, I caught up on lots of sleep. Fortunately, my souvenir from Black Rock City dissipated just a few days before the last MWR of the summer.

On Wednesday, 9/20, I joined Midweek Roll for my first group ride post-accident. Pre-ride, some well-meaning friends asked how long I had been back on the bike. This ride was the first one; I had too many butterflies in my stomach to respond coherently. I was nervous and did not want to make too much drama or hoop-la about my first attempt with Luna. I needed all my attention to ride in an upright and safe fashion. Lis understood the situation and let me hide in her hugs. She graciously rode along with me and reminded me to keep breathing. As we traveled the last leg of the ride through the Krog Street Tunnel back to 97 Estoria, we both screamed triumphantly into the night. I felt intense physical and spiritual relief as I parked my bike against the fence. I wanted to cry tears of joy but managed to hang (not quietly) with our posse and my custom drink at Estoria.

Once I tasted the joy of riding with my crew again, I was even more enthused about Streets Alive that weekend. Part of my motivation to move to Decatur was to use my car less often and take more adventures with my bike. Between car runs of baggage from Chamblee to Decatur, I managed to wear out my car. After loading my beloved Luna on the car’s bike rack for Streets Alive, I saw that my car was not interested in starting up. Faced with staying home again on a gorgeous day, I wrestled up the nerve to ride my bike a mile to downtown Decatur and board the MARTA train with my bike to Five Point station. Somehow, the commute made Streets Alive more relevant. There, I bumped into many, many Atlanta cyclists. Perhaps my favorite moment was dismounting from my bike to join a dance party on Peachtree Road with my cycling community.

Early October is a great time to be out and about in Atlanta. Later this month, I will co-lead a bike camp at Alchemy, our local burn. To supplement PT, I am returning to a yoga practice. This month, I aim to get on the mat with Yoga with Adrienne daily. Her mantra of `Find What Feels Good` really resonates as I meet my edge. My right side often needs modification, and I adjust according to an internal compass. Through this trauma, I, too, am turning a leaf. I am happily listening to the messages of my body. Ankle and foot massage are excellent. So are the naps I have been taking. Very often, though, my spirit echoes into my body, and this song, I Hope You Dance, compels me to my feet. I continue to honor that. While I am not 100% returned to pre-accident me, with dedication and patience, I am making good progress.

Double Update from the Weeks of July 31st and August 7th

Today, August 10th, I am 3.5 weeks out of my wheelchair. Yesterday, I paid the medical bill for my emergency room visit. Thanks to my health insurance, I paid about 1% of the padded charges. The bill could have thrown me into fierce personal debt if I had not had health insurance. The generous GoFundMe campaign (which raised about $17,000) would have paid for less than half the cost of a CT scan (sans insurance). The funds from the GoFundMe have allowed me to take time away from working and focus on my recovery. That itself is a vast and priceless blessing.

This newsletter will now shift to provide updates biweekly. I am well on the way to a new and better normal. As I return to my bike, I want to acknowledge that my healing has been going better than expected. My hunch is that it is because I have been surrounded by so much love. One of my earliest get-well cards included the statement: Healing Happens in Community. I see the truth of this card applied in practice. There is no doubt that feeling loved is good for your mental health. I now see that it is also impressively powerful for your physical health as well. 

I have started to see my healing process in separate phases. Phase 1: the rough patch while in the hospital. Phase 2: the days of my life in a wheelchair. Now, I am at Phase 3: walking on my own. At each of these steps, I have had so much support. Through this journey, I have been blessed with real human gems all along the way. Some of my friends began as acquaintances. Over the course of this calamity, these friends I now consider family. Photographs of a few select human heroes are included here.

Phase 1: My recovery started on a sweet note. While I was still in the hospital, my friend Mayuresh recorded an impressive series of good wishes from the Midweek Rollers in video format. I met Mayuresh at a CouchSurfing Lake Crash last year. Since then, we have gone on countless adventures together. I credit his friendship and support for bringing me to the Atlanta cycling community. Initially, I thought Mayuresh was a sort of AI computer engineer genius. Now I know he is more skilled than any engineer I have ever known. He can fix tech issues, install ramps, cook, drive (OK), and be dearly human.

Phase 2: The wheelchair days. A few days after I returned home from the hospital, my friend Benjamin helped me prepare for a little house party. The party was a loving way to return home after so much trauma. I developed a wall of cards from the party and well-wishers to cheer me on my recovery. Though we only met earlier this year, Benjamin has shown me heartwarming kindness and caring.  He consistently showed up weekly to help me around the house or take me on adventures.

Phase 3: Getting out of the house under my own power. Lis was the first to visit me in the hospital. She was also the first to give me a reason to hoot and holler outside of the home. Last week, Lis invited me to share in the joy of queer lube wrestling. I usually do not like being a spectator. However, watching able-bodied friends fight for a good cause brought back my whistle. The whistle is a thing. See my crew trying to whistle in my MWR video. Lis found space in her life and heart to care for me through her own life challenges. I cannot even describe the depth of my love and appreciation for her existence.

Yesterday, I went to hang out with my bike family on MWR.  My limp is minimal, and the damage on my wrist is difficult to perceive. I look cycle ready to the untrained eye. A few people even asked why I was not back on my bike. Little do they know, I am getting ready. My physical therapy involves a bit of upright bicycle practice. In the meanwhile, I am thankful for the saintly MWRoller who pulled me on his reinforced trailer for a joy ride yesterday. 

Little did I know that I would be seeing Mayuresh, Lis, and Benjamin in a whole new light. Just one month before my temporary leave of (cycling) absence, Captain Clint invited us on his sailboat. We had the lucky luxury of choosing to bike or boat. As I reflect on the past few months, I realize that while I lost a bit of cycling time, I gained depth in my heart and friends for a lifetime.

Update for Week of July 24

My joie de vivre has returned. Friends on the phone note that I sound much better. And indeed, I do feel better. I am eager to walk about under my own power and have been leaving the house more often. Some pains do show up sporadically in the hand and foot. But getting out of the wheelchair is a welcome phase of recovery.   Now that I am in the hands of a fantastic therapist, I have begun contemplating the contrast with bumpy portions of recovery. This journey makes me wonder about the humanity in our medical system.

Grady Memorial is Atlanta’s only trauma hospital. As a patient in the hospital, I was recovering from the most extensive physical trauma I knew. All I wanted to see in that space was a vision for my healing. It takes peace of mind, a sense of safety, support, and hope. People say that the surgery and trauma crew are excellent at Grady. Immediately after that, in the PACU (post-anesthesia care unit), I realized my need for help to heal post-trauma.

I was taken to the PACU after my operation early AM on May 16th. This is where I had to wait about 12 hours after surgery to receive a hospital room. The PACU is a large shared hall; I was in Bay 8. My pre-operation nurses were super sweet. The contrast here was salty. The nurse, ironically named Moses, could hear me asking for water but casually attended to his computer in my bay. The PACU nurse could not be bothered to provide me with either water or food, though it was suggested I should get nutrients. For 15 minutes at least, he ignored my repeated requests for water. He did this after telling me to wait for the next round of meals after I had slept through the lunch service in a post-anesthesia haze. It was the first time I felt like crying. Later, he rested his elbow on my bed while talking about his rental property in Nigeria on his cell phone.

After insisting on a change of nurse and bay, a kindhearted nurse brought me a fruit cup and juice to quench my soul. As I waited for the room assignment in the Bay of Ugliness, I was not allowed additional visitors. In the shared bay, I was told visitations are restricted. While waiting in this shared space, I could hear the screams of patients ringing out across the hall. Each bay shouted shocks in the early moments of consciousness after surgery. These sounds and agony took a toll on my spirit. The wait for a longer-term observation room was the first taste of absolute helplessness.

When I was wheeled into my assigned room, it was nearly midnight. And I had a roommate. My roomie already had the window side and she was trying to sleep when I arrived. I was placed on the other side of the curtains she would keep drawn. The four days I spent there were a lesson in patience. A series of technicians entered the room for various tasks. Throughout the day (and night), people check on you to measure your blood pressure, deliver a regiment of pills, and rarely for cleaning. Sometimes, I felt that I was a task, not a human. There were constant beeping noises from machines attached to me. Without windows and sunlight, the healing effect of trees, I felt I was in a science experiment. My roommate kept the TV on and loud at night for background noise (ugh). Between her calls for help, and our regular tech- checks, it was hard to sleep well through the night. The resident doctor in training would arrive, grumpy at 6 am, then wake me up to ask how I slept.

The hand specialist working with me at Emory’s 21 Ortho Lane is a dream. Marcia is my ideal healthcare caregiver. She is everything I could hope for in a therapist. Marcia is competent, kind, and thoughtful. She communicates well, and her presence puts me at ease. Wow. She is a gift and a gem in this process. I am so glad about this because arriving at a therapist has not been easy. There have been pushbacks from the insurance company and the foot clinic suggesting that I could not work on hand and foot during the same period (like the first limb had to be discharged before the other limb is eligible for therapy!) A bureaucracy like this makes me wonder about the efficacy of our healthcare system.

Another sore spot within health care has been the exchange of knowledge. Overall, I felt I was under-informed about the procedures in surgery and learning about the extent of my injuries. I am interested in asking specific questions about my body. As a lawyer growing up in a medical household, I realize that the question of informed consent is entirely another issue (you must know a meaningful amount about the choices in front of you). Still, many of my providers could not provide the bare minimum a decenct explanation. When I asked for clarifications and answers, I was told that a surgeon had talked to me post-surgery. I retorted: You mean when I was high and hallucinating in Lalaland? Days later, I chased down some surgeon to get a basic explanation of my injuries. Til then, support staff directed me to check MyChart (while I was still in the hospital). Without an insider’s heads-up for proper hospital checkout, I wonder where I would have been. The doctors in my family helped me retrieve the script for therapy and medicines before I left. The hospital sent me home with some medications, but I am glad I doubled checked ( I would have been without Oxy if I had not paid attention). While I was present and before being discharged, I waited 2+ hours for MyChart login credentials.

Reflecting on my journey here, I realize my physical pain was not the worst part of my accident. My biggest bumps were mean people and the psychological sense of dependence. Walking on my own makes a huge contrast. Now, I am safely away from Grady Hospital and gratefully in front of the windows with Marcia. Before we begin treatment, she wraps my wrist with towels and a heating pad. I gaze into the green grass and return to a sense of calm. She asks about my weekend, and I tell her about the past four days excursion to the Georgia/ North Carolina borderland. I spent time in a passive solar modern eco cabin with windows with views and thoughtful amenities galore. There, I shared meals, splashes, and care with cherished loved ones. It is the version of health care that has been most healing.

Update for Week of July 17

Yesterday, I walked around Patel Plaza in Decatur. From afar, I looked like any able-bodied person. To my overwhelming surprise, at my Monday, July 17th appointment, I was freed from my foot cast and given permission to walk! I expected my ankle would need a scooter or other walking contraption. But, according to my surgeon, I can be fully weight-bearing on my right leg. Right now, only loose-fitting shoes hold my swollen foot and ankle. Meanwhile, my wheelchair sits at home. Without it, I can blend into the background in a crowd.

Up close, you can see the wound on my right leg where my ankle was sewn together. The scar has the intriguing shape of a closed eye with stitches as eyelashes. Walking up the toiletry aisle at Patel Brothers, I considered buying henna to make fun temporary tattoos on my wound scars. I could draw an amusing face, a butterfly, or a flower wreath once some swelling is reduced.   Since I am not taking pain medications or dangerous drugs, I can also drive. The sudden jolt in autonomy has me both appreciating independence and adjusting to some internal changes.

I no longer need a chaperone to leave the house! Though I am no fan of driving, I appreciate flexing my American (car-based) independence. After being driven around and needing accessibility infrastructure, I have a new perspective on the importance of access, curb cuts, and well-placed entryways. If you have ever walked across a smoking Hot-lanta asphalt in the middle of the day, you will appreciate the relief of awnings and shade. For all my car-based excursions, my temporary handicapped parking permit has been a blessing. As my body adjusts to the summer weather, I have been walking through errands in a heat daze with a little limp.

Though I have started driving again, I remember why I hate it. Driving is dangerous for motorists, pedestrians, and cyclists. When in their cars, most people fall into little bubbles within their minds. Car-based design is wasteful and isolating. Atlanta is incredibly spread out. I wonder what I would have done if I did not have a volunteer crew of drivers. Driving here requires a different attitude. This city is full of out-of-towners and non-drivers who moved here and had to get hip to driving. Of my many volunteer chauffeurs, there is only one I would like to drive me again. Many SUV drivers appear indifferent to stop signs and pedestrians. To make going places here more challenging, Atlanta also suffers from municipal ineptitude. The city pothole crew plays a never-ending Whack-a-Mole game with our street. As a result, driving in Atlanta is often about being appropriately attentive. Near my home, the 285 loop and access to Interstate 85 N requires a series of merges and lane changes. The transition requires attention and care. Post-accident, I find myself very attentive. I hope the other drivers are also accident averse.

It has only been ten days since my right wrist was freed from its brace. I welcome coming back to doing most things on my own. In Japan, I developed an appreciation for the rhythms of mundane tasks. Bathing, cleaning, and laundry still take twice as long as before my accident. I sense the urgent pull of my culture; faster, faster! Do all things quickly. Yet, the compulsion to hurry up does not push me any longer. I feel I have experienced a shift in my heart. I am Ok with going a bit slower. I have adjusted to methodically doing errands. I remember that before I could bike, I used to walk. Before I could walk, I am told, I crawled. The adjustment to enjoying the slower pace is welcome. It feels subversive. I will wait another week or two before I get my bike from storage. Until then, I am still focusing on all the kinds of healing that I haven’t been able to do, like soaking and swimming bathing.

This morning’s sun peaked through the curtains onto my face. The light illuminates skin that still carries the mark of road rash. Looking out the window, I see a day I can participate in. The road to full recovery requires healthy and slow movements. My house is in disarray as I pack for the weekend away. I prepare for a cabin in the Georgia mountains. I will have a slow soak in a hot tub. From there, I will appreciate the starry sky and the luxury of leisure. I feel blessed to enjoy this slow-style dance to health.

Week of July 10 Update

I am sitting on a porch in Cabbagetown, looking at aerial silks in the backyard. The smells of Jenchan’s and the chatter at Milltown Tavern carry over the fence. The breeze and tree shade are a welcome part of this staycation. From here, I have been contemplating the lessons learned from the now two full months of living with my bike traumas. In addition to the graces of luck and kindness I recounted last week, the previous two months taught me humanity lessons. Life, of course, is a constant exercise in growth, change, and learning. To cruise more effectively on the journey, here are some roadcuts I picked up from this wheelchaired portion of my trip.

1. Think twice, be nice! Consider the impact of a comment on its recipient.

Words are like the bows of an arrow. Once they have been shot, they cannot be retracted. I have relearned this lesson multiple times from making accidentally thoughtless comments. As I had never had a big accident before, I never considered how to approach another person who lived through something similar. From this, I have learned that the comment “it could be worse” is one of the worst things you can say. I had no idea before; now, I know it very well.

The sheer number of people who have told me that my situation “could be worse” is remarkable. There are a total of zero times that that specific comment has made me feel better. On the other hand, there were several vulnerable times when it was real mental torture. I am not really sure why people say, “it could be worse.” I am happy never to have another reminder about my mortality from a stranger. This immediate instance does not improve after reeling into a mental experiment of how this could have been worse. 

Knowing of my many missteps helps soften my heart for those who have never sat in this position. Of course, I am firmly grateful to be alive. Still, remembering the hunger in Africa will not change my appetite here in America. The reminder that I could be paralyzed or dead does not make this situation easier to carry. Avoid putting your metaphorical foot in your mouth by considering the impact of your comment.

2.    Imagine the impossible. We can adapt

On Thursday this week, my right hand was released from brace prison. As I regain a full range of motion with my wrist, I have noticed how much I have learned to do with my left hand. On Wednesday, I used chopsticks with my left hand to pick up a slippery fish egg at a Japanese izakaya. I can tie knots and my hair now with my non-dominant hand. My left hand has also improved in throwing precision. I can now count on tossed trash to land in the right place.

We are so infinitely adaptable. The left hand is just the start. I love challenging my own ideas of boundaries. Transitions from my wheelchair to another surface can be unnerving. For example, going from a steady chair to a rocking hammock requires faith. I found ways to use my elbows, knees, and momentum to pick up where I needed help.

We have to keep doing that which excites and moves our spirit. Part of this is that our minds create solutions when we are with our backs against the wall. In a recent internet rabbit hole, I learned that people with permanent disabilities have dancing socials. Learning this inspired me. We do not know when our music will end, so we must make ways to adapt and dance.

We rise to the vision we see. We can be as ambidextrous, fluid, or flowy as we can imagine. Do not accept anyone’s limitations as your given.  

3.    Ask less, watch more. Use context clues

In Japan, I noticed that many people worked together for years with many layers of privacy. It is uncommon to ask about someone’s personal life. Thus, some teachers I worked with were an enigma. Co-workers do not share private information like marital status, kids in the household, or economic situation. That circle of privacy can be nice. Context clues are used to pick up details. I sometimes appreciate the capacity to operate on only a `need-to-know basis.`

When a friend was helping me pack for an overnight visit, they asked why I only needed one of my shoes and not the pair. I graciously answered. But his comment set off an inner dialogue. I created silly memes in my head about why you only want one shoe. Then, I would insert a photo of my built-in foot boot.

Learn to hold a question in your mind before emitting it. Be inquisitive, yet inquire after some of your due diligence. Or perhaps, ask yourself: “What is it to you, eh?”

4.    Say YES. Drop the doubts

My experiences with death and mortality were first transformed at age 24. My father died in August 2008, and then my maternal grandmother, the only grandparent I knew, passed on Valentine’s Day, 2009. I dealt with the loss of my two closest family members in the span of six months. I will forever remember how precious our lives are. That time of my life reinforced my idea about saying an enthusiastic YES to the world.

Thanks to those many “It could have been worse” comments, I have recently wondered what if I had really died? Post-accident, it is natural to think about your mortality. Beyond that, though, the more pressing question has become:

What OTHER experiences do you want from the world? I have lived most of my life with the spirit of saying “Yes!” to novelty. Still, I see the onus is on me to choose adventure and exploration in the balance between patience and opportunity. I am happy to push even more boundaries and eager to explore without regret.

As I climb down the set of stairs to the backyard for a bit of aerial physical therapy, I have this country song in my head. In Live Like You Are Dying, Tim McGraw sings about going after those scary experiences. I hope to build into my recovery a space for more expansion in my heart. I look forward to trying things that are beyond my own self-imposed limitations. When I die, I hope there is an enormous parade and party to celebrate my life. I wish to be remembered for living with vigor. After some jazz numbers, I hope someone plays Frank Sinatra’s My Way.