Tuesday - Beat up by the StairClimber-O-Death
Friday - Snowboard helmet to the chest
Sunday - Mountain to the side of the head
Check! Check! And, Check!!
My body started falling apart well before I turned 30. However, it didn't seem to really impact me until the big THREE-OH hit. Before 30, I could talk about how jacked-up my feet were from that last run.....and then head downstairs to log another 10 miles. I could show-off the bruises from where my snowboard hit me in the back of the neck (Yes, it's possible for your snowboard to hit you in the back of the neck. TRUST ME.).....and then jump on the lift for another run down the mountain. But, NOW????? Now, I'm lucky if I even have the energy to talk about what hurts. Not to mention, con my aching body into doing the same shit a second time.
It's always something. Bloody toes halfway thru a marathon, followed by a few missing toenails a week later. A "bad" knee that hurts if I look at it wrong, and a "good" knee that swells until my jeans won't let it swell any more. A right hamstring that doesn't allow me to lower myself to the toilet seat like a normal person, and a bone spur on my left foot that makes me lace up my running shoes like a 3 year-old. Two black toenails, with one being so bad that I performed my own surgery on it involving hot water, Epsom salt, a lighter, 2 red-hot needles, and enough blood to make my children queasy. And, we can't forget about the "growth" that has taken up residence in my sinus cavity and the inflamed ligament that connects the Top of Me to the Bottom of Me. (I would also mention the permanent blister on my right thumb, if it wasn't for the fact that it's caused by me holding the curling iron incorrectly. That's just plain stupid.) My feet, my knees, my head........What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right??? Man, I freaking hope so. Because after the week I've had, I could quite possibly take the podium in a StrongMan Competition.
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Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Place: APPLE Athletic Club
Potential Killer: The Stairclimber (o' death)
The StairClimber and I have always had a rocky relationship. He beckons to me during my runs on the treadmill and entices me with the promise of rock-hard thighs and a model's ass. I don't usually give in, though, since the thought of leaving my treadmill for another lover is a heavy load to bear. However, I have, on occasion, done the unthinkable, and taken the leap. (The grass is always greener....right???) And afterwards, I don't usually feel too guilty since I hate the StairClimber after a whole 8 minutes....while I could whisper sweet nothings to my treadmill for hours. After last Tuesday, tho, the StairClimber and I are DONE. Finished. Kaput. He's an ass.
I was flung (yes, flung) from the damn thing...not once...not twice...but THREE times. I was left bloodied and bruised from the knees down and now know what it feels like to eat shit in front of a whole gym full of people. Jayson has known that feeling for years. Remember the year that Lyndsey Jacobellis hot-dogged it on the last jump in the Olympic Boarder Cross...and wound up on her ass? Well, Jayson did the same thing while watching her on TV. Unfortunately (for him), he happened to be on the treadmill at the gym when he did it. I saw the whole thing unfold in front of me, laughed until I peed, and vowed to never EVER let something like that happen to me. I guess what I meant was that I would never EVER let something like that happen to me on a treadmill. Damn vow - I should have covered all of my bases. Cuz my shins are STILL bruised and I will be sporting some killer scars come Spring.
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Friday, December 24, 2010
Place: Grand Targhee
Potential Killer: A 12 year-old's helmet
I spent Christmas Eve on the mountain, with 4 kids in tow. Two of them Mine / Two of them Not Mine. On our way to lunch, the Older Not Mine and I were "unofficially" racing. I say "unofficially" because Older Not Mine had no clue what was going on. He was just riding. And I was on a mission to beat his ass down the mountain. (Everything is a competition, remember?) We both ride the same (left foot forward) and I was on the left. So, he was facing the trees, and I was looking at the back of his helmet.
And, then I wasn't looking at the back of his helmet anymore. I was laying on the ground, eyes squeezed shut, trying like hell to breathe. But all I could do was grunt. I vaguely remember hearing someone ask if we needed Ski Patrol....and then Ski Patrol was there. And I FINALLY got a breath. It was heaven. Oxygen. The best Christmas gift ever. And then I asked Older Not Mine to kindly remove his helmet from my chest. (Ok, I didn't really say that. I was still too focused on breathing. But, I did think it.)
Ski Patrol didn't want to let us get up and leave. He kept cocking his head to one side and talking to me like I was a toddler. I think I giggled a few times (apparently I was happy to be alive), which didn't help our case any. When trying to convince Ski Patrol that you are FINE after doing several full rotations thru the air while velcroed to Older Not Mine who had just decided to carve left without putting on his turn signal while hauling ass down the hill at the speed of light (Ok, fine! We weren't going that fast. But close...), it's probably best that you NOT giggle in between feeble attempts at breathing. It looks bad. Like, maybe, just maybe, you broke a few ribs, punctured a lung, and knocked yourself out in the process.
Older Not Mine and I finally just got up and left. (I will NOT ride in an orange basket.) Ski Patrol just threw his arms up and reminded us where the First Aid Office was.
I'm still nursing wounds from that one. In addition to the itty-bitty "nap" that I took before Ski Patrol arrived, I tore-up my left shoulder and have a partial helmet imprint bruised into my chest. At least I have a a new-found respect for oxygen. Older Not Mine wound up with a black eye, a sore right shoulder, and a tweaked ankle. Maybe, next time, he'll use his damn turn signal.
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Sunday, December 26, 2010
Place: Grand Targhee (I know, I know...You're noticing a trend.)
Potential Killer: The only spot on the mountain without powder
Last Sunday, my dad and I found a sweet spot up on the mountain. (I'd tell you where it is, but then I'd have to kill you.) It was, literally, one jump after another. And none of them were man-made. It was amazing. I was nailing every one of them - catching more air than I ever have before. Good takeoffs, solid landings, and riding off to the next one.
And then I hit my damn head.
Sweet takeoff, HUGE air, nailed my landing....and then realized that the next jump was RIGHT THERE. Cartwheel...somersault...and then I find the one spot in this Powder Wonderland where there isn't any powder. And, I find it with my damn head. MOTHER!!!!
I took it as a good sign that I saw stars. Because that, I decided, meant that I hadn't knock myself out. (You can't see stars if you're out cold, right??) I spent the rest of the day nursing a massive headache, but the best was yet to come. Whiplash. Oh, yeah. Bright and early Monday morning, I learned the true meaning of a sore neck. I did such a good job of whacking my head that my neck was actually swollen right where it connects to my shoulder. I'm still working on the concept of turning my head to the right, but am grateful to not be in a full body cast and eating thru a straw.
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I will be at the mountain on Sunday (in my sweet spot), but will be riding in the slow lane (that's a total lie) and watching for speed bumps. And, on Tuesday, I will be at the gym, but you won't find me on the StairClimber. I will be back with my true love - the treadmill - where I can avoid being flung to my death in front of an audience....and walk away with my pride in-tact.
HAPPY TRAKS!!
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