For some reason I thought I was a lot closer to the day I could ride again. As I filled in my calender, to keep track of the yards per week I am swimming, I noticed an abundance of weeks. I was off by about five weeks. I have thirteen more to go (before getting off the demon coumadin) and fourteen before I can ride.
I am gaining weight. About ten pounds since the meteor hit my medulla oblongata. I am riding the trainer. I am walking. I am doing these things nearly every night. My goal was to ride the trainer the same amount of time I am swimming (about five hours a week). The total would give me ten hours of vigorous work out. I also walk about eight hours a week with my wife and still the weight is packing on. It has been three months today since my "event" and I have three months, one week to go before I can ride.
For some reason I am not mentally beaten up anymore. Being pissed off and bitter is a tiresome enterprise (even for a career pro like me). So I guess I finally wore myself out, and moved forward with out realizing it. My friends and family have been holding me up, like a hipster in a mosh pit. It's kind of hard to be bummed, when you are surrounded by good people.
I had a great time time watching the cyclocross race this weekend. Nothing is more fun than yelling like a soccer hooligan, at guys running up stairs, carrying bicycles. It all felt like "Lord of the Flies" and it was damn therapeutic. The fun stopped at 5:00 a.m. this morning. The reset button takes no prisoners. I usually swim 2000 yards. I was about to quit at 1500 when I got to the wall, looked up and realized I was in lane #5. Like an echo from the angry mob and the cross race, I heard the voices yell:
"Rule #5! Harden the F#*+ UP!!!!!"
It is very hard to laugh and swim at the same time.
W.B.Z.N.
