You have to laugh. Karma has been buzzing around the last ten days like an unwanted fly in a kitchen. As the fridge magnet reads, 'Sometimes you are the pigeon and sometimes you are the statue.' Last week I was the pigeon, soaring, carrying the message of karma to all. This week I am, most definitely, the statue. I rounded off last week with the tough Sunday session in my schedule and it went really well. I felt good and didn't waste a kilometre. In fact I had time to spare coming back from the Hook and headed, as suggested, for Sliabh Coillte. It's a hill that my friend Mizgajski turned into a training Mecca. I've probably, literally been up there a hundred times and it's a horror. A Bullfighter will often refer to the bulls as being their friends, even after a goring. I'll never call that hill my friend. Frenemy on a good day maybe. I must have been motoring in the last week whilst delivering that karma message. I'm one to torque. My chain snapped as I rounded the first hairpin bend. I was standing, churning, doing a Contador. Well, El Pistolero but firing blanks. And then I was on the deck, via the handlebars. My pride was shot to bits. My broken chain became a broken projectile headed for the nearest ditch. My voice became that of a drunken cowhand's, cursing mostly myself.
At this juncture you may be laughing solidly at my misfortunes. Thats how karma works. This week I'm the statue. A cracked rib, stiff neck and swollen knee delivered at 5mph. But then karma just might have been taking really great care of me because during that morning's session I'd totalled 28 all-out short efforts. So I could have face-planted anywhere and at any speed. Fair enough I could probably do with the free cosmetic surgery more than most. But methinks something is keeping me alive. So the 'Jeers' (As my Dad called them) from the past can come get more karma....
And although I'm sore, I'm not terrible. My friend Shirley nearly broke her ankle last evening playing hockey and vomited on the way home with the pain. That's nasty. I can pick up my kids but can't turn sideways. Grand really.
That's not to say I didn't consider painkillers. But if my body is telling me it's sore then I should just back off. Like the cyclists going to league races a few years ago with a car boot full of supplements... you are only writing cheques for your body short term, knowing that the account will soon be in arrears. Better rest now. Besides, even though there's Tramadol in the house I'm not a pro rider in need of results. I'm not even a second string kermesse rider in Flanders. I'm just a weekend warrior. Actually more a Sunday skirmisher. No, a partially motivated MAMIL with delusions. So Tramadol or Nurofen or NO Explode are out the window. As for creatine, yohimbe or beta-alanine... I can always do with a tingle but no amount of potions will make me great. A doped donkey won't win the derby and all that. I won't give up my coffee though. I may never be a champion but my Cuppa Joe tells me different. I'll just avoid the pastries and general, stretch-mark inducing, diabetes-in-a-bun delights I seem to be surrounded by.
So where to? An easy week beckons. I can do that. I'll cycle by the bike shop, coffee shop and off-licence so word will get around that I'm constantly clocking kilometres. I'll stay off Strava to keep the chaingang chimps guessing too. I might drink 4 cortados per day to keep the weight down and trick my heart into thinking it's training. In no time at all I'll be the pigeon again. Pecking around, noisy when approached and leaving my mark on whoever's the statue next.
No comments:
Post a Comment