Green light.

Perusing some of my older work, I stumbled upon a piece dated May 28, 2008.
Author's note: I am happy to report that my shoulder no longer hurts, and it feels darn good to be back at 100%.

The piece follows:


GREEN LIGHT.

A few weeks back I fell victim to what my doctor calls, "weightlifter's shoulder." He smiles as he says it. I cringe. Progress slows.

In essence, the bones in my left shoulder grind against each other when I perform certain lifts. The syndrome, or in latin: painus in the assus, is due to a swelling of the ego that followed shoudlers grown big.

Because my doctor is the one wearing the lab coat, and because he happens to be the New York Jets' team doctor, Dr. Nicholas, I took the recommended time off. He smiles. I wince. Progress slows.

The time off afforded me insight as to the state of mind that plagues the elderly and the injured. Watching able-bodied gym-goers train, I felt like the only kid at the senior dance without a date. I felt left out.

Feeling as if my hands were tied, I punished my lower body at the gym because its neighbor to the north had forsaken me. Once strongest half of my body, my upper body was now out of commission.

On the 42nd day, Dr. Nicholas presented me with good news: a green light. He smiles. I smile.

I burst through the gym doors with wide-eyed anticipation; an animal released back into the wild. In possession of a newfound hunger, nursed back to health, I climbed atop an iron horse and ripped through city streets. I had time to make up.

Shifting into first gear, I tore though stacks of weights mercilessly, bombarding dormant muscles with reps unforgiving. I split the seas of progress, and like helpless Egyptians drowning in lactic acid, muscles cried for relief. There would be none.

Thrown into second gear, veins throbbing, my muscle memory was called into quick action. My heartrate was redlining, the grip on the bar as tight as ever.

A hard shift into third brought little in the form of relief, as I continued my unforgiving assault on my arms. My heart beating in tune with the gym's stereo, I was hell-bent on exacting revenge. There is no keeping me away from the sport that defines me. That defines my body.

At last, my arms failed me. Fully exhausted, and uncooperative, I downshifted slowly and flexed my arms in the mirror.

Tomorrow, I ride again.