Drip. Drip. Drip.

I could hear it when I woke up.
 
I could hear it as I kitted up.
 
I could hear it as I tried to find the end of the internet on my computer.
 
I could hear it as I got on the trainer, until the road of the LeMond Revolution trainer drowned it out.
 
The sound of steady rain.
 
Being confined to a stationary trainer isn't quite as bad when the alternative is a very soggy ride in the mid-50s. It's not like I wouldn't opt for a squishy ride outside if I had the choice, but conditions like these take the sting out of it somewhat.
 
Instead, I tried to beat arbitrary times up imaginary climbs or sprinted for virtual jerseys. I ended up soaked anyway, but from inside out instead of outside in. Some things you just can't avoid unless you stop playing altogether. That's not an option for me right now. Stopping will let the fat catch back up, wasting all of the effort I put in trying to get away.
 
Cutting back on the NSAIDs and opioids is something I've been trying to do lately, and the rain doesn't help. The rain makes me ache more, tightening up muscles already overworked from stabilizing my clavicle and insufficiently stretched because... well, fuck, that hurts. So, I give in and pop another white pill and flop down in bed or on the couch in a drug-induced stupor until everything finds neutral again.
 
NSAIDs and opioids put me in the hospital for a week back in 2006. I had been fighting a pinched nerve in my shoulder that caused intermittent stabbing pain in various parts of my left arm. The doctors kept prescribing more drugs, and I kept taking them as directed. Eventually my guts shut down, and I was in the hospital on a morphine drip with a drainage tube running out of my nose. My very pregnant wife was worried sick. This is not something I want to repeat anytime soon, so I'm trying to back away from the pills.
 
It ain't easy.
 
I don't like how the drugs make me feel, so opioid addiction isn't a worry for me at the moment. I won't be selling my bikes so I can buy heroin anytime soon. As soon as I can, I want to be far, far away from orange bottles with child-proof caps. It's just my day consists of countless tiny hits on my shoulder, no matter how hard I try to avoid them. The muscles circle the wagons a little tighter, and eventually they wear out and start adding to the constant ache. Death by a thousand taps. By late afternoon, as much as I hate it, the drugs are needed to even the score.
 
So, as much as riding outside in the rain sounds like a nice way to spend a day, I know the consequences would outweigh any benefit I would gain from the experience.
 
Drip. Drip. Drip.

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