Just one more bite.
Before the accident, I used to say "I ride bikes so I can eat fried chicken."
Obviously this is hyperbole. I rode to keep myself in good cardio and aerobic shape, I rode to spend time with friends, and I rode to get that quiet time alone to clear my head.
I rode so that I could keep riding until I turn 80.
Over the course of a 65-mile ride, I would typically burn about 3,000 calories. More than enough that I felt entitled to a Hyphy Fried Chicken sandwich (with fries and an IPA) at Sideshow. So when my doctor said "you need to limit yourself to 1,200 calories a day," I realized I had a difficult problem.
Since I'm no longer using my largest muscle groups (quads, glutes, hamstrings, etc) my basal metabolic rate has been cut roughly in half. This has meant rethinking everything about my diet. Two cups of coffee with heavy cream becomes two cups, black. Eggs, Bacon, Hashbrowns? Nope, no more hashbrowns and maybe only take one piece of bacon. That Italian hoagie I want for lunch? Well, I can't have the exact one I want because Ain't Normal Café decided to stop offering it, but regardless–only half a hoagie and that's a big ol' no on the chips, dawg. Dinner is less about pasta and protein and more about veggies and legumes. But whoops, I also need more protein (to maintain muscle mass) and essential vitamins , so time to down a "cookies and cream" smoothie with 50g of protein and 60% of my RDA for a wide range of vitamins and minerals. And all of this is made even more difficult because my stomach is below my injury–so I don't feel it when I'm full. Like everything with this injury, preparing and eating food was a thing that felt natural, easy, and frictionless, and now feels like mission-critical project management.
Which brings us to July 4th weekend. On Friday we went out to the Alameda County Fair in Pleasanton for a going-away party for Dacia's cousin Tara & her kids, who are moving to Georgia next week. It was great to get out, wheel my new chair through a challenging environment, and see the family. But to bring this back to the topic at hand: there is literally no way to eat with moderation at the fairgrounds. Like the hungry caterpillar, I devoured a double cheeseburger, several onion rings the size and shape of donuts, a funnel cake, two Dole whips (both pineapple and half of Arthur's strawberry), and three beers, leaving me with a terrible case of autonomic dysreflexia (AD) and missing my calorie target by about, oh, 3000. Between my elevated blood pressure and Oakland's propensity for setting off loud, screaming fireworks between roughly 5pm and 3am, it was a restless night.
The very next day, having resolutely not learned my lesson, we went to Fenton's (as we do every year) for Arthur's birthday. For those who don't live in the East Bay, Fenton's is an Oakland ice cream institution, serving sundaes (and food) since 1894. So, as usual, we had dinner: Arthur had chicken nuggets and fries, Althea had a grilled cheese sandwich and mac & cheese, Dacia had the pastrami sandwich with a salad, and I had (seemingly) the world's largest Cobb salad. I was trying to be healthy and again failing. Because of course we had to get dessert as well. This meant a black and tan sundae–caramel sauce and hot fudge over toasted almond and vanilla ice cream respectively–shared three ways (Arthur got his own sundae). So again I ate far too much, and paid for it in AD symptoms that flared up well into Sunday. At least there were far fewer fireworks Saturday night.
And yet, as I sit here writing this, I am about an hour from heading to Sideshow to meet up with friends yet again. And I'll definitely get a burger. And there's no doubt I'll have a beer or two. And I'll just have to accept that, like infrastructure and architecture, American foodways are just not designed with impairments like mine in mind.
And someday I'll get this diet right, but we all know it's not gonna be today.