Bikes: February 2008 Archives

Knees are somewhat better today, and I went swimming, and then I had peanut butter and banana and honey and tea, so you know, there's all that.

I also took a pic of my new hat. It's simple, it's ribbed, it might look better if it had a little i-cord something or other on top, but I thought I might try wearing it under the bike helmet, so I left it plain on top.

In other rib-knitting news, I have decided fuck the tubular cast-on. I am just gonna knit Snow White with my regular long-tail cast-on, or maybe a cable cast-on (which I successfully taught myself yesterday while trying unsuccessfully to learn the tubular), and I'll maybe use needles a size bigger or something. I don't care, and this annoying cast-on is delaying my access to the pretty sweater, so off with its head!

For the record, I am not going off completely half-cocked here; I checked Ravelry last night at 3 in the morning and did find someone who'd made a perfectly nice Snow White with a regular ol' cast-on, and I do not generally have a problem with casting on too tightly. So there we are.

Incidentally, I want to point out that the expression half-cocked most probably derives from old-style firearms, which I don't think will shoot half-cocked. (Yep, I was right.)

In any case, I have shot a firearm of this type, and, well, now you know: I know how to shoot. Add that to your list of freaky things you'd rather I didn't discuss here. But, hey, I figure if you wanted to be reading a PG-13 type of blog, you'd have left long ago. (Byeeeee! Have a nice trip...)

Anyway....yeah, rifles. Yarn. Cat asleep on couch, as per usual. I'm gonna go swatch some Classic Al now. Well, after I finish that work I owe that client. And maybe write a poem to end this completely inane and aimless post.

Later: Work done, but sorry, no poem. But I got to talk to my bicycle mechanic about crank length. He was up till 2 am researching cranks for me. Now, that is the way to a girl's heart.

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.