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Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Rehab by Moonlight

If you've never broken a bone that required joints to be immobilized, my advice is give it up by not taking it up. As bad as it hurts to rehab my busted birdfinger, there is the temptation to go all Amy Winehouse. But then my only real option would be to get a Western outfit from Nigros, a flat-top guitar and try to eek out a living as a Johnny Cash impersonator.

Or I guess Johnny Rotten, but I'm not sure I could go there, hygienically speaking.

So I say yes to Rehab, I guess is the short answer.

Last session at the hand clinic they made this wrist brace with a glove, rubber band and Velcro, to facilitate passive torture. I'm supposed to stay hooked up for 20 to 40 minutes a couple times a day, though every fiber of my being wants to sing No no no! I ain't got the time...

On the plus side, they also gave me a cylinder to try and wrap around, and it's justh like a bicycle handlebar. And buddy-splinted (so a good finger drags the bad one along), trying to hold on and grab brakes, cycling is about as good a therapy as I've found. Painful, but instead of sitting in a clinic waiting for it to be over, there is the joy of riding, the adventure of chasing Corinna through the Bottoms and into Downtown. And the sensitivity to things that go bump in the night isn't as bad as it was. If I don't see the bump coming, it still lights me up.

And wad a lovely evening despite my not getting there in time for the 3:00 ride. Got to hang with them a bit on the Boulevard and then it was off to explore. It's hard to beat Kaw Point in darkness for a romantic destination. There are markers explaining the significance of this confluence to Lewis and Clark, but even with their silhouettes errected in steel it was hard to believe we weren't the first people there since the expedition headed further West.

After we rode all over hell's half acre, Corinna put a rack on my bike in preparation for Cranksgiving and to facilitate the commuting I've threatened to do since before I started riding.

She had two sets of panniers picked up as swag at cycling events, and she held them up to me to choose. Half curious and half amused.

I saw the black ones, then the basil twig (which are 'hip' in English and 'trendy' in French and German if you believe to the package), and I said, "That's the gayest thing I've ever seen, it's perfect! It's like a Hawaiian shirt for my bike."

When we set out for Cranksgiving, though, my feet hit the basil twigs and we had to switch to the boring black panniers.

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