PRP

Fed up with the PT I was seeing, I saw an actual sports doc last week. An MRI the same day showed that his diagnosis of tendinosis (hey, that rhymed) was correct. He recommended a procedure called platelet-rich plasma. Dr. Moser (that's my doctor) told me all about PRP: hemotobin-this, growth-factor-that, mumbo jumbo, insurance doesn't cover it. . . . The internets, however, told me that PRP is an injection that pro athletes have been getting for years, with very promising results. If the pros do it, then it's got to be good, especially if the internet says so. It didn't sound too painful or anything. It involves having 10cc of blood drawn, which is then spun in a centrifuge in order to separate the super awesome blood from all the other stuff. The super blood is then injected into the tendon. A technique called needling is used during the injection, which is a euphemism for viciously stabbing the tendon in various areas for what seems like 10 minutes. At no point during my brief internet research did it say anything about "needling." No where did it say I would nearly pass out from the pain. Do the pros pass out? My vision went grainy like the picture on an old TV that has a coat-hanger for an antenna. I tried tilting my head in different ways for better reception. The florescent lights were very bright. The ceiling tiles were the kind with the little holes in them. "Almost there," he said. I was breathing as if I were having a baby. The similarities were obvious. I was on a table, and a man was standing between my legs. He coached me on how to breath: "Deep breaths now. That's right. Good." I heard someone start to cry, maybe myself. And then it was over. It was the happiest moment of my life. As I hobbled out, taking those first baby steps, the patients in the waiting room looked up from their magazines, pretending not to be amazed. But they were. I could tell.

What the Physical Therapist Said

One week in PT and I think I'm getting better. Initially she said it was quadriceps tendinitis, which is very rare, and she has never seen it in 15 years as a PT. She gave me a take-home electro-shock therapy kit; told me to do some eccentric exercises--stepdowns with 30lb in a backpack.

I think I am getting better. Maybe. One thing for sure is that the pain has become more localized. What used to be a general ache/burn in the upper knee area, has subsided to an area I can pinpoint on the upper medial portion of the knee. What does this mean? It meant we sat there ($100-an-hour sitting) and looked at an anatomy book for something other than tendinitis. It is not reassuring to hear the therapist say that she doesn't know what to do with me. I don't know what to do with me either. Is there anyone who knows what to do with me?

Keeping my hopes up. I know I'll get back on the bike eventually. Worst case, I'll become an avid canoeist.

What the doctor said

The joint is fine. The pain is coming from the VMO musculotendonis junction. There is a strain where the tendon meets muscle. With physical therapy, it should be a quick recovery.

Getting Good at Being Lazy

It's not easy, this inactivity, this couch-sitting, this watching people jogging outside my window. The trick is you have to be orderly. No dillydallying. You have to schedule your inactivity in order to make the best use of time. Intervals are the key. This is what works for me: (3 hours laying on the couch @ HR of 58) x 3 reps. In between reps, un-rest for 5 min by going to the bathroom, making tea, eating spinach, etc.

I think I have quadriceps tendinitis. People have informed me that the burning sensation I get above the knee cap while driving points to tendinitis. Thinking I had a patella tracking problem, I had been doing exercises to strengthen the quad, which is not what you want to do if you have tendinitis. Currently I am experimenting with intervals of RICE, foam roller, and light stretching.

Advice welcome

Don't Do What I Did.

I did it, single speeded myself into the ground. Or maybe it was xc skiing, or pugging, or running, or_fill in the blank_. As some of you know, my right knee has been messed up for a few months now. It isn't all that painful, more like a dull, background pain that is always there, and flares up with activity. I do a lot of driving commuting to school, and strangely, just sitting in the car is when my knee bothers me the most. It might have something to do with the many fine movements one has to do correct speed. Cruise control would be nice.

I haven't seen a doctor or specialist, but have talked with a number of cyclists who have had similar problems. Rest they tell me. Listen to your body. They tell me to do these stretchy-band exercises. And I do. I do the stupid stretchy-band exercises. But my knee doesn't get much better.

Having a high deductible insurance plan, I have been ambivalent about seeing a doctor. I think I am ready though, ready to shell out the big bucks. But you know what they are going to tell me? I just know what they're going to say: "Well, Cody, your symptoms point to a number of possible problems. Without an MRI I can't be sure just what it is. Go home and rest for a few months. Strengthen your quads. You know where the quads are, right? Here--take this stretchy-band. It's free."

If you don't see me at the races this summer, I'll be at home, in front of the TV, drinking beer, maybe a tear running down my unshaven cheek, maybe not, but certainly there will be a giant rubberband fastened to a chair leg, the other end shackled around my ankle.

I am young and stupid. I did not listen to my body. It's a lot like having a girlfriend or a wife--you have to listen to them (not just once in a while; all the time). Ignore her too long and she will slam your head in a door, throw spike-healed shoes at you, make you watch American Idol. Listen to her or she will make you hurt.

Eligible for an Upgrade



Electrical tape replaces a long gone battery cover.



They say it's time. Two years only and they send me a letter saying it's time to toss out the old phone and get a new one for 49.99 after mail-in rebate So what if the screen is a little scratched. And so what if I am one of those people who walk around outside with the phone an inch from my eyeballs, one hand shielding the sunlight as I read a text that says: omg I just saw an old fat guy jogging in track shorts wo a shirt on... total barf. I like being that guy--not the fat and running one--but the one who walks around slowly without knowing whats in front of him. If I looked up I might see that fat guy, shirtless and pale as the full moon, the rise and fall.

Nokia doesn't mean anything to you, but it does to me.

A makeshift bottle opener

The Miracle Carwash, Dubuque, Iowa

It was so bright I couldn’t sleep. Across the street from the Hotel there was a building with a great big electric sign, neon in fact. They must have imported it from Texas, because everything’s bigger in Texas. Like Texas toast. That stuff is huge. I couldn’t sleep because the Miracle Carwash was so bright.


I turned on the TV and nothing was on: a commercial for Pajama Jeans; the amazing Magic Bullet food chopper, dicer, and slicer; also a pill that could give you a beach body in two weeks or your money back. I had about given up on basic cable when I came across a guy putting his palm on people’s foreheads, shouting some angry, devil-be-gone stuff, and making them faint. He even made cripple people get up and walk, but it was the way you would expect a cripple person to walk—kind of a hunched, air-swim/crawl sort of thing. The studio audience gasped and I did too. I did, I gasped.

If cripples could walk (sort of) I could sleep, right? I needed to sleep. It would take a miracle, I thought. If only there was a slick-haired televangelist to smack me in the temple, that would do the trick. But the Hotel Julien was too cheap to have a miracle performing, televangelist on staff. I didn’t even need to call down the front desk; I already knew this, but I called just in case. No luck.

I stood up and put my palm to forehead as I had seen the man on TV do. I pushed pretty hard and muttered a few commands: drive the Devil from this man and let him sleep in peace once again. I must have been doing something wrong, because I couldn’t make myself faint no matter how hard I pushed. I noticed (it was hard not to notice because of how bright it was) that the Miracle Carwash was able to perform its phenomena in a way that was touchfree (how this was possible I wasn’t sure, but carwashes sometimes work in mysterious ways). This was the answerer, then. It had to be. It was like a sign from a sign. I put on some socks, tall ones with the stripes; a hat and jacket; and walked down to the front desk where I purchased two rolls of quarters from the lady who was drinking coffee out of a mug with a picture of her wiener dog on it, Poochie.

The fifth time through, the sounds of water jetting against metal became soothing like waves on the ocean, but really loud like you are right by the ocean, maybe sleeping on the beach because you are homeless and you drank a lot of Black Velvet while watching the sunset, comparing its beauty to your shitty life, that you passed out there, the water lapping at you like a dog licks its wounds. Each time through I became drowsier. The sounds of water were putting me to sleep like one of those machines people put in their bedrooms to simulate a waterfall, or a rainforest, or the ocean, but in the carwash there weren’t any whale calls or other strange animal sounds.

I ran out of quarters. I got out of my car and began picking up rocks to throw at the sign that was keeping me awake. Miracles, I decided, were impossible, and I decided to decide this forever. If suddenly Jesus walked up to me and asked if I knew what time it was or if I had change for a five so he could wash his rusty Ford, I would tell him to go jump in a lake. I would ask him why don’t you just make your own change? In between stone throws, I'd tell him I’m busy here, can’t you see. Jesus, being the guy he is, would say let me give you a hand with that. He’d take aim at the flickering, blue Miracle, winding up like a Major League pitcher, releasing with perfect force and timing. The sign would explode, showers of colored sparks snowing down on the both of us.