These Hands

I know I've reached the bottom of the barrel when I can no longer keep my eyes open in the car on the way home. More than once, I had to jerk myself awake to keep myself from running my car into the jerk in front of me. Hee, hee. I crack myself up... I actually prefer to drive myself home rather than accidentally finding myself riding in the front seat with the person ahead of me.

The entire family is home when I arrive. Dee Dee is home early on Wednesdays. She was taking Jimmy to watch the girl's varsity play their semi final game over by Stone Mountain. I lay down in the bed exhausted, fully clothed, as Dee Dee puts on the finishing touches of her beauty in the bathroom. Somehow, I fail to hear her leave. After about twenty minutes, my internal alarms go off. I'm supposed to be riding, yet here I am, checking my eye lids for cracks. I hurriedly get out bed, gather my things and take Aerowyn out into the neighborhood. Thank God for shorter sessions. I still have time to get my ride in and get Matthew to practice.

My legs feel heavy. In my mind, I know I should be a little more diligent following the plan. Not diligent with time. I am anal about doing my time. Rather, diligent at effort. I tend to train at one pace on the bike. As I pedal up the hills and out of the neighborhood, I can feel the residual pain and stiffness in my thighs, and I hail the call of the plan and take an easy pace. I'm sure I'll get my five minutes of hard effort at SOME POINT in this hill ridden bike route.

As I climb hill after hill, I feel the tiredness, the self imposed slothness, and the pain shed my legs like the shackles that bound the legs of a young Forest Gump. I'm sure you guys have felt it too. The strength returns to your legs and all is well with the world. Now I could of pulled a patented manuever and busted tail for the remainder of my ride, but I did not. I enjoyed the envigorating feeling and stayed within the boundaries of the plan. Taper is taper after all.

I often, these days, find myself staring and pondering the wonder of my hands, and particularly my wrists. I always admired the lean and mean physique of hardened triathletes. I stare in amazement at the paddles at the ends of my arms, at the slimness of my wrists, as if, in my minds eye, I still expect to see the bloated appendages that used to hang there in days gone by. Arms and legs that were fed beer after beer, bottle after bottle of gin and bourbon until my body had no choice but store all the extra fluid in my extremeties.

These hands are mine. They propel me through the water. These arms are mine. They pull me on the swim. These legs are mine. They power me on the bike and take me places on the run. The face I admire in the mirror on the elevator? That's mine too, and it reminds me to never forget.

Wes

OCN: 12.3 miles, accidently reset bike computer
OCN: 13.6 miles, 45 minutes, ~18 mph (trainer)
ORN: 1.5 miles, 16 minutes, ~10:30 mmp