Road Warrior
Mar. 5th, 2009 01:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thisnewdayThere comes a day, after the winter layoff, after the first few days of body-punishing miles, of saddle soreness you can't believe you'd actually forgotten about, of winds you can't believe you once lowered your shoulders into and rode so strongly against, when suddenly everything you thought you'd lost feels hard and tight and you know, for a certainty, that you're the no-shit, don't-even-f*ck-with-me, road warrior again.
(There was, of course, that year, that moment, when, feeling that testosterone-fueled rush, I aggressively leaned myself and my beloved Cannondale into a rain-slick corner on Washington Square and flat wiped out, skidding on broken hand and fractured helmet to a stop in the on-coming lane where, luckily, nothing was on-coming.
I think it was the blood dripping from the gash above my eye onto the pavement, as I bent to inspect my busted-up bike, that brought my own mortality back into focus that particular day. And it was a couple weeks or so before me and the C'dale ventured out again. But we did do it, finally, and we did feel it, did ride through it, like the pelloton's hot breath was creeping up our neck hairs again.)
Anyway, I'd definitely been feeling the effects of de-conditioned muscles being forced to work again when suddenly, walking through the parking lot at Wegman's yesterday, the legs felt tight and hard again. In the same instant, I glanced up to see this classy-looking woman smiling at me. (She must've noticed the SpongeBob strut that comes with this feeling.)
Then, this afternoon, as I bent to help my daughter sort some laundry, my back tweaked on me. It was so excruciatingly sharp that it buckled my knees. But I guess I should still count myself lucky, having been brought back to earth, once again, with nothing dangerous in the on-coming lane. Except, perhaps, a pair of smelly gym socks...
(There was, of course, that year, that moment, when, feeling that testosterone-fueled rush, I aggressively leaned myself and my beloved Cannondale into a rain-slick corner on Washington Square and flat wiped out, skidding on broken hand and fractured helmet to a stop in the on-coming lane where, luckily, nothing was on-coming.
I think it was the blood dripping from the gash above my eye onto the pavement, as I bent to inspect my busted-up bike, that brought my own mortality back into focus that particular day. And it was a couple weeks or so before me and the C'dale ventured out again. But we did do it, finally, and we did feel it, did ride through it, like the pelloton's hot breath was creeping up our neck hairs again.)
Anyway, I'd definitely been feeling the effects of de-conditioned muscles being forced to work again when suddenly, walking through the parking lot at Wegman's yesterday, the legs felt tight and hard again. In the same instant, I glanced up to see this classy-looking woman smiling at me. (She must've noticed the SpongeBob strut that comes with this feeling.)
Then, this afternoon, as I bent to help my daughter sort some laundry, my back tweaked on me. It was so excruciatingly sharp that it buckled my knees. But I guess I should still count myself lucky, having been brought back to earth, once again, with nothing dangerous in the on-coming lane. Except, perhaps, a pair of smelly gym socks...
