Wednesday, May 16, 2012

til it bleeds daylight

"Do a lunge," commands my PT. It's a small exam room and my wobbly, unconvincing effort nearly takes out a proximate bookcase. For this I am assigned a new exercise called, mysteriously, the Turkish Getup. While I was hoping for an outfit like this—

—it actually means this. Except that I'm not using any weight at all, and I can only get to step two. The Turkish Let-Down?

It's disappointing that, after hundreds of hours of such bizarre contortions, the only physical change I notice is rough patches of skin from the all the time I spend on my knees on the living room carpet1. Possibly there are also similar abrasions on the lining of my stomach from the amount of ibuprofen I've consumed mitigating ambitious excursions out of my little ring. But having said that—and with a fervent battering of every wood product in sight—

I did a cross ride for the first time in more than a year, lumbering up East Ridge in a rapture of sweat and dust and sun and manzanita.


Skittering incompetently down Big Trees on the way home, I ran into two guys in armor pushing downhill rigs. "What are you doing on that bike?" asked the first. "I dunno," I said, "What are you doing on that bike?"

The last time I ventured up Old La Honda, I blew my knee out and finished the climb alternating between standing and track-standing2. The upside was that I had tears ready for San Mateo's finest when I got caught rolling a stop on the way back down. "You don't look like you're worth my time right now," the officer sighed, putting away his handy-dandy notebook with some disgust. My glasses had fogged up from sniveling. I wiped snot on my glove.

Fast forward five months or so and I've again been in trouble with Woodside's version of the law3; consequently I'm livid. Gadgetry later informs me that on this high-octane fuel of indignation I have accidentally matched my best time up the hill from two years ago—when I was fully functional. If this sounds like a stupid and arbitrary thing to care about, it is. But I'll take what I can get.
1. Don't read too much into that one.
2. Or trying to, anyway.
3. "And residents have complained about cyclists running stop signs," says Chubster McMoto-Cop, after I suggest he might have better things to do than make sure I put a foot down before proceeding through desolate intersections on a Sunday morning. "Well, which is it?" I ask, for some insane, kamikaze reason. "Enforcing laws that don't make sense, babysitting me, or rolling around doing rich people's bidding?" A long pause. "Are you carrying ID?"

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