May 4, 2008
April 30, 2008
April 30, 2008
I had this once before and I had to resume physical therapy to regain a normal stride. So, I recognized the sensation and I felt terror. I knew that the angle of the seats had compressed a nerve / vein (I’m not medical so I haven’t a clue.) I pulled myself up along the seats until I reached the railing and I pulled myself up the stairs. 
And then I walked and flopped my foot as I straightened the nerve / vein until I regained my stride. I asked Dr. Ryan Pfannenstein, DPM (my esteemed podiatrist) and he explained the what and the why.
I refuse to lose my feet. I refuse to lose any function of my feet. So although I’m not overweight, I decided to drop twenty unnecessary pounds and vigorously improve my circulation. Walking is problematic because it rubs my foot horizontally and I tend to develop sores that flare into infections. I can’t vigorously walk. And sitting inert in a chair doesn’t assist weight reduction. I know that from experience. We all know that from experience. Hell, they’re called couch potatoes and not potato chips. So to achieve my goals, I had to climb back on the bike.
I began my “Summer to Sensational 2008″ (ok does this scream marketing?) on 6/23/08. I reduced my calories to 1600 each day and I increased my activity to 10 - 12 biked miles a day. I eat three small meals each day and I supplement my diet with two small snacks. I can’t fast and I must constantly and consistently pay attention to my blood sugars. I can’t allow them to dip. It’s a goddamned difficult balance. But what the hell - I enjoy feet. I have lost ten pounds in the last 15 days. I’m hungry. I’m exhausted. I am ambulatory. And that’s what matters to me.
July 7, 2008
© 2007-2008 Mark R Trost
April 30, 2008
“Oh fuck you!” he screamed. He hapazardly hit me with his hands. His gulped beers gave him courage.
His gulped beers gave me patience. “Don’t hit me again,” I staccatoed to weight my words. I restrained my palms in the lining of my pockets.
“If you’re so fucking enlightened,” he hissed, “how come your life sucks? Huh? Your career sucks! Where’s your woman? Huh? If you’re so fucking smart asshole, how come it’s not helping you?” he cackled until he coughed.
“Maybe I know not to ask,” I whispered.
July 9, 2008
© 2007-2008 Mark R Trost
April 30, 2008
April 30, 2008
April 30, 2008
too. Red or warm or swollen skin might suggest the early stages of an infection, so I’m quite diligent. I’m only barefooted in bed and in the bath. I don’t even swim barefooted - I wear pool shoes.
I feel odd wearing footwear constantly because I spent my youth barefooted on a farm. Tetanus shots, blisters, and band aids were a rite of passage. Yet running barefooted in a spring cornfield, the sting of stepping on straw, and the squish of muddied toes, are privileges of plowing through childhood in a small town.
Last week I dangled my barefooted feet for the first time in nearly 4 years. I awoke to red and warm toes. I examined them. I had not injured myself. I’d sunburned my feet. Yet, I felt disconcerted and disquieted. So I spent the day with the possibility of a problem dangling over my head.
It wasn’t worth it.
