Monday, July 6, 2020

4 years

4 years ago yesterday, I didn’t feel like racing.  The last race in our local short track mountain bike series, I made myself go.  Just push through it.  Fake it till you make it.  4 years ago yesterday, on the last lap, my tired hand slipped off the bar on a rooty downhill.  There was no way to save it.  I tried to roll as I hit the ground.  My head took the brunt of the fall.  I got up, oblivious to the fact that every single thing had just changed in that moment.  4 years later, on Sunday morning, the plan was a solo 50k road loop.  Supposed to turn right, I went the other way to avoid the threatening clouds.  I felt good so I kept riding.  And I kept going the other way chasing bluer skies.  My 50k ride metamorphosed into a 94k adventure.  A latte.  An old graffiti covered bridge.  An expired church monument.  Boundless farm fields.  Quiet country back roads.  Nature park gravel path shortcuts.  I thought about my concussaversary all last week but for some reason didn’t when I woke up yesterday.  Until it came to me about an hour into my ride.  Gratitude overflowing.  Time at a certain standstill.  An overwhelming appreciation for all that my personal purgatory has taught me about life’s truth.  Most people don’t understand how much this invisible injury has affected me both physically and emotionally.  I don’t really talk about it anymore even if I’m still not 100% recovered.  I still get that drunk, dizzy, disconnected feeling now and again.  I look fine, so I just pretend to be.  Besides, unless you’ve experienced it first hand, it’s simply unexplainable.  4 years ago yesterday, one of the hardest things turned out to be one of the best things to ever happen to me.

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