Saturday, December 16, 2006


I gave myself a pretty deep bruise when I fell on my back in the woods the other day; try as I might to be all stoic about it, I can’t get over how much it fucking hurts, especially when I twist or cough or try to do upward facing dog. I’m pretty sure nothing’s broken, but I’m sore enough to think that this is what it must be like to be an NFL quarterback the morning after playing against Joey Porter.

I’m unimpressed with the over-the-counter painkillers I’ve tried. Aspirin does little more than take my mind off my back by giving me heartburn. Ibuprofen seems to provide no obvious effect, unless you count ear-ringing if I take eight or so. I’m not even clear what acetaminophen is supposed to do, but it doesn’t work, either.

So far, the most effective treatment has been bourbon. I’m not sure it makes the pain go away, but after a few snorts of Beam, I don’t really seem to care.

It’s been interesting (after a fashion) to be hobbling about as another preview of coming attractions in old age. Moving slowly has given me new appreciation of access options for seniors; walking through downtown crowds yesterday, I wished I had a cane to fend off bustling holiday shoppers.

The good news is, I can still ride my bike, albeit a bit more slowly than usual. Going uphill is what hurts, as it requires me to use my back muscles, pulling on the handlebars to climb. This gives me the chance, though, to pretend I’m Tyler Hamilton in the 2005 Tour, winning a stage with a broken collarbone.

Maybe I need to try blood-doping

Everytime I feel a twinge, I wonder why we feel pain at all. How come evolution selected for individuals who hurt after an accident? I don’t see how the pain is performing any adaptive function, unless maybe feeling like this sent my Neolithic ancestors to bed.


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