The Dirt Field

I hurt my knee earlier this week while running through Reston Town Center. Less than two blocks of dashing merrily in flat boots and by the end of the night, I could hardly bend my leg. The ortho doctor said that I likely tore my cartilage or meniscus (to a minor extent), and went on to add, “Isn’t it funny that you compete in a high risk sport, and yet you injured your knee running to your car?”

Hilarious.

So he gave me some free sample drugs and sent me home with orders for an MRI and to rest until my follow-up appointment next week. And I rested hard…for two days, until impatience and anxiety over missed training won and I gingerly rode for 90 minutes on Friday evening. All seemed well, so I got back on the bike for the scheduled training this morning and ended up feeling great. The knee balked on some of the steeper pitches, but on the whole I was reminded fondly of the days when I’d turn the pedals and actual power would come out. Lately it’s felt like nothing but crickets and dust.

After the ride, I went home, showered, and leashed up the dogs for a walk. We had just made it outside the building when I saw the elderly woman who lives above me struggling with some boxes in the parking lot. Since Kobe can best be described as a menace when it comes to sidewalk interactions, I put him and Scout back in the house and offered assistance. She accepted, I carried the boxes upstairs, and she invited me inside in heavily accented English.

Then she asked if I was new to the neighborhood. I’ve lived below her and her husband for nearly four years.

Then she offered me tea. When I thanked her but declined because I needed to walk my dogs, she replied that she was Iranian and insisted that I try her special Iranian pistachios. Before I knew it, she had led me into her living room and had me sitting on her couch, shelling and eating nuts flavored with something that tasted like an entire spice rack engulfed in flames.

Then she offered me tea again. I declined, saying I really had to be going but that perhaps we could have tea another time. So she offered coffee, and then suggested that she make lunch. Then she quickly opened a row of containers in front of me containing dates, walnuts, almonds, cookies, and more pistachios.

It was surreal. One minute I was walking my dogs and the next I was being force-fed by a stranger in her living room. I felt guilty for not being willing to stay for longer, but I also felt uncomfortable and afraid of what insanity my smiling, bobbling head was going to agree to next. Here, little girl, just creep into my oven to see if it is properly heated…

Of course, now that I’m back in the safety of my condo, icing my puffy knee [oops] and craving some tea, I feel sort of like an asshole for not staying for longer. And I see why Ted Bundy was so successful.