Today’s the anniversary of Woodstock. I like the idea of dying on this day, 66 years from now, its 100th anniversary. I’ll be 119.
However, at the rate I’m going, I’m not likely to get there in the kind of condition that’ll make it much fun. After spending weeks preparing for our motorcycle club’s big two-day trial last weekend, I pinched a nerve in my lower back the morning of the event and had to drop out. Aaarrrgggh. I couldn’t even sit down to be able to drive myself home until a guy gave me a Vicodin. And then I was pretty much flat on my back or in a fetal position for 4 days. And then scrambling like mad to catch up on work since then.
It’s my own damn fault, of course. The last time this happened (several months ago), I started doing back exercises to prevent its recurrence. I even bought the book Backache: What Exercises Work and started telling others about it. I felt so great after three weeks or so that I quit doing them. Duh.
I guess my body’s trying to teach me something: either get more fit or quit these these sports in favor of others that are less punishing. I choose the former, of course, which is why I just ordered the book Wear and Tear: Stop the Pain and Put the Spring Back in your Body. But I’d better shit or get off this pot.