Knee Replacement 13: In Search of Positivity

Four weeks after knee replacement surgery number one and badly needing some positivity to go with the still persistent pain, I venture into the garage, swipe the cobwebs off my mountain bike, and heft it onto the tailgate of my truck. Then, together with my wife Bel and our dog Mabel, we drive out to Antelope Island State Park.

Connected to the mainland by a 7-mile causeway, Antelope Island is a quiet, otherworldly lump of land that sits in the middle of the Great Salt Lake. Rocks on the island are older than those found at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, and at 2.7 billion years, they are among the most senior sediment in the entire U.S., and it’s not just the rock that makes the place feel like an island that time forgot. Here bison roam free, their mammoth frames cruising through prairie grass like ghost freighters on a timeless sea. Coyotes are also plentiful and will serenade you with forgotten songs of the West, not long after sunset. And of course, there are snowy-tailed antelope, plentiful and skittish.

The middle of the island is west-facing, with a sandy beach at Bridger Bay—complete with a burger-and-fries concession as well as showers for bathers, although both are shuttered as a large visitor center is being built nearby, which, for some reason, necessitates shutting off the water for the whole island. Rolling past the closed and locked structures takes you to a campground that slopes gently toward the sand, designed for RVs that favor power hookups and easy pull-throughs. It is a fine and clean campground, although with not the shade of a single tree, it’s best suited for spring and autumn. Winter out here is sublime and empty.

Over a stony shoulder called Buffalo Point—which confuses me because I’ve been told that the plains animals we see, the ones with the big hump over their shoulders, thick and shaggy beards, and massive heads, are actually bison and not buffalo, but then I guess buffalo has a snazzier ring to it. Bison Bill? Bison New York? The Bison Sabres? Bison Wild Wings? Bison mozzarella? I guess I’ve made my point.

Anyway, past the mis-named promontory lies a south-facing bite called White Rock Bay. Here, the folks who were doing the naming—most likely John C. Frémont and Kit Carson, who explored the Great Salt Lake in 1845 and are credited with naming Antelope Island (after shooting and dining on a pronghorn thereabouts)—kept it simple and got it right. About a mile from the shoreline, a large and pale limestone boulder protrudes from what once would’ve been the waters of the Great Salt Lake, but today, with the drastically lower water levels, is a sad and parched salt flat. Not only is the protrusion pale in hue, but it’s been covered by decades of accumulating bird poop.

Antelope Island sits smack in the middle of the so-called Pacific Flyway, a massive bird migration corridor stretching from Patagonia to Alaska. Because the Great Salt Lake is shallow, hyper-saline, and rich in brine shrimp and flies, its all-you-can-eat, avian buffet attracts some 250 million birds annually. If there were a visitor’s log on White Rock, it would be pecked to confetti in a day.

If it seems that I’m lollygagging and stalling the purpose of our visit—to ride my damn bike—it’s because now that we’re parked at White Rock Trailhead, it seems that I’d forgotten how much uphill is involved. It’s only a six-mile loop, which means that it can’t be more than a three-mile climb. I’d always thought of this ride as beginning with a very mellow climb, but that was with the OEM knees. I’m not sure how this after-market joint will fare, or how much new pain I will have to endure to get a little wind in my face.

So, I sit on the tailgate and try to form clever sentences about birds.

After a time, I begin to feel even more lame than I did this morning, which is the opposite of the purpose of this outing. Bel and Mable have gone off to hike the Bone Road Trail, and I will either sit on this tailgate and feel increasingly enfeebled by my lack of courage, or I will clip in and sack up. The jury is out, but after a while I become so bored with myself and thoughts of birds, that I notice I’ve begun rolling blithely along down the trail.

Not long after, the jury has reached a verdict. I’m condemned to failure. My knee feels weak, and the pain is constant, although not unbearable. Occasionally, a sharp, nervy jab will shoot from my knee to my foot and I try to decide if this is the kind of pain that is damaging anything, but really, how do I know? I’ve absorbed so much advice, spanning the spectrum from, Take it easy, to, Suck-it-up, buttercup. And all the ones in between. Too many voices.

So I play my own game of picking a spot on the trail and promising myself I will ride to it before turning around. At which point, I pick another spot. Not an original game, but it will sometimes get you over the hump. I continue this way up the climb. Granny-gearing it, I’m going so slowly that my balance is at roughly a six-whiskeys-deep performance level. Sorry occifer, see I got this new knee and...

And then the trail turns from sandy loam to a gauntlet of rounded, loose boulders. Again, healthy me has no memory of such a trail feature, but then we see the world through today's eyes. For some strange and irrational reason, this really pisses me off, and before I can reconsider, I’m cussing out loud and cranking into the rocks. The bike judders and yaws, and I’m swearing like a sailor, but I maintain momentum until I notice that I’ve somehow reached the far side, and is that the sign post that marks the top of the climb?

I’ve made it. My level of satisfaction with this meager accomplishment is embarrassing, but I’m alone with my glee, and despite a throbbing knee, I’m laughing out loud. I could quit now, flip it, and be satisfied, but the other side of the loop offers a rolly downhill that spurs me on.

The track traverses the top of a ridge, offering views to the west that extend all the way to Nevada. To the east, over a partially dry strait, is Salt Lake City, backed by the towering blue Wasatch.

The singletrack downhill is smooth and, with not a tree in sight, can easily be taken at top speed, but not today. Crashing on the newly installed knee just two weeks before my next knee installation would be dumb, even for me. Instead, I thumb the little lever on my left hand to soften the suspension, stand slowly on the pedals, find my center, and roll smoothly down.

I lay off the brakes more and more as I descend, and by the time I come to the final bend, I’m in my big ring and pedaling. Which means I’m going fast enough to necessitate slamming on my squeaky brakes to avoid ramming an animal the size of a mail truck.

Buffalo or bison? It matters little.

With preternatural calm, he slowly turns his head to see what sort of twit is behind all the screeching. I’ve stopped 20 yards from him, which does not feel like much, especially for a guy who can’t run. He stares, and I stare, and a long moment passes as I wonder what to do. I really don’t want to turn around and ride back uphill, but neither do I want to be gored or trampled or whatever it is that a 2,000-pound bull would do to a feeble one-legged, Lycra-clad Bill.

Presently, he makes his move. Or should I say movement?

Without ever averting his eye from mine, he emits a ludicrously loud and gushy blast from his hind quarter as he unceremoniously unloads a twenty-pound pile of steaming bison patty, right in the middle of the trail. I want to laugh, but we’re still in our staring contest, and I’m afraid to offend.

He would’ve been fine if he hadn’t chuckled at the bison offal, said the Ranger at the site of the mauling. We try and we try to educate the public, but they just won’t listen…

So, I hold my poker face until, with a final look that I translate to mean, I shit bigger than you, he wheels like a tank turret, and glides down the hill with a glacial calm. Since there’s really no way to not have my little, one-legged drama upstaged by this moment, I won’t even try.