Off The Commute: “On The Mend”, Brought to you by the makers of Percocet. “Dag doc. No refill?!!”
2013 got off to a bang and then my small intestine shot out of my groin. “No more monkey’s jumping on the bed”. Coming to grips with my mortality; sober, has not been a pleasant adventure. I knew that I wasn’t the rider I was and was kinda ok with that. That guy drank nightly and whizzed through traffic without as much as a care for his own safety. Pick up a package that needs to be 3 miles away, in 15 minutes, traffic lights, cars and pedestrians be damned. I didn’t even need a chamois or the Chamois Cream of the Gods “Chamois Butter” to ride, whereas now I am addicted to the viscosity free ride it gives me.
I have no idea what “completely not worth it” activity it was that I was doing when my abdominal wall said, “Fuck This”, but it was totally not worth it. I’m 3 weeks past surgery and desperate to be active again. The only time I”ve had this much a lull in any physical activity was when I was 7 months old. Even then I gather, I knew life had to get better than just laying on my back and shitting on myself. From my eighth month on, I was sold on motion.
I spent my first week depressed post surgery. From being able to ride century’s quickly without too much effort to being relegated to lying on my back reeling in pain, or doped up on Percocet’s. Reading about friends still on the roads or the trails pushed me to get out of bed and rehab. Doesn’t matter how willing the mind is, when you have a gash in your gut. Mortality sucks.
Everything I practiced with regards to eating went out the window. My mantra has been to not eat what I can’t burn off. I scrapped that system for one that involved taking in healthy calories by the truckload in an order to heal properly. Before the doctor told me that surgery was imminent, I was still at my summertime bikini weight. Since then, I have put on 10 pounds. I gave up on shaving everything. 2 weeks in the house made me a recluse. I would have used that time to write, if I could’ve sat up.
Telecommuting was no where near as fun as actual commuting. Walk out from the bed, sit back reclined, address emails, go through the normal motions and then lay back on the couch and rub my crotch. Reading that last bit, almost sounds pleasurable.
I’m 3 weeks out from attempting to saddle up again, and 3 months from attempting anything rigorous without pushing the limits of the mesh permanently attached to me. Having my intestines fall out in a pace line could be hazardous and unbecoming a Major Taylor cyclist, so I will wait. I spent about 20 minutes explaining to my wife, the differences between anaerobic and aerobic exercises and how I would use my down time, to keep my lungs in shape until my muscles could rejoin them. I think she understood, but I was also on Percocet’s and probably talking in circles. Sadly there is no way to prevent the injury from occurring again. Not like I can strengthen my crotch. Note: Sex with busted crotch not nearly as fun as sex with healthy one.
Feeling mortal is humbling, but 4.5 billion people on this planet make it happen everyday, so I guess it can’t be that bad. When the cold weather breaks and sun reigns again, I will cherish the opportunity to once again saddle up, turn the cranks and take a second to enjoy the feeling of freedom again.