I have no idea what I’m going to write about, but figured since it’s been a couple fortnights since I’ve hiked Mt. Shredward (obviously mountain biking is a long way off thanks to my lame wing), I should just punch myself in the balls, scream “C’mon you fucking (a few names that call my masculinity into question),” jump on wordpress, open a new post and just get gonzo.
All right. Blog post. Yeah. Ready aaannnnd…write!
Yeah, that’s what I thought. Not surprisingly, there’s not exactly a cord of hot-burning oak fuel for the fire pouring out of an Chevy pickup. When one is trying to add to one’s mountain biking blog while one is seven weeks into a six month hiatus from mountain biking, it’s kind of like an NHL beat writer during the current strike. Rather, they probably wish it was like that. That’s just gotta be the lamest. Unlike them, nothing depends on me churning out a piece (except my unique clicks have dwindled from about 35 to 40 a day to a big fat zero). It’s their job, so they end up having to push and grunt and strain and push out NHL stories that no one gives a frozen turd on the blue line about. Me, I’ve got fuck all mountain biking stuff to write about because I’ve done fuck all riding, which has resulted in fuck all inspiration, well, so I just don’t write. It’s been a bummer. I miss tapping about and entertaining myself. I even seemed to have gained some readers (at least according to the click tracker I have installed on wordpress), but, meh, that’s life. I’ve really been okay. Much better than I thought I would be, actually.
I wish I had something juicy and confessional, like how not being able to ride has been a blood soaked SS boot kicking me down a terrifying mental staircase five, ragged, broken steps at a time. I fight and claw, but finally I’ve landed in a sad place filled with swirling, heavy tar-like mania where 99% of the time I’m unable to comprehend my own thoughts, let alone organize them into coherent communications to share with you. And when I do surface enough to take a gasping gulp of semi-clarity I’d report to you stuff like how my non-understanding, bitch of a wife found me “coupling” with my Blur at three in the morning, and that I explained to her, in plain fucking English, how my bike and I will give birth to a new me, free of injury and the ruins of aging, and the re-born me will ride to the peak of Olympus, and become an immortal, Shredius, the god of fat tires, and that I would never need surgery again, ZUES BE PRAISED! I have not time to tap on this cursed tablet. Now I must pack my satchel with Ambrosia flavored Gu and fill my skin with wine to hydrate me as I conquer the highest of Earth’s peaks. Friends, depart with me! I hear the descent down the back of Fuji gives sensations not to be matched by the hummer given by Venus, herself. AWAY!
But no, you get this:
I guess for my own records, for one day I will look upon these words again, I can talk about my last check up, which was a few days before this was written. It went great. Range of motion is better than expected at this point of my recovery. Unfortunately the timeline for my full release is immovable, but it’s good to be doing good.. My rehab is going well. And I’ve been getting into a couple spin classes a week to stay not fat.
One thing that is kind of interesting is that I learned that the piece of tissue that they used to replace my lateral ulnar collateral ligament was actually out of a dead dude’s hammy! I always kind of assumed that they just used another elbow ligament. No sir, that is incorrect. For one, you need a longer piece of tissue than the original ligament because of how it’s installed. They drill a hole into the humerus and then the ulna, stick an end of the tendon into each hole, then screw it in, sort of wedging it in place until the bone heals around it. Another reason they use the tendon out of the hamstring is that it’s incredibly strong. Much stronger than the original ligament. That’s why pitchers who have elbow ligaments replaced often can throw even harder than they could before the injury. I wonder how long until we hear a story about a pitcher who was struggling to make it to the show finding a doctor somewhere in Turkey or Whackistan or other country where such procedures may be had, taking 5 grand to replace a healthy ligament. Don’t imagine it’s against the rules of baseball. Probably less risky than some of the veteranarian intended shit athletes have shot up with.
Well, that’s about it for now. Gotta say, feels good to write something not related to work. I’ll come back.