Physical therapy has gone well. Sure, certain muscles around the shoulder are engaged in a minor tug-of-war but they are stronger every day and will learn to get along again. I've graduated to an orange rubber band, a step or two up from yellow. I can pull on my handlebars with about fifty to sixty percent of my full strength.
I miss racing.
I've read race reports from teammates, friends, and-well, everybody-for six weeks. Margaret Thompson has been racing up mountains and setting more age-group records on her road bike. David Yacobelli tore through the Leadville 100 in under nine hours on a singlespeed mountain bike. Bob and a group of the usual suspects put in heroic performances to finish the 180K D2R2 last weekend-one of my favorite rides. Ever. Mariano Garcia finally landed himself on the winning Great Race team and his write-up nearly made me cry laughing.
I'm about ready to start drilling cyclocross remounts again.
If I felt happy just to ride a bike, any bike, life would be golden right now. And for a few weeks post-injury, rolling along on two wheels for any amount of time at any speed gave me all I needed to be happy as far as bikes were concerned.
Not anymore.
I want to go play in mud, dirt and grass again. I want to get dirty. I want to chase and be chased and wonder when and if my heart will explode.
Cyclocross is hard. Hard is not easy. Neither is relocating your willingness to make yourself suffer when you've given due diligence to pain-avoidance behaviors for a month and a half.
But I'm learning to suffer again, slowly.
I realized this last Saturday while mentally struggling through a set of intervals. While I harbored notions of backing off, an oncoming car flicked up a small pebble that smashed painfully into my left shin hard enough to leave a small dent. Not even thirty seconds later, a bee fwapped into my upper lip and ricocheted off without stinging. Oddly enough, a bruised shin and slap in the face made me just angry enough to suck it up, finish that second interval and mentally commit fully to the third one.
I'm going in for surgery later today to remove the lump from my left boob. No, Don, I'm not going to have any, uh, enhancements made while I'm in there. Yes, Paul, I will stop on my way to the hospital, find a marker, and write NOT THIS ONE on my right boob with a handy arrow pointing to the left one. I think my surgeon is pretty good and she's with the program, but I might as well play it safe.
As soon as that heals, it's time to get out the cross bike and start walking around slowly putting a leg over the saddle. Over, and over, and over. I'm tired of having the lamest remount ever, and damned if I'm going to spend another whole season doing it the wrong way.
I realized this last Saturday while mentally struggling through a set of intervals. While I harbored notions of backing off, an oncoming car flicked up a small pebble that smashed painfully into my left shin hard enough to leave a small dent. Not even thirty seconds later, a bee fwapped into my upper lip and ricocheted off without stinging. Oddly enough, a bruised shin and slap in the face made me just angry enough to suck it up, finish that second interval and mentally commit fully to the third one.
I'm going in for surgery later today to remove the lump from my left boob. No, Don, I'm not going to have any, uh, enhancements made while I'm in there. Yes, Paul, I will stop on my way to the hospital, find a marker, and write NOT THIS ONE on my right boob with a handy arrow pointing to the left one. I think my surgeon is pretty good and she's with the program, but I might as well play it safe.
As soon as that heals, it's time to get out the cross bike and start walking around slowly putting a leg over the saddle. Over, and over, and over. I'm tired of having the lamest remount ever, and damned if I'm going to spend another whole season doing it the wrong way.
No comments:
Post a Comment