Jul 22, 2022 4 min read

Is there anything more painful than a leg cramp?

You know the ones: They strike at night, usually caused by some electrolyte deficiency and brought on by a sudden twist of the leg. And when you twist again to get out of it, the pain gets worse.

And then you make yourself into a rope of pretzel dough, twirling and flopping as you try to find that one alignment of anke-knee-thigh-toes that will make the hurt stop.

For some, the cramps are a side effect of medicine. Mine are the side effect of stupidity – the result of riding my bike too fast when it’s too hot and I’ve let myself get too dehydrated.

On July 4, a friend and I took a 30-mile ride on a trail that ended with a rather steep, four-mile incline. It was hot and I’d run out of water around mile 22. That I stormed up that last hill while more than a quart low was, at the time, a point of arrogant pride. The Gatorade I chugged afterward went down like a barrel over Niagara Falls, and still I was thirsty.

Late that night my right thigh screamed me awake. That quadricep seized up with such fury I howled and twisted my leg in the other direction. It didn’t help.

I massaged the thigh while stretching out the leg, pointing my toes back toward my knee. That was one of the remedies I’d read about.

I’d googled, “What awful thing did I do in my youth to deserve these leg cramps?” and I found a whole list of reasons I’m getting them, and a list of ways to make them stop.

Massage the area. Stretch the leg. Drink pickle juice. Put baking soda under your tongue. Get up and walk around. Warm the muscle with a hair dryer. Eat a banana.

“Put a bar of soap at the foot of the bed, under the covers,” said my friend Dana. She didn’t know if that would work, or why, but she’s smart and knows about such things.

I haven’t used bar soap in 10 years – not since I started using the liquid stuff in the pump bottle. And I don’t think that’s what the old wives had in mind when they said to sleep with soap.

A banana, though? That awful crampy night, I could picture the last banana in the kitchen. But how to reach it?

I tried to stand up, but the pain knocked me back into bed. I was contorting like a yoga teacher. I could actually see my inner thigh muscle twisting.

I must reach the banana, but how? It’s about 25 steps from bed to kitchen, but it might as well have been 25 miles. I could either slither there, Navy Seal-wise, or stay upright and tough it out. I hopped on my good leg and dragged the other behind me.

The banana had brown spots, a level of ripeness I would normally use only for a smoothie. If I weren’t in such pain, I might fire up the blender for a banana-pickle-juice-baking soda shake and pour it at the bottom of my bed.

I peeled and ate the banana and then Quasimodo’d it back to the bedroom, wondering how long it takes for banana to reach a thigh. While I waited, I fired up my hair dryer.

Aimed that sucker at the twisty thigh. The pain started to subside.

Was it the heat, or maybe the banana?

I don’t know, but I might sleep with a bar of soap under the covers now. And a banana under my pillow.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.