It seems I have only strained some muscles and have to take several decades worth of pain killers in only one week. It was also recommended I have a course of physiotherapy. The first and last time I went to be prodded about, I [was] left in absolute agony, never to return. Having crawled back to the distant car on all fours, I found myself unable to climb in, sit down and close the door. At least, not without a further bout of ear-splitting screams. I wonder whether this could be the real reason for my oft-recurring tinnitus?
I can only assume that physiotherapists belong to the same discipline as dentists. Nothing like being paid [well] for a nice bit of S&M, is there? I wouldn't mind but they don't even offer to dress up for their ritual torture sessions. I am referring [strictly] to the professional, lady dominatrix here, of course. Just in case there was any [serious] doubt. I don't mind a nice bit of leather and studs but prefer it to have a Brooks label and that I sit on it. Not the other way around!
For those with long memories this must have a definite ring of déjà vu from the last time around. When it [the self-sustained injury to my person] was on the other side. Sadly, the poor and rather obvious jokes, were no better back then. I wish I could say that being a tri-cyclist made me immune to pain. Or rather funnier than a tragic old clown on a tricycle. Slap stick humour is [allegedly] so yesterday. After all, we do tend to deliberately cause suffering on every climb. Those who race seriously must endure the equivalent of many torture sessions in quick succession. And most of us do this [to ourselves] for fun?
It is no wonder we tend to do this alone and deftly quip euphemisms such as; "Just going to nip around the block, Dear." As one leaves one's beloved watching an innocent TV soap. While the trike is wheeled surreptitiously out. Complete with trailer, several weeks worth of rations and a passport carefully concealed in a polythene bag beneath the camping mattress and tent poles. There's nothing quite like a well-planned strategy for achieving chronic saddle soreness on a really epic scale.
Even the tools of our trade refer to [chain] whips, vices and [pin] wrenches. Most cycle repair is conducted with as much privacy as we can possibly muster! As in; "I'm just going to whip that block off, Dear." Usually followed by severely scraped knuckles, serious breathlessness and a foul temper. Taking the job to a professional knuckle scraper seems just too public a confession of what we normally do in the intimacy of our undersized [trike] sheds. [If only we were remotely able without major loss of blood!]
Which can all be rather quickly summed up as: Just another rest day. But without the prescribed, light but regular exercise [on the keyboard.] Lest we forget: Give blood! Become a tri-cyclist! Or words to that effect.
Tuesday 19th 30F, -1C, overcast, windy, snow. I woke with my back feeling a little tender. Reaching my socks caused the usual palaver but I had to suppress the groans to avoid disturbing The Head Gardner's beauty sleep. I thought I'd risk a walk around the fields on the spray tracks. The soil was rock hard beneath a light coat of snow. Solitary flakes of frozen rain fell at intervals. My wife had suggested I wear one of my ex-charity shop duvet jackets. It was an excellent idea as it was neutrally warm and completely windproof. The high neck fitted nicely under my chin to keep the cold wind out.
Just when I'd found some nice digestive biscuits, without palm oil, the supermarket monopolies have changed to another manufacturer. Who's products do have palm oil and taste of grease but little else. I eat an odd digestive or two per day to avoid eating the popular chocolate or cream covered alternatives which are loaded with both fat and sugar. Now the search begins for the originals. Every time we find something we like with the slightest pretensions to healthy food it immediately disappears from the shelves!
Palm oil has an excellent reputation for being grown illegally on slashed and burnt, virgin rain forest. So we won't have the stuff in the house. I see iRottenApple is denying all knowledge of child miners being exploited in Africa when they steal yet another nation's minerals and natural resources for a pittance. We wouldn't have any iRottenApple's products in the house either. If we wouldn't steal or keep child slaves ourselves why, on earth, would we agree to let anybody else do it for obscene, offshore, tax-free profit? Denied a ride by "The Authorities" in the hope of a swifter recovery. Rest day.