Hubris

So, while I was at PT (that's physical therapy, for you young 'uns who have no need of it) getting electricity shot through my tender, tender kneecaps, I mock-complained that if Lance Armstrong can do triathlons at the ripe old age of 37, I should be able to do my modest six-days-a-week training schedule without excruciating, crippling pain.

And my PT quipped, yeah, Lance's abilities have nothing to do with genes...

Apparently my genes are at war with me. Being a 40-something athlete is, I am finding, a constant balancing act between trying to generate enough activity to keep oneself strong and healthy and having to curtail said healthy activity because one's body won't tolerate it. I swear, the demands I make of this body are modest. I don't run ten miles at a time. I run four. I swim for 45 minutes. I ride my bike at a modest pace, in a not-terribly-hilly environment, a couple of times a week. I take a rest day, whether I want to or not (I hate them, to be honest).

And yet. Here I am, the day after a ride, and my knees won't work. They won't bend. They are screaming at me. I am, occasionally, screaming back at them. I gritted my teeth throughout the PT. I am a tough-ass little cookie, after all. But holy shit, this hurts.

I never take unnecessary medications. And yet I gulped down a giant prescription-strength Naproxen this morning. I iced the hell out of everything.

None of it helped. The PT said it'll get better, that I should stretch before and after rides, that I should do nothing but swim this week, and that I should get those shorter cranks ASAP. Righty-ho.

Ouch.

PS. Yes, my ass hurts, too. Boo hoo hoo.
PS2. Fuck you, Lance. Fucking superhuman freak. Bastard.
PS3. And fuck all you cute little boys at the bike shop. I bet your knees don't hurt you at all, you sexy little brats. I hate you.