Becoming one with the dirt

My weigh-in this week was a disaster: 200.2 pounds. Adding to the injury, I've been celebrating my birthday this week. Most of my birthdays go unnoticed, the way I like them. This year I've received three birthday cakes, which I have had to sample out of politeness. They were also very good.

I enjoyed a moment of Zen-like bliss this week, as I try to achieve at least some minimal competency at my latest addiction, mountain biking. As I was pedalling along in a secluded park, three Basic Truths of the Universe came to me, and for no charge I'll share them with you.

• Life is better in the middle ring. Modern mountain bikes have three rings attached to the peddles. The smallest is the "granny gear", named because while you're using it, little old ladies can easily outwalk you. I've spent my time ejoying the safety and slowness of the granny gear. This week I forced myself to use the middle ring, and, guess what? Biking is easier with that gear: you have more speed, more momentum, more stability, and less time to contemplate disaster. It's a paradox, and there's a metaphor in there somewhere I bet.
• Become one with the dirt. For the first time ever I relaxed, eased up on my death-grip of the handlebars, stopped thinking of my orthopedic surgeon, and just felt the flow of the bike, the trail, our friends the birds, the wonders of Gaia, the pure joy of physical activity in a beautiful relaxing setting.
• Don't forget that the dirt really doesn't like you. Just as I was going with the flow, I lost focus, caught my handlebars on a rogue tree while attempting a switchback down a hill, and fell on my keister. Thanks to low dose aspirin, I have a wonderful set of bruises up and down my leg, a love-tap from Gaia. I wish she'd keep her hands to herself.

True confessions

Thumbing through the New England Journal of Medicine, I come across this paragraph out of a case presentation of Jacob-Creutzfeldt disease, the dreaded neurologic condition related to "Mad Cow Disease":

The patient had been in his usual state of health until approximately four weeks before admission, when he noticed severe fatigue, frequent yawning, and difficulty concentrating; insomnia, intermittent confusion, and unsteadiness of gait developed. During daily activities, he required multiple breaks that he had not needed previously.

Rats. I knew something was wrong with me. There's good reason not to read the New England Journal of Medicine anymore than absolutely necessary.

Since there is only a short time before I start drooling on myself, I better get this off my chest: I have chronic Twinkie poisoning. I know I've made an occasional snide remark about this ailment, but that was only a facade to keep my vast readership from guessing the truth.

During the time that I was prevented by my imagined neurological condition from blogging, I came across several extremely humorous and well-written blogs, my favorite being The Fat Cyclist (google it and you'll find the site; my medical problems prevent me from providing the link). The Fat Cyclist chronicles his weight-loss efforts, reports his weekly weigh-ins, and actually offers prizes to folks if he fails to meet his goals.

This is a great idea, and in my typical fashion I lifted it. There will be some alterations: as my income has plummeted as a result of ever-increasing malpractice premiums, there is no way in Hades that I'm going to offer a nickel if I fail to meet my goals. Before and after photos are also out or the question.

Other than that, I'll provide you with my story about the journey towards Buffness, mixed in with biting commentary regarding the tort-lawyers of this country. I might add that at one of the hospitals there is on office pool for when I break something while mountain biking. The over/under stands at three weeks.

Here goes: height 5' 10". Weight 200.6 lbs. Goals for next Monday: height 6' 0" (just kidding), weight 199.5.