Open Writing

It isn’t as funny as it sounds, but every time I think of it, the tune, "Somebody Stole My Gal" runs through my head with words appropriate to the condition that has me in its grip.

One day, I awoke to fever, joint pain, malaise, sweating, and a sure feeling that mortality was about to let go of me and launch me into the Last Great Adventure. An angry red rash sprouted on my torso and hands, but none of them compared to the ghastly discovery made a few weeks into the course of the illness. I was deeply troubled when I found something dreadfully wrong in the leg department. But first, some background so that you will understand the depth of my plight and the extent of my loss.

I was born on a hillside, among the sudden and frequent hills of the West Riding of Yorkshire, and except on those days on which I condescended to attend my alma mater, every journey on Shank’s Pony was either up or down, because every journey included ups as well as down, and vice versa, and wherever my legs took me, I ended up at my home in Fitzwilliam Street, and the geographical undulations developed my legs to an amazing extent.

The rugged character of the countryside around Huddersfield is not solely responsible for my muscular legs. My mother’s people were stocky on the maternal side, although her father’s legs left much to be desired. However, they worked well enough for a man that wasn’t interested in going anywhere. Nanny’s legs were adequate, but Ma’s legs were decidedly chunky. Auntie Nora, Ma’s sister was taller, and so her calves were more elongated and her legs better proportioned.

I inherited Ma’s legs. They were bold legs generated by years of rabbit soup, Yorkshire puddings, fish and chips with bits, chats, whole tins of corned beef, drip bread, boiled fish bits that really belonged to the cat. They were forged not only by nurture and nature, but also by the demands of the harsh environment in which I lived, where I ate in the cellar and slept in the attic far above with fifty-nine steps to scale before slumber.

I was regularly forced to flee on my stocky pins by the irrational anger of a domestic potentate called Nanny, and dared not return until either her ire had subsided, or poor memory had erased the trivial infraction with which I was charged, but of which I was usually guiltless.

These legs were hardened by marathon cycle rides; by shinning up the columns of gas street lamps to either blow out the flame, place an old bike tyre over the lamp and bracket, or to hang on the ladder bracket, swinging like Cheetah then jumping off to see which of our little gang could land furthest, and by clambering over walls that surrounded the apple trees of strangers, fleeing at a gallop full of apples before the rightful owner could catch us to box our ears.

These legs were carved from the ubiquitous rock of the West Riding that makes the ground impervious to ploughs, no matter how hard their steel. I surmounted them in games of Cowboys and Indians, falling onto the moorland when shot, coming to life in an instant, and rising from the dead just as quickly, then climbing to the top again to repeat the performance seamlessly.

Undersized Germans and Englanders, ascended and leaped from slabs and boulders or break-neck height ack roofs, shooting guns that never ran out of bullets. Exercises that produced world-class thews in my calves and thighs.

My legs were also cultivated by walking wherever I needed to be before I could ride a bike, and by running, because it felt good to run against the wind, even if I did get soaking wet. What exhilaration a pair of legs can generate when properly used!

In the years of my youth, my legs were recruited to serve Queen and Country. Although for intellectual reasons I did not like military parades, when they could not be escaped, my legs marched proudly and kept time through desert sands and olive grove, thus adding to the security of our nation and a bringing a profound sense of comfort to its trembling Monarch. I could not have done it without my legs, I tell you! (Sorry, Spike Milligan crept in there!).

It was always a source of comfort to feel my sturdy pins holding me up, and providing primary motility. So robust were they that old age did not diminish or decay them, even when their joints became vocal, thanks to an immune system that declared, "I have seen the enemy, and it is us!"

Now, alas, no longer can the cheery cry of, "Have no fear, Bray’s legs are here!" give comfort to faint hearts who feel the hot breath of the enemy at the gates breathing down their necks. The legs that once stood and marched for England in foreign climes have been stolen, and an inferior pair substituted sometime in the still of the night. It was painless, and, as far as I can tell, it was bloodless.

That revelation came recently when I was taking a shower. Having soaped my arms, I turned my attention to my nether members, lathering them with a ‘squidgy.’ I looked, frozen to the spot, and did a double take, knowing in a flash that something was seriously wrong.

I stared in horror at the awful spectacle. They were not the legs I was born with, grew up with. They were inferior counterfeits with not enough muscle on them to kick a habit. The lather ran from them and disappeared down the plughole. I knew I had been robbed! Two scrawny impostors had replaced my traditional legs, the historical pair, the ones assigned to me at birth! "An enemy hath done this!" I grumbled, looking around to see if my real legs were stashed nearby. They were not.

How did someone steal my legs and leave this pair in their stead? They must have done it overnight when Gay, Frankie, Belle, and I were fast asleep. They must have worked with extraordinary rapidity, so that in less than the twinkling of an eye the deed was done, the clean up executed, and not a drop of blood to tell the tale.

As I sit here almost immobilised, pondering my loss, somebody is running up and down mountains, riding bikes, winning cross-country races, skiing, crag climbing, sky-diving, and doing it all on my legs. But, these counterfeit legs are useless. They tire too quickly, they can’t bear loads, and have minds of their own, turning one way when I want to go another. They make me stumble, shuffle, and they ache like a set of rotten teeth. The muscles, if they ever had any, are shrunken and flat. There are no adventures in these legs.

Perhaps the events that lead to my underpinnings being overtaken started when I got an airborne fungus infection that floored me. I was confined to bed for several weeks, tossing about, trying to resolve whether to die or live. Whatever the cause, these legs do not support me in the manner to which I am accustomed. They have a different programme than the rest of my body, and move in entirely opposite directions than I am wont to go. They stagger and lurch, which at first I put down to the debility customary with Valley Fever, and I have a generous dose of it.

I have seen the colony of coccidioides immitis I am hosting on X-ray film and on CT Scan images, and am impressed with its size. I offered it for sale on e-bay, but was forced to withdraw it after a complaint from my pulmonologist that, if it was sold, it would leave him with nothing to do. I would have been more than happy to contribute to his idleness, but he won’t hear of it, and he is younger, bigger, and stronger than I am.

After I have been seated for any length of time, the alien columns refuse to behave themselves at all, not even badly. I am flummoxed and bemused all in one go. Except, I can’t - go, that is. My ersatz extremities are holding me prisoner.

Early morning sees them at their best, but as the day draws on, they retire unannounced, often making me lurch suddenly and desperately, reaching out to hang on to whatever I can get my hands on. By this means, I have surprised some strangers, and made a few new friends.

Will I ever get my own legs back? I wish I knew. All I can say is that if you have muscular legs, lock them up securely at night. Who knows, you could be next.

Maybe the shorts I wore this summer have encouraged leg envy. I am fearful to go out in public for fear that someone will desire my attractive green eyes, covet my shell-like ears, or my exotic wavy hair. It means that I live a quiet life, but having already lost my legs and the balance of my assets being so magnetic, I have to make sure that I am secure against additional pilfering.

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2005

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Read more of Ronnie's stories at:

http://www.2theheart.com/author_ronnie_bray
http://www.meridianmagazine.com/voices/011024summer.html