Friday, October 1, 2010

Day 2 of rest brings a grim medical diagnosis

Tuesday, Sept. 21

We check out of our hotel room and skip "breakfast." We collect our belongings and pedal to the nearest walk-in clinic. So far the swelling has receded but Nicole is still in pain.  Once we arrive at the walk in, however,we able to get some perspective based on some of the other clientele.

While Nicole was filling out her insurance information, two groups of people walked in within about 30 seconds of one another. The first was a 50 something woman and her friend: the second; a slightly older man.

"Do you mind if I go in next?" The older man said, holding up his hand. "I've got a fish hook in my finger."

"The woman just smiled, nervously. "I'm having chest pains," she explained.

"Okay," the man said, understanding. Given that he seemed extremely calm despite his polite inquiry to go to the front of line, one wondered if he had encountered a fish hook jammed in finger before.

"I was just fly fishing," he said. "Made a bad cast and the damn thing just lodged in there." He looked at the woman with chest pains and her friend. "It'll be alright."

That's a good mentality to have, regardless of the diagnosis.

After a few minutes of waiting Nicole gets called and we're waiting in a doctor's office. A doctor's assistant walks in, complete with white coat and clipboard. He asks Nicole some questions and she tells him about the pain she's experienced. He runs his hand over Nicole's heel to determine the exact source of the pain. He removes his hand from Nicole's heel to takes some notes. Then he gives it to us straight:

"It's tendonitis of the Achilles Heel," he says, with hint of drama to his voice. "You should see your regular doctor in five days, but until then," he paused and looked towards me, "no more biking."

Ouch. Hey, it's not a tear. That could be devastating. He gives us the well known "RICE" protocol for tendonits: Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation. We've got time to get back on our feet. In the meantime, we can manage a quick in-town ride to Nicole's favorite breakfast nook. The Brea Lu Café on Forest Ave.

Brea is for Breakfast. Lu is for Lunch.
We pedal to Forest Ave for breakfast. Nicole has her favorite, eggs benedict, while I opt for an exotic strawberry kiwi French Toast. While we check out on the main register, the owner can't help but see the bikes outside and wonder where we're going."

Well, we're hoping to ride to the Florida Keys, we tell her, but we must rest an inflamed Achilles Heel for a few days. She gets excited and tells us not to worry, there's a place nearby that has relatively low rates and built-in kitchens for folks who need a cheap place to stay. She gives us her phone book and tells us the name. We find the place and call only to find it's a bit on the pricey side: 90 clams a night. That's alright. I figure we will take a train into nearby Wells and stay at a campground for much less to get the much needed R and R. We say goodbye to our new friend, but not before Nicole buys some nice new handmade earrings that the café has for sale.

Arriving at the train station is a bit of a hassle, but we manage. It involves riding on the sidewalk the wrong way on a one-way street to avoid a ridiculous 1-mile roundabout trip across the old Union Station that has since been demolished to make way for a strip mall.

Immaculately designed and built, the original Union Station Portland made for an impressive entrance for all its travelers. I'll spare you the photos of the strip mall for which the station was demolished. Ironically, there is a Subway in said strip mall.
Once we arrive, we feel like we're at a very small airport. The chairs, terminal desks, the people--it's smaller than Bradley but it feels like we're waiting for a plane. As if that's not confusing enough, I walk to the terminal desk and tell the man I need to take the 3 o'clock train to Wells. "Bus," he said. "You mean bus." He points to a sign on the desk that I neglected to read. Well I'll be: "Track repairs on Monday and Tuesday. Rail operations will resume after 6 pm on Tuesday." After six?  The next train doesn't leave until 8 pm!

"I may have to wait until eight then," I tell him.

"Take your time," he says politely. "I'm here until 3:30 today." He smiles. I sit back down in what looks like our airport waiting area, complete with uncomfortable chairs, and break Nicole the news.
"Well what are we going to to do?" She asks. "I don't want to leave when it's dark, but how can we get our bikes on the bus?"

"I don't know," I say. Fortunately the good man from Amtrak who I spoke to earlier has kept his eye on me. He waves towards me. "Sir," he says politely, "I"ll ask the driver and see if he can accommodate your bikes."

Well, sure enough, within five minutes we have our answer, and the word is good. The bus arrives on time and the driver happily opens the bottom compartment. "I'll let you do the rest," he says. "Just shove 'em on in there."

I put the bikes in, and the panniers make for great packing material. The bikes hold in place, the driver closes the compartment door and we're ready for our escort service. We hope on the bus. I'm somewhat disappointed and Nicole can sense this, but I'm quick to remind her that Magellan gets credit for sailing around the world when in reality he did about 2/3. And unlike Magellan, we're not going to kill ourselves on this trip.



And so begins another RV "campground" adventure...

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