Well, shit.

I was feeling better towards the end of the work week.  I was fourteen days out from my wreck.  I was able to do some things without pain that had been troubling at first, like the vigorous manner in which I (or everyone?) dry off my back after a shower with an enthusiastic flossing motion.  Getting out of bed without thinking.  Putting on/taking off a t-shirt like a human boy.

Life is good.

So I figured I'd go for a short'ish ride at the not-too-technical Sherman Branch trail and see what I could get away with Saturday morning.  Some things felt okay.  Other things felt good.  Occasionally, things felt bad.

Thirteen miles later, I decided that I could go ahead and give it a go at the Rocky River Shiver the next day.  Go home, shower up, grab a beer and...

Ooohhhh... starting to feel things again.  Tightness.  Twinges of pain.  The Pie shooting me the "I told you so looks" from the other room (I can hear those looks).

Dammit.  Heat.  Ibuprofen.  The Pie kneads the knot that now resides next to my scapula.  Set the alarm for 5:00AM.

Wake up.  Not so bad.  Eat breakfast, grab my bike, cooler, and messenger bag to head out to the car, and...

Ooooohhh... that feeling again.  Gawdammit.

Gawdammit.

I'm awake and the car is packed and I ate all that spaghetti yesterday and I've already drank 32oz of coffee and...

Drive over to Rocky River, park the car, answer questions about my wreck and the new bike and Breck Epic and get my shit ready to "race."

Jeebus.  How do you geared people with all your cables and hoses and your bleep blooping devices attach number plates to your bars?  It was like arts and crafts time combined with a Cracker Barrel puzzle.

Go to get my shoes and socks on, find that the end of my sock is all balled up and crusty.  Unfurl it, and a pound of sand that I collected in my shoe during my six or seven mile walk off the mesa two weeks ago dumps out.  Hilarious.

I line up at the very back of the tryers group, just ahead of the happy to be here group, which was ahead of the party pace group.  I had no desire to move quickly.  Just efficiently would suffice.  Stumble behind someone as we enter the trail over a small bridge that is normally meant to be approached from the other direction, and all I can think is "don't fall."

I'm walking essentially five feet from the parking lot.

The conditions were drier than I've ever seen them here.  Not dry in the good way, but in the loose over hard way.  I'm instinctively touching the brakes, riding cautiously, and more or less not riding a bike as much as trying to move forward without having an accident.  I'm not having fun, and I'm hitting stuff at awkward speeds (or lack thereof), and generally farting all over the trail.

This is so stupid.

If I fall over, my recovery could be set back.  If I have to react to washing out my front tire, my recovery could be set back.  If I tag my wider than I'm used to bars into a tight set of trees...

You see where I'm going.

I get to the top of the first long climb, see Steve sitting on a four wheeler at the top, ask him where all the hooting and hollering that I could hear in the woods is... somewhere over there... and head that way.

I sit (and stand around) in the woods for the next few hours talking to friends, yelling at others, and watching an occasional rider eat shit on the descent below us, fall over on the climb next to us, and even see a guy just collapse from cramps.

All I could think was "that coulda been me."

That all went about as poorly or well as I thought it would.

I'm looking forward to taking it very easy this week and getting my shit straight ASAP.  Go to work, move smartly, come home, heating pad, ibuprofen, and watch the grass grow until the weekend.

And prepare myself for the idea that mountain biking might not happen when it gets here.  And be okay with it.

Gawdammit.

Breck Epic is two weeks away.  The bitching and moaning will end soon, one way or the other.