I need to rest up for my big excursion this weekend. I’ll be ditching out of work early on Friday to zip on up to Hood River, pick up a few friends and roll over to Portland to catch Cowboy Curtis at The Tonic Lounge. This is their first trek out of the warm Wisconsin/Minnesota music-breeding cocoon, and we want to make sure they feel hot and welcome out here on the West Coast.
With any luck I’ll be spending Saturday and Sunday in Hood River, and I travel armed with my kiteboard, mountain bike and climbing gear. I’m ready for anything… that is, anything but whatever happened in the crash I took off my bike three minutes ago. I was practicing wheelies, and I’m to the point where I can get about three cranks on the pedals until I need to drop down again. I’m also to the point where I can flip off my bike backwards and catch myself with my bum leg. I jammed ol’ righty hard and the pain came back, though definitely not as sharp as before.
It dawns in the familiar way, with the sudden jam of limb against the earth, the instant mental realization, and the agonizing wait as the pain receptors struggle to register in the brain. Then the wave of pain slowly overtakes the body, travelling up the spine from the leg, rattling the skull, and flowing down again. The slight dizziness, the taste of bile in the back of the throat, the panicked apologies to the guy in charge.
Everything should be fine; I probably just stressed it. This body has knit itself back together numerous times before. One occasionally wishes that the spirit wasn’t quite so demanding on it, but then, where would be the fun in living like that?