I am 33 years old now. While that is by no means old, I am not a young man anymore. My body takes 1 month to heal, not 1 week—or 5 minutes, like it did during the “invincible phase” of life (17-27).
As I sit here typing this, I have at least 6 open and bleeding wounds on my back, arm, and shoulder, as well as a welt the size of a golf ball on my shin from a crash just 1 hour ago.
4 months ago, I fractured 3 ribs.
2 months ago, I partially tore my LCL, and bruised my tibial plateau.
4 weeks ago, I bruised 2 other ribs and tore a bunch of cartilage in between them.
I am maybe a little pig-headed, and certainly not smart, but certainly not some action movie tough guy. Yet, despite my injury list, I have managed to miss only a total of 3.5 weeks of riding this summer.
Sorry, doc. I know you told me to skip 8 weeks for the ribs, 4 weeks for the knee, and 4 more weeks for the ribs (again).
But evidently, I’d really rather not sit around and be bummed out and depressed the whole summer waiting for every ailment to go away. And besides, as daredevil Lance Murdoch once said on The Simpsons, “Wounds Heel. Chicks dig scars. The United States has the best doctor-to-daredevil ratio in the world.”
Furthermore, I think those mountains get lonely without me out there. I certainly get lonely without them.
And you told me to let pain determine my recovery time frame. I swear, I have had only moderate discomfort. OK, that might be a gross misrepresentation, but I do feel that if you can (1) do a push-up and (2) do a squat, you can (3) ride a bike. Or so I tell myself. Or so I trick myself. How?…