For Wilshire Baptist Church
“Want to race?” I ask Ross as he settles into the bike next to me.
“No, I don’t think so,” he smiles.
It’s a silly question from me because neither of us is going anywhere. He’s on a stationary bike and I’m on a hand bike — in a room in a medical building on the Bush Turnpike.
It’s another Tuesday morning at physical therapy where I’ve been working on regaining motion and building strength after shoulder surgery. I’m in my 10th week, which is plenty of time to become familiar with the faces if not the names of the clients who are on the same weekly schedule. We’re all working on different things: shoulders, knees, ankles, hips, arms, hands. Some of us are recovering from surgery, some from injury. Some are working on relief from age-induced aches and pains.
Everyone is working at different speeds — their own speeds – so there is no competition in the room. But, someone will be working on an exercise and the therapist will ask, “Can you feel that?” and the answer will be, “Oh my, yes, definitely!” and someone else will chuckle or nod withacknowledgement. They’ve been at that stage of rehab before, and their reaction is a sort of discipleship; an affirmation that the effort is worth the pain.
It’s mostly quiet, which I appreciate. In fact, while on the hand bike, I close my eyes rather than stare at the timer just inches from my nose. It’s a meditative, peaceful exercise, like silent prayer. If there is conversation in the room, it’s mostly between clients and therapists, but occasionally it’s between clients, like when I ask Ross if he wants to race. We don’t speak again for an hour until we’re both getting iced after our sessions. His timer beeps before mine. “I won,” he says and heads for the door. I follow him out a few minutes later.
Nobody is there because they want to be, but there’s a quiet camaraderie that helps draw us back. It feels like church on Tuesday.