Doubling Down.
As Monday wore on, my legs got stiffer and stiffer.
By the end of the day, I could barely walk, which made traversing icy sidewalks and parking lots a joy. I knew if I went down, getting back up was going to be an issue. When I got home, my wife lit into me about the sink full of dishes, but stopped short when she saw me hobbling around. The dishes could wait a little while.
I went to bed early, reading Phil Gaimon's new book and generally not moving if I could avoid it. My large and faithful Lab, Jackson, crawled up beside me and leaned his considerable bulk against my leg, eliciting a whimper from me. I couldn't get angry with him, because he's just a loveable goofball. The boy cat, which I don't particularly like and have sized for a nice, brick laden burlap sack, found his spot and settled in. The youngest eventually climbed in too, forcing my wife to find other sleeping arrangements for the night.
When I woke up in the morning to the alarm, my first thought was that my legs didn't feel all that bad. Then I moved one, and my assessment was immediately revised. Still, I dutifully dragged myself out of bed, limped to the bathroom to kit up, and made my way to the trainer. Maybe it would get better.
Turns out, it did. I settled into a solid effort and skipped all of the high-intensity work. Just a sweat-pouring grind to see if my legs were truly dead or just partially maimed. Turns out, they weren't too bad after the rest day. I could sustain a pretty good power level (for me) and, as a bonus, I could walk with only a slight limp afterwards.
I'd call that a win.
Now I have to start trying to hurt myself again.
By the end of the day, I could barely walk, which made traversing icy sidewalks and parking lots a joy. I knew if I went down, getting back up was going to be an issue. When I got home, my wife lit into me about the sink full of dishes, but stopped short when she saw me hobbling around. The dishes could wait a little while.
I went to bed early, reading Phil Gaimon's new book and generally not moving if I could avoid it. My large and faithful Lab, Jackson, crawled up beside me and leaned his considerable bulk against my leg, eliciting a whimper from me. I couldn't get angry with him, because he's just a loveable goofball. The boy cat, which I don't particularly like and have sized for a nice, brick laden burlap sack, found his spot and settled in. The youngest eventually climbed in too, forcing my wife to find other sleeping arrangements for the night.
When I woke up in the morning to the alarm, my first thought was that my legs didn't feel all that bad. Then I moved one, and my assessment was immediately revised. Still, I dutifully dragged myself out of bed, limped to the bathroom to kit up, and made my way to the trainer. Maybe it would get better.
Turns out, it did. I settled into a solid effort and skipped all of the high-intensity work. Just a sweat-pouring grind to see if my legs were truly dead or just partially maimed. Turns out, they weren't too bad after the rest day. I could sustain a pretty good power level (for me) and, as a bonus, I could walk with only a slight limp afterwards.
I'd call that a win.
Now I have to start trying to hurt myself again.
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