Post 88: A Legend and a Pain
Rain, rain, go away… come back another day.
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The day ended with a sharp jab of pain — one minute I was fine, the next I couldn’t get into bed without wincing and cursing. The first painkillers of the day helped eventually, but those were a tough 60 minutes. It just strikes without warning, and I still haven’t figured out exactly where it comes from.
So, yes… I did the forbidden thing.
I turned to Dr Google.
I know, I know. First rule of being unwell: don’t search your symptoms. But I wasn’t diagnosing — just researching. (Honestly.)
Among the expected stuff — muscular strain, side effects — I stumbled across something that felt like it fit. Something rare, but familiar. Intercostal Neuralgia.
Pain in the ribs, chest or back, radiating, tightening — like a corset. Sporadic but intense. Sometimes triggered by nothing more than a cough or sneeze. That rang a bell.
Curious, I looked through my two go-to forums — Heart HealthUnlocked and Macmillan’s cancer support. To my surprise, both had posts linking this nerve pain to cancer treatment and general nerve trauma. One person described it exactly: “like a tightening corset.” Eureka.
Now, I’m not diagnosing myself — I’ll leave that to the professionals — but it helps to name the monster. Even if just as a placeholder for now. My body hasn’t felt like mine since chemo began 10 weeks ago, and this is another piece in the puzzle I’m slowly piecing together.
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Meanwhile, today was otherwise grey and uneventful, while shows and meetups I’d have loved to attend were happening all around. But sleep had eluded both me and My Darling the night before, so a quiet day was the right call.
That said… I did have one thing on my mind.
Something mad.
Something very me.
You see, over thirty years ago — before the kids, before retirement dreams — I was obsessed with motorbikes. I’ve never owned anything too powerful (for safety’s sake), but I’ve had my little Bantam for 43 years, and I love it.
Back then, a few of us were hooked on watching World Superbikes. Big names. Big noise. Big dreams. And for us Brits, no name shone brighter than Carl Fogarty. Four-time World Champion in the ‘90s. Pure racing royalty. A legend.
So when I found out he was opening a new Ducati showroom not far from here, I quietly hatched a plan — and teased My Darling with a mission.
She went.
She queued.
She conquered.
Armed with my 1995 Brands Hatch souvenir programme, she met Foggy. And more than that — she came home with his autograph in the very article about his dominance of the WSB circuit. She even brought me a red t-shirt, a cap, and a model bike — all signed.
I didn’t meet him in person, but I got the moment I’d been dreaming of for decades.
Happy by association.
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So, pain and all, I’m still smiling.
Happy on the bus.
Wishing I was on a Ducati.
Diagnosis meanderings giving me mental fuel.
Ready for whatever’s next.
Whatever cancer throws your way, we’re right there with you.
We’re here to provide physical, financial and emotional support.
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