The Grind.

Every morning I wake up to bone grinding against bone. It sounds worse than it actually is in reality, although it won't make my Top 10 Most Favoritist Things list this year. I look at it as a reminder to not do anything to aggravate the injury, like rolling over to hit the snooze button.  
I roll off the bed in a complex maneuver, and if I stick the landing I am rewarded with minimal stabbing pain. Shuffling to the bathroom keeps me from tripping over random things on the bedroom floor, which would mean potentially arresting the fall with the wrong arm. In essence, my routine these days mainly revolves around trying not to make a bad situation worse.

Every day the sickly yellow bruise that covers my shoulder looks a little more repugnant in the mirror. The fact that the bruise exists at all, on a body that rarely bruises, is an indication of how badly I screwed up.

I grab a quick bite to eat, then down far too many milligrams of Motrin. That's all the pain relief I can give myself before I climb on the bike. I kit up and eventually find my way out to the garage, after exhausting all of my internet-generated excuses for avoiding the trainer.

Each day I try to see where the "ouch limit" is. Each day I find it, then back off to something I can sustain for the duration. Each day I go a little further. Each day I pay for it a little, but I don't stop. Stopping would mean surrendering to the fat, and I just can't do that. Even if my body is a little chewed up, my head is in a good place. I know how fragile a condition that can be, so I'm rolling with it.

Hopefully I don't do any more damage in the process.


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