Muscled Out

Chapter 10, Blog 1

By Chuck Wells As Told To Ray Hochgesang


The next morning my leg muscles stiffened their demands by calling another strike. They didn’t give a hoot how fast I ran the day before. They didn’t care where I came from or where I was going. All they wanted to know was what I could do for them.

The quads had joined forces with the calf muscles in a unmistakable sign of solidarity. They refused to loosen their grip, much less work. More disheartening, other body parts – tired arms and a sore back – debated whether they should join the union.

In view of the labor unrest, I had no choice. I began to walk my running route. But first I grabbed a baseball bat from the garage. With Cujo lurking, I would take no chances, especially now that my wheels refused to roll. With no sight of the devil dog, I hiked through the neighborhood in spite of my uneasy feeling. Uneasy? More like a mental death spiral.

… are you fooling yourself? Is Melinda right? It’s just a phase. Next, you’ll be cliff diving … yeah, you know, you need a coach, a real damned coach … you’re walking around the block with a freakin’ baseball bat … you can’t let Shannon or Jessie down … Ralphie’s an idiot … you’re an idiot …

Reality check, please.

Good news: I felt stronger.

Bad news: The clock was ticking.

… can’t fool Mother Nature — or Father Time – or baby boomers or …

I lost count. I must have walked seven or eight laps with that bat, but no one bothered me. The walking helped. The last lap, I broke into a gentle jog. The sun peeked from behind the clouds and caressed my face. Things were looking up. But I should have been looking down. I stepped into a pothole and twisted my left ankle.

Copyright © 2012 by Chuck H. Wells/Ray Hochgesang

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