disabled

The other day I had to take a pile of magazines out of my car. These things can get heavy, and the combined effort of holding the stack and walking upright pulled so hard at my groin that I had to stop and carry the weight in installments.

It brought tears of frustration in my eyes. I have an invalid.

Throughout my life I have been, if not outright self-destructive, at least a bit reckless with my body. Most of the times it was nothing major: jumping from bridges into the river below, skiing at night on unlit slopes, going out with wet hair in winter, drinking too much, smoking too much, eating too much. The usual indiscretions. My body bore the impositions with integrity. It stayed graceful. It remained unrattled.

Then I started to run. Here I am, doing something that is supposedly good for the body: dynamic motion, cardiovascular exercise, regular digression from inertia. And what happens next? I find myself disabled.

I was so proud, just a few days before the race, about getting to 13 miles on my own, and getting there injury-free.

So much for the healthy lifestyle...