Let Them Eat Wake

Spring has sprung.

Greenery abounds, flowers are budding, and P. Caspar Biddle is diligently scanning the treetops with his binocs. Snowstorms may yet materialize, but we no longer expect them. And weekend wardrobes now include shorts and obligatory sunscreen.

Hmm. It's supposed to be a time of renewal and optimism, energy and industry. After all, the Rockies are still above .500 at this point, right? But for me, the arrival of Spring has been accompanied with a feeling of inertia -- as if I'm still frozen on the starting blocks long after Duaner fired the gun. It feels like everyone else has a head start.

Even so, there are many things that are going well as the season begins. I have been working out with Revolution Running, and am very pleased with the results so far. I have a long way to go before the Colfax race in mid-May, but I'm certain I'll be better positioned for it because of this group's support and encouragement.

Before we get too deep into today's discussion, let's take a moment to review some basic existential philosophy, shall we?



People always tell me that I'd make a wonderful king. After all, I'm handsome, benevolent, well-groomed, and blessed with nearly infinite wisdom and a keen vision of what the world should be like. Seems logical. But the truth is that sometimes I suffer from the dreaded BNS (Black Knight Syndrome), wherein I believe myself to be invincible, despite the copious evidence of severed arms to the contrary. Sigh.

The Bible tells us that the concept of sprinting is an odious manifestation of darkness invented by Satan himself, and that short races are to be avoided by all people of high virtue and solid character. Yet every decade or so, it seems that I succumb to the temptation. When signing up for the State Meet last month, I slipped over to the Dark Side and entered the 100 Freestyle.

Feeling invincible, I began the meet with the standard 1650 and 1000 races on Friday night, followed by a 500 free and 200 fly Saturday morning. While I wasn't particularly fast in any of those races, I felt reasonably strong and was able to finish with discernible gusto. My goal for the 100 freestyle was modest, so when the time came, I took the blocks with confidence that I wouldn't suck too egregiously.

Unfortunately, that confidence was badly misplaced. You see, the whole idea of sprinting is to place the maximum stress on your body, trying to propel yourself at the very limit of your structural tolerance. And apparently, I did not accurately assess my structural integrity before pouring the coal on the fire. About halfway through the race, something in my shoulder gave way.

Being the macho manly man that I am, I restricted my screams to the underwater portions of the breathing cycle. And I'm certain that any dampness inside my goggles was from pool water, not from tears of pain. But when I was finally able to drag myself from the pool, my right arm was hanging limply to my side...and my swim meet was over.

It's been two weeks. The expected visit from the government's bionic medical team has not materialized. I've been sitting out practices and trying to rehab myself with standard techniques like ice cream and Star Trek reruns, but so far, I'm still unable to exercise symmetrically.

And as you've probably guessed, my work obligations and social commitments have been voluminous as well. I do have photos to share and tales to tell that go beyond my usual whining and self-pity bloggery, but I'm going to ask your indulgence for a while longer until I can figure out a way to get everything done with one arm. Or until I get my bionics. Whichever comes first.

Oh, and by the way, the ice cream does seem to have a positive effect. I'm pretty sure I got that from some famous doctor's website or something. Anyway, thanks for dropping by, and have a great day!