Post 152: After the Lord Mayor’s Show…
Life’s rollercoaster.
Up and down I go with unerring frequency — and right now, it’s not an easy thing to cope with.
———
I looked out of the bathroom window to see what had woken me. It was 4 o’clock, still pitch dark, and my sleep had been broken yet again.
Rain was bouncing off the tarmac at the end of our little dead-end, leaping upwards in sheets. A rare sight. The intensity drowned out every other sound until—boom! A massive thunderclap right overhead. No wonder I was awake.
My Darling joined me at the window and we stood together in silence, both wrapped in our own thoughts…
(I’ll leave that there — too many streams of consciousness crossing over right now. Back to it later.)
———
Rising up ahead of us from the grass-cut fields of the 11th Duke of Richmond’s estate, the brightly painted wooden helter-skelter marked the way to the Goodwood Revival.
We pulled into the car park in the rain, alongside lines of others determined that the day would still be fabulous despite the weather. A few minutes’ wait in the cars, then a mass rummage in boots for waterproofs to pull over the smart period outfits. But the rain didn’t know when to stop.
Even so, the spirit of the day was infectious. No amount of mud or drizzle could dull the excitement of a celebration of racing, history, and style from the ’40s and ’50s.
Yesterday’s transfusion — two neat bags of life’s best red — had done its job, and here I was at last, doing what I’d planned for months. Health-wise things are shaky, but today I wasn’t going to go mad, just steady. My only real concern was the steps and bridges across the track — would I manage them? (As it turned out, yes, slowly, in good company with other compromised souls taking it steady.)
In between the roar of engines on the rain-slick track and the chatter of thousands of beautifully dressed spectators, Dave (my Pal) and I found a quiet spot under some trees beside VW camper vans. Breakfast was a picnic from home, shared while we gathered ourselves. He took great care of me all day.
The highlight? The Barry Sheene Cup. A bike race, of course. My thing. Brave riders — amateurs and pros, paired up — ready to take on the track in pouring rain. We positioned ourselves at the fence with a clear view of the pits and start line.
When the flag dropped for the classic Le Mans start, the clouds parted, the sun broke through, and the riders sprinted across the track to their machines. Engines roared, spray flew, and they thundered away in a glorious blur. True heroes. I loved it.
———
Hours passed — more racing, more walking, more rests. Eventually it was clear we were done. An early exit made sense before the car park turned into a quagmire.
We wandered back through stalls, fairground rides, colour, and noise, then through rows of immaculate pre-1966 cars — in truth, just as fascinating to me as the track racers themselves.
At the car we reversed the process: muddy kit off, clean clothes on, and farewell to the Hampshire fields. I couldn’t thank Dave enough for his care and patience.
Back home, my Darling had dinner ready and questions lined up. Apparently I looked tired — she wasn’t wrong. I barely made it through a few answers before drifting off in my chair.
What a day.
———
Later, though, the real sting. My Darling saw me slope off early, worn down not just by Goodwood but by AFib. Again.
Drat. Treble drat.
My needed rest was badly broken and restless — I couldn’t lie on my heart at all. Tomorrow will have to be quieter, though Kev’s month’s mass calls us to church, and I’ll be there to walk my Darling in for a blessing.
———
13 hours of AFib through the night. I hope it’s truly gone now.
The transfusion itself was easy, almost too easy — unless this latest round of heart chaos was its hidden consequence. No, I won’t believe that. It can’t be.
So another week closes.
Ahead: Dr S in oncology, a work health review, and both to make more plans for the future.
Bus still rolling. Me still on board.
