A Little Color on Our Legs

Sky over Peter Muschal School, Bordentown

30 January 2018

There's definitely something very wrong with my left calf. I don't have full range of motion. I can tell that I'm limping, even if nobody else can. I think it's starting to look bruised. I'm going on Tom's bike ride anyway. If my leg hurts I'll turn around.

Chris is in the parking lot, of course. The school is only a mile and a half from his house. Pete and Bob are there, and Jack H, who we rarely see in the winter. 

Jack is wrapping duct tape around his tire and rim. He heard the rear tire blow on his drive over, and when he got to Bordentown he found a slice in the sidewall. Not having a spare with him, he has layered on a couple of patches and shored up the outside with tape.

Now it's a question of which will quit first: my leg or his patch.

We start off cold, moving south, the wind sometimes in our faces. The temperature is climbing quickly. When we get to the closed bridge in Smithville I switch from balaclava to hat and peel off my glove liners. 

32 miles in we stop at a Wawa in Southampton. My leg feels fine. Jack's tape is holding. 

I ask Tom to take a picture of me and Chris. We're sporting very loud tights today. Mine, pink and purple stars, are from Running Funky. Chris grapples for the name of the company that made his blue lightning stripes and tries to convince me to check them out.

"I don't really need any more leggings right now," I tell him. 

"That's not the point!"  He's right, of course.

In all the years I've been with the Free Wheelers, I can't think of anyone besides me and Chris who regularly ventures too far away from basic black. Tom has one pair of multi-color leggings that he hardly wears; that counts for something. My collection of four pales, so to speak, in comparison to what Chris has. Somebody has to lead the charge. I suppose he could talk me into another pair or two if the price is right.

We get a little help from the tailwind on our way home. Chris mocks me for having suggested my injury might hold me back. "I said I was injured," I correct him. "I didn't say I was in pain. Besides, I haven't been on a bike since Tuesday. My legs are super fresh!"

Truth be told, I'm sure I'm not up to full strength, but neither is anyone else. It's friggin' January, people.

When we get back to the school, Bob changes into shorts to go for a run. "I'm jealous," I tell him, first because he can run, second because he's got the energy to do it after 52 miles of biking.

My leg feels fine, even if my stride is stilted. Jack's duct tape has worn off the center of his tire but the rest has held. He peels off the tape to reveal the patched bulge underneath.

This is what a month of shitty weather and an exercise addiction will do to people.

I look up at the sky over the school again. Clouds are creeping in. Tomorrow will be rainy.

It's when I step out of the shower that I really notice the bruise coming up. It looks worse than it feels.

I sleep in on Sunday and spend the day with Moose on a trek to local wine shops and running errands. Late in the afternoon I hop on Gonzo, outfitted for the fluid trainer, for a mellow recovery ride. Again my calf feels fine on the bike. The bruise has spread to my inner ankle.

Monday is a rest day but I'm on my feet all day at work. My slightly stilted gait has made both of my legs tired. Through the evening and in bed at night my calf cramps strangely, as if the muscle is being squeezed. The bruise at my ankle deepens.

I have a little fun with it on Facebook, where people who have done the same or worse to themselves come out of the woodwork. One of my colleagues ripped his calf last year. He was laid up for weeks. We compare bruise and cramp experiences. I'm clearly better off than he was. We agree that it's going to be a long time before it'll be safe for me to run or hike. I'm okay with that. As long as I can pedal, I can wait.