Go ahead and put me on the injured list so I can sign a multi-million dollar deal with the Panthers. That's right, I broke my leg. By "broke my leg" I of course mean that I severely strained my calf muscle. That is pretty much the same in my book.
I had plans to ride Dupont this weekend but that came to a screeching halt when I realized I was unable to pedal with my right leg due to a sharp pain in my knee. Any sane person would recognize that this pain was caused by the tension lower in my leg. My first thought was that I must have knee cancer. Since there is no such thing I had to defer to the opinion of an expert to obtain a remedy. I was going to call my doctor but the only doctor I know is an immunologist. I felt that having her spend an extended period of time in the lab developing a cost effective vaccine for my ailment might not be the most efficient way to go. Besides, in my new profession I am ill-equipped to help her identify a proper research assistant.
After much deliberation I came to realize that I had no choice but to reach out to The Little Italian for help. To the unsuspecting reader this may seem like a very pleasant way to go. How could it not be? It seems to reason that receiving care from the love of your life should be a pleasant experience. Under any other circumstances this may be true. I, however, made the very foolish mistake of marrying a strength and conditioning coach. What can I say? She's cute. Except when she's "helping".
Anyone who has seen the movie Misery can skip the rest of this post because you already have a pretty good idea of what my evening looked like. I was anticipating a gentle massage to help alleviate my condition. Oh how foolish an assumption that was. When I was instructed to lay face down on the floor I started to get a little nervous. Then "the device" was revealed. It was shaped like ET's head and had two large vibrating knobs. Under the right circumstances this tool may have been used for the power of good. Tonight it was pure evil. As The Little Italian kneaded my leg with the vibrating instrument of destruction I writhed in pain and begged for mercy. It was not to be granted. She cackled with glee as she ground the tool deeper into my leg. I banged my fist upon the hard wood floor and screamed for help but there was none to be had. We were alone and my slow, painful death was imminent. With each pass of the machine, the knot in my leg exploded in a burst of pain.
And then she was gone. I was alone on the floor feeling lost and helpless. The events of the evening left me flushed and exhausted. I was left with only a few instructions and a hope that I might soon return to my full physical capacity. The first rule cast in my direction was something silly about not running or riding my bike for the next few days. I forgot exactly what was said. That usually happens when I am told to stay away from my bike. The second bit of advice was to utilize "self massage" in an attempt to aid the healing process. Although I'm familiar with the technique I have no idea how that might help my leg. Well, I'm no doctor but I'll give it a shot.