Feral Swine

Sometimes even the Team Leader makes decisions that run counter to training protocol. Skewing from the straight and narrow can be ever so tantalizing and difficult to resist, even for hardened veterans like Dubstoevsky. So it came to pass today on a semi-sunny, essentially mild afternoon ripe for riding, that things went awry.

First, there was the doctor appointment, the follow-up to the cortisone shot two weeks ago. I thought I was getting another jab to the right shoulder, another blast to break up & flush the calcium accretion from the rotator cuff. Alas, no. I had misunderstood. Today's appointment was to evaluate the left shoulder, the not-as-painful one. There would be no second cortisone shot for the recalcitrant righty; if necessary, that would have to wait another four weeks (apparently it's powerful juju that must be spaced widely apart in time).

The good news that emerged quickly, however, based on the x-rays, was that no evidence of calcium in the left shoulder could be seen. The niggling pain in that extremity was simple bursitis or inflammation or some nebulous condition heretofore unnamed.

I endeavored to extract further clarification from the orthopedist, a man named "Dr. Re" (pronounced "ray"). This was not easy. Dr. Re is a man that makes Marcel Marceau seem chatty. One might think that each uttered word would cost the guy a week of his life so stingy is he with speech. Clarence Thomas asks more questions from the bench than this guy speaks in a consultation.

Eventually it emerged that the calcium in the right shoulder is not, as I'd envisioned it, like hard coral attached to a rock; rather, it's like "toothpaste" (doc's word - 1 week) within the tendon itself. So why did the cortisone shot work wonders for a week and make my shoulder feel almost normal, but then abate? Inflammation. The cortisone made things subside momentarily but did not disperse the calcium accumulation which, still present, led to a re-inflamed tendon.

So what can physical therapy offer? A strengthening of the muscles around the rotator cuff and a re-posturing of what is, apparently, a sort of concave dubstrosity of hunching forward. Basically, I have to reverse some 17 years of computer posture & umpteen years of cycling posture. How? 8 weeks of physical therapy, twice a week. By my weak math skills, that's 16 sessions.

Ah, but the subtext to it all is: "Dubstoevsky, you have to become shadananda yogi, chant the prajnaparamita sutra daily for 33 weeks, wear a hair shirt made of Tibetan yak hide while riding, and repeatedly twist your arms around your back until you form an Oktoberfest pretzel."

Armed with this knowledge and with a prescription for a powerful anti-inflammatory that can deflate dromedary humps, I drove off into a perfect cycling day at 2:30 in the afternoon. Did I drive straight home and gear up, as any responsible Team Leader would? Uh ... no.

Instead, I detoured to my favorite independent farm stand / Food Mecca. It's true that I did need to procure dill and rosemary for a dinner party two days hence, but, once there, I did not constrain myself to the herb section. Suddenly, I was in front of the meat cooler gazing longingly at a smallish, football-sized roast labeled "Feral Swine." It was a hunk of wild boar from the estimable purveyor of ridiculously expensive (and ridiculously delicious) meats and assorted delicacies, D'artagnan.

One thing lead to another and soon I was driving home, the swine in the back seat, my intention to ride growing weaker the nearer I got to HQ. Then I was in the kitchen telling myself that another perfect cycling day was right around the corner and that a 10 day alcohol fast was impressive but adequate and that it was getting late anyway, only two hours of daylight left and besides ...

So I salted & peppered the roast, and shook generous amounts of smoked Spanish paprika onto it as if it were an infant I was soothing with a talcum powder shower. 90 minutes later I was sluicing a Mayflower IPA and carving off slabs of the swine basted generously in its own salty, earthy juices. The 15 miles of high intensity mileage I'd envisioned hammering out just hours before? Poof!

And yet. I now honor the boar. The boar shall power my haunches, the boar shall infuse my grunts and growls with its noble karma. I absorb the boar's power and give thanks for its restless rooting snout, its remorseless tusks. My task now is to bring the boar to the Rasputitsa and demonstrate to the swine gods that I am worthy of its flesh.