The Dirt Field

Hello from the off season! Everything is going really well here. Wait, no. That is a lie. Much like every road in the city of Seattle, things are continually up and down. Sometimes life is peachy and I’m living the dream and other times I would very much like to wake up already, damnit. That shift usually occurs several times before noon each day.

I went on a great ride last week. By great I mean “possibly, if not likely, the worst ride of my entire cycling career” but in retrospect it was at least memorable. My training plan called for a three-hour endurance ride and, because my legs were crap and I was exhausted, I decided to plan a chill ride exploring West Seattle for several hours. No pressure, no big efforts, just some quality time on the bike seeing the town.

Then it rained.

It was very windy by the water.

I flatted.

I flatted again.

Stopped at a bike shop to buy more supplies.

Flatted again.

Stopped at another bike shop to buy even more supplies.

Ended up with too short of a valve stem on the tube; struggled to inflate the tire.

The ride was gloomy and gritty and tedious.

My riding partner crashed on slick pavement and took me out.

Then he had to get a car and drive home (while dripping blood) because the ride had run an hour longer than the day’s schedule permitted.

I stubbornly refused to stop (SHOCKER) and spent the final hour of the ride limping home slowly while struggling to breathe through the pain in my back/shoulder.

Then I got home and was still struggling and moping and grimacing and he asked me to take a picture of his wounds and beer.

Then I stabbed him.

Okay, that last part only happened in my head. Clearly crashes happen and it was an accident that could have happened to anybody. I am not an unreasonable person (that is actually a lie). I know he didn’t mean to slide out and bowl a perfect strike with his large bike and flailing limbs and I know he felt terrible about it.

After a week, the pain in my back/shoulder/somewhere inside was actually getting worse instead of better. It hurt to breathe/sneeze/laugh/cough/have a pulse and don’t even get me started on how terrible it was to move. Drying my hair the other day resulted in shrieking obscenities. So I went to see a doctor yesterday and found out that my T7 rib is fractured.

This is where The Guy will say PICS OR IT DIDN’T HAPPEN. Sorry, I was too busy weeping like a baby over my misfortune to snap a photo of the X-Ray.

The doctor said it will take 4-6 weeks to heal (“On the bright side, you’re already a week into the healing process!” The Guy chirped optimistically while I fantasized about pulling out the broken rib and shanking him with it) and in the interim, I am supposed to let pain be my guide for physical activity.

Okay. I can lift my right arm to get a drink to my lips NO PROBLEM.

But truly, it could have been worse. I could have fractured the rib through my own error (something very likely given my life choices) and then I would not have this great line to drag out all the time for the rest of my life about That Time You Broke My Rib. This is killer leverage.

Living in Seattle has given me ample opportunity to explore the idea that every cloud has a silver lining.