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