The weather people were calling for snow, rain, freezing rain, and high winds today, and they were not wrong. None of that stopped me from going for a lumber, but I was admittedly less than thrilled. Until I got in the woods.
There was an inch or so of wet April snow on the ground when I pulled into the empty parking lot to start my hike, and the clouds were hanging lower than an octogenarian’s tool bag as I set off down the park path toward the trails.
I figured I might as well keep a “not bad” thing going, and I was once again in bed before sunset last night. The result was I woke up more refreshed and rested than I had in nearly two flu-ridden weeks. It only took 13 days, but I’ll take what I can get.
I entered this past weekend with all the excitement of a death row inmate, shuffling down the hall towards their fate with hands and feet bound in chains. And the weekend did not disappoint.
12 days ago, I came down with the flu, and 7 days ago, my fever broke, leaving me feeling better—NOT great, but better. Since then, I have got back to lumbering in the woods and got 25+ miles in last week, which felt great, but those forays outside tended to be the peak of my daily physical exertions, and after completing my errands and Cul-De-Sac-Shack duties, I would end the day completely wiped out, and ready for bed well before 8 PM. This trend would continue through the weekend, but with no lumbering, just sleeping and sitting in my chair watching footy. Even beer tasted like shit!
I don’t know how it happened. Nor do I know if it should have happened, but this week, I finally hit my 25-mile minimum weekly goal for only the 3rd time this year. I don’t know whether to be happy or take a sad nap.
Monday, also known as Flu Recovery Day One, was pretty jammed with activities, and I probably should have dialed it back a bit.
The morning’s short lumber was a nice re-introduction to outdoor activities after four solid days of shivering, shaking, snotting, and sleeping. After that, is when I kinda bit off more than my generous jowls maybe could have chewed.
After three lumbers and 17+ miles this week, I was handed a bag full of warm feecus in the form of a mystery illness that knocked me flat on my ass late afternoon Wednesday, and as of Friday morning, it’s still knocking.
What started as some mild post-nasal drip reminiscent of some spring allergies had every inch of my skin hurting by late afternoon Wednesday, and I found myself in bed under roughly five blankets, trying to stay warm by 8 PM.
After just two lumbers and 12.21 miles, I have had my best week of hiking in roughly 3 weeks. That is no reflection on how good this week is going but more on how freaking bad the previous three have been.
The snow that we got Sunday night into Monday was completely gone by Tuesday morning, and the woods were back to their pre-spring meets rotting garbage palette of browns, blacks, tans, and greys.
I am quite used to dealing with large gaps for such things as my résumé, my memory, and the distance between pants buttons and their holes, but in my “fitness” calendar, not so much.
I know, the sentence above makes it sound like I am some whispy fitness junkie who has 2% body fat, runs like a gazelle, and eats like a bird. But as we all know, or should know, I fill my calendar with lumbers, snowshoes, hikes, walks, runs, and rides as much as I can to make up for the fact that I am a 53-year-old man who loves to cook, drink IPAs, and works like a dog just to limit my pounds overweight to 50 and to keep my mind centered and in the present rather than racing with self-loathing, doubt, depression, and anxiety.
Part I Things Got Worser
After nearly 20 years of writing this bullshit, I still don’t consider myself a writer. Mostly because I have zero formal training as one, and often, my posts are an unintelligible scrambled mess of thoughts. So, to say I have “writer’s block” sounds stupid, but I really have been at a loss for words this week, and I have tried writing this post about 4 times. Mostly because the past week has been a whirlwind of travel and, unfortunately, more sadness.
In the summers of 1999 through 2004,1 Wifey and I would drive from Pittsburgh to Colorado to ride bikes, hike, and goof off in the most amazing mountains my untraveled eyes had ever seen; the Rocky Mountains. It was quite the adventure for two Western Pennsylvania flatlanders who, during most of that time, lived in an apartment in what I think qualified as “the city,” given our proximity to traffic, tall buildings, and the sounds of nighttime gunshots.