Creeeeeak

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So we took the children to the fair on Thursday.  It was fun, although Nagging Unromantic Chronic Digestive Complaint made me pretty uncomfortable all day.  But it was fun, and we walked a lot.  Like, for hours.

I have these terrible non-load-bearing feet, so walking a lot, like for hours, is not as much fun as it sounds.

The next day the aforementioned Complaint was much worse, so I spent the day laying around waiting to see if it got Urgently Worse.  I’m sure you’re (both) very relieved that it did not.   By evening it was largely improved and so we went to see kd lang at the zoo.

This also involves a certain amount of walking.

Saturday my cousin, the adorable Carmen, came over and she and I performed yard work.  Much yard work.  Yard work that entailed bags of pea gravel.  Many, many bags.  And much bending over, squatting, kneeling, digging, and the like.  Also, standing.  And walking.

By mid day I was done with the gravel and poor Carmen had to muscle them around.  My dogs were a-barkin’ too loudly.

Today, because I am evidently still unaware of being over 40 and all the delightful aging that that entails, I went on a bike ride.  I haven’t ridden much this summer which I’m regretting, because I so love it.  There are a couple of reasons:

1. There are children here, or as I like to call them TIME-SUCKING LEECHES, who require attention of various kinds.

2.  I have a job.

3.  I am lazy.

4.  My bicycle is equipped with scary pedals that my special shoes attach to.

Probably reason #4 is the main issue here.  I put the scary pedals on the bike long ago, in a fit of some kind of bizarre, endorphin-induced overconfidence just after finishing the Livestrong ride.  I then immediately affixed the bicycle to the wall of the shitty apartment we moved to and for two years I did not ride, because I was in nursing school and barely had time to wipe my ….nose, let alone deal with Scary Pedals.

Last summer I went on an organized ride with the local bicycling club and when they asked if anyone had anything to ask or announce, I raised my hand and told them about my scary pedals.

“Okay,” said the ride leader, “Everybody stay away from Debra here.”

As we exited the parking lot, having ridden a whole 30 yards perhaps, I panicked and forgot the push-down-and-pivot-your-ankle-outwards extrication procedure when it came time to stop and wait for traffic to pass, which resulted in my tumbling to the ground like a sack of big, fat, flop-sweaty potatoes.  THERE WAS ACTUAL BLOOD.

Adrenaline being what it is, I sprang upright again (all but saying I TOTALLY MEANT TO DO THAT) and got back on, catching up to the group and making damn sure my foot was detached from the pedal anytime we even thought about slowing down.

I’ve been reluctant to repeat this performance, not the least because my stupid knee was bruised and sore for weeks.  But today I put on my big girl panties, also my bike shorts (my apologies to the innocent bystanders who were forced to witness my back forty in padded Lycra), and I went for a ride.

It was not so bad, really, about 15 miles on a relatively flat, paved trail.  But now my butt hurts, despite the padded shorts and the gel seat.   What was I thinking?

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