“Knees”

            In high school, I danced on the drill team during half-times. Our sadistic sponsor forced stretching and exercising workouts on us that make today’s PT specialists fume over the casual negligence of our young bodies. Vivid memories haunt me of the hard gym floor pressing into my chest as my partner sat on my back to force my muscles to stretch, stretch, and stretch. One position required us to fold back our knee on the floor, place the other leg straight ahead, and roll down with hands extended to touch our chests to the extended leg. Then we’d shift to the bended knee to pressure it into the ground. If the stretch wasn’t low enough, my partner pushed against my lower back, or sometimes even sat on me to hold me in place.

            No matter what injuries my knees sustained in adulthood, like falling down stairs at work, or slipping and twisting while mopping the kitchen floor, I know every twinge in my knees as I’ve aged began with this torture rendered in high school.

            In 2020, my abused left knee gave out while I was walking and required extremely slow, painstaking rehabilitation that I did following a PAs instructions. I never needed steroid shots. Tylenol Arthritis took care of my pain. My life changed dramatically as I let my knee recover. At first I couldn’t walk around our backyard without stopping. Stairs became a one-step-at-a-time process. After months, I returned to walking to the park. Within a year, I challenged myself with treks up “Suicide Hill” in our neighborhood. Then, I blew out my right knee by a combination of walking and raking leaves. Back to slow and steady rehab.

            During the time of my second knee recovery, we decided to get a stationary exercise bike. With my left knee, I found getting on the bike at the gym provided a safe way to get my heart rate up while not stressing my knees. Purchasing our own bike put my therapy steps away and removed the barriers of gym clothes and gym hours. At first, my knees protested even on the lowest resistance settings and with only fifteen minutes of riding. Now they sing through thirty minutes daily without nagging at me.

            My relationship with the bike is a love/hate one. I dread the thirty minute spin, but love that I can now walk up and down stairs effortlessly. I resent the push against the pedals, but enjoy the satisfaction of sweat. I resent the routine, but understand the need. I envision myself at age 80 with my resistance up and my heartrate low! 

   

 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman