Dreams wasted...or fulfilled?

Like many of the things I post here (and on that Book of Faces interweb site) I lifted this from another, far more profeshonal, funnier weblog than this one.  And this particular video struck a nerve with me.

Get in the way-back machine and travel to around 1989 or so and you'd find a 17 year old, mulleted (just an FYI for you too young to remember, when you went in and asked for a haircut you got a mullet, no choice), Bermuda shorts, Vans wearing kid that wanted to be a Clint Reynolds.  I wanted to load my Lovely up with my then coveted Diamond Back Turbo BMX bike and head to San Diego and live the bike bum lifestyle, at least for a little while.

But, and it is a BIG but, to live that lifestyle, or at least to be able to get to a place where you can live that lifestyle, you had to have some money, or be from a family that had money, and I was neither.  So, I continued working and going to college and later that year (1989), I "discovered" mountain biking.  My dream then changed from going to San Diego to be a BMX bum to going somewhere where I could be a mountain bike bum, maybe Northern California, Oregon, Colorado or Utah.  Once again, there is some money involved here, and while I had some money now, I was also on that I.V. drip of money and it was difficult to let go of it, just walk away, especially since I was now on a career path with that grocery store where I worked.

In 1991, I packed up my truck with my brother and headed out to a place on the map we only read about in magazines, Moab, UT.  If you've been to Moab in the last 10 years or so, I'll tell you it is NOTHING like it was in 1991.  It was a town with only 1 fast food joint, McDonald's (not that a fast food joint is important, it just illustrates a point) no movie theater and only one bike shop.  It was a dying former mining town.  Mountain bikers has just started going there in the previous few years. Now, it has many fast food joints, a theater, at least 4 bike shops and the town has exploded, thanks in large part to mountain biking.  Coming back from that tangent...we headed to Moab without much of a plan other than to go to town, find a place to camp, buy a trail map and go hit some trails, which we did.  We didn't have a lot of money in our pockets, so were kinda bumming it, making PB&J sandwiches, camping at a cheap spot, etc.  

Since 1991, I've been to Moab many, many times (somewhere around 20 times, averaging almost once per year!) as well as biking trips to California, Arizona, Nevada, Wyoming, Colorado and right here in my back yard in the beautiful Black Hills.  And almost every time I went on these trips, I didn't go and stay in a fancy hotel anything like that, but we camped or stayed with family or friends, sleeping on their floors, couches or for a luxury night, their spare bedrooms.  I've slept in the back of my truck in a downpour in Moab with a friend, I've camped at the Fruita Fat Tire Festival in the same truck with my Lovely and the Boy when he was only 11 months old.  I camped in primitive camp sites along the Colorado River with friends, near people that were living there full-time.  Looking back on it, I have lived the mountain bike bum lifestyle, albeit 1 or 2 weeks at a time.  Then when that trip is over, I get to go back home to a nice house, a warm bed, a refrigerator stocked with food and beer and a family that likes me better when I leave for a little while then come home with an attitude adjustment.

Now that we're planning our next biking trip to Moab, I am getting ready to go be a bike bum for another few days.  And if I can keep this up for another 10 years or so, I'll have logged enough days of being a bike bum that it would be the equivalent of being a bike bum for a year or two.  Doing it a week at a time probably works a lot better for me.  I admire Clint Reynolds for following his dream, and  youth is definitely NOT wasted on the young in this particular case, but I think I might just go ape-shit crazy living in a tiny little Airstream like he is.  I get to be a bike bum without the uncertainty of where I'm gonna sleep tonight and without the dumpster diving.  So, my dreams are not wasted, but fulfilled, a week or so at a time.  

Someone Bring Me to My Senses and Punch Me in the Sack.

I got my first mountain bike (an electric blue Trek 950 with Mountain LX 7-speed Hyperglide) with birthday and graduation money in 1989, so other than my relationship with my Lovely, I've been working at mountain biking longer than anything else in my life.

This is what it looked like at an early 90's race, but without
Tomac or Ned.

If you rode a mountain bike at all in the 90's, you raced.  There was a rule I think that you had to race your mountain bike if you had one, or even access to one, anytime from 1990 through 1998 or so, which is what I did.  There were plenty of times that I was WAY off the back, and then there were times when I was more at the front of the pack, even placing in the top 5 in the Expert classes at races.  BUT, those top finishes required a LOT of training and committment, which eventually made mountain biking a lot less fun.  So, when my work took me to the Front Range of Colorado in the late winter of 1998, it was a good time for me to change my focus of riding.  Sure, I still did a few races after that, but it wasn't the only focus of my riding, but more of a by-product.  As a matter of fact, I remember distinctly telling myself that I was no longer going to race except for a new'ish (at the time) format of 24 hour racing, which was a festival like atmosphere.  Eventually, even 24 hour racing fell by the wayside.  Now riding was all about just riding for fun, nothing more.

The 600 nut-jobs from last year's Five-O.

Fast forward 10 years to 2008.  We (the family and I) are preparing to move back to our current locale of the Black Hills of SD and I have friends racing in the Dakota Five-O and they have persuaded me to give it a whirl.  Without the gory details, I finished, but it wasn't a ton of fun, so why I signed up for the next year's race is beyond me.  I did and I got a little better, so I signed up yet again the next year (2010 for those keeping track).  I had mechanical issues (if you search this sad little blog, you'll come up with that gem of a race report) which were my fault, but I felt like I was getting better, so even though my time was worse, I felt good about it.  And of course last year I raced and peeled off my fastest time by far (almost an hour faster than my 2009 time).

So, when sign up day for this year's Five-O came around, 7:00 am on April 1st, I was at the ready on my computer and by 7:06 I was entered in my 5th Five-O.  And, by 11:30 am, all 600 spots were SOLD OUT!  What the hell?  Most of the time, I barely know what I'm gonna do next weekend, much less on a Sunday 5 months from now.

But wait, there's more.  In addition to the Five-O, there are some new races on the scene here in the Black Hills.  The first one is called the Black Hills Back 40, put on by super fast and nice guy, Phil Busching (yes, the same one that tortured me at my physical therapy) and others, which I'm planning on doing.  In addition to that one, there was one more mega race put on the calendar for this year, the Tatanka 100, a new 100 miler that I am contemplating (this sucker is early'ish in the season, so being ready for a 100 miles might be tough, at least for me).  In addition to all of this, I'm kicking around the thought of the 24 Hours of Moab, hopefully with Teamfubar intact or some other variant of it.  So what the hell does all this mean?  It means I'm back into being a mountain bike racer!  How the fuck did that happen?

I'm sure my face will look like this after most
rides this year.

I spent the previous 10 years just riding along.  Albeit fat and out of shape, and now I fat and in shape, or at least more so.  10 years of just riding my bike, not feeling like I had to, but when I wanted to.  Now, I'm putting 2, 3 and maybe even 4 of the biggest, longest races I've ever done on the table in front of me.  That Not-So-Serious moniker might be slipping away, maybe turning into a Somewhat-Serious Cyclist or even the Moderately-Focused Cyclist.  But never worry, it will NOT turn into the Very-Serious Cyclist, since if I have to choose between a "training" ride or a fun ride with friends, the fun ride will always win out.  Racing will still be a by-product of my riding, not the focus...but maybe I'll wear my heart rate monitor to the next "fun" ride, you know, just for fun.

The Long Road to Recovery

Holy crap! This is the EXACT outfit Phil would
wear at my PT sessions...

3 months, 13 days and 16 hours.  That's how long it's been since my fateful slip on the ice while looking for a Christmas tree.  Until last Thursday, I was still in physical therapy, finally finishing up to the point where the Executioner, ahem, I mean Phil said there was no more that PT would or could do for me.  Now to be fair to me, I didn't start going to physical therapy immediately after my accident.  It was almost 6 weeks after the accident before I had my first consultation with Phil, but still, I was going for almost 2 months, or 13 sessions.

The day after my accident, a friend recommended I go see Dr. Lawlor at the Rehab Doctors, so I called to make an appointment.  I wasn't able to get in for 5 weeks, but I kept the appointment just in case.  I was glad I did, as while I was healing well at that point, I still wasn't where I wanted or needed to be.  So, after the assessment by Dr. Lawlor, where he cranked and yanked around on my knee and he asked me questions regarding my hobbies and activities, he sent me to see Phil Busching at ProMotion Physical Therapy.

Phil (and his wife) have been as close to mountain biking celebrities in the Black Hills as anything we've ever had.  They're both great cyclists and ambassadors for our sport, though they are probably the opposite of being a Not-so-Serious Cyclist.  So, when I was told I was going to see Phil, I was excited and nervous at the same time.  Excited to get going on working on my leg's rehab and nervous 'cause I was going to get my ass kicked.

And holy crap was I right.  Without getting into detail of the minutia of our first visit, I'll just say I pretty much had my ass kicked every week (sometimes twice per week) by Phil.  While the others in the PT room, which was more like a torture chamber for me. were working on light stretching or possibly some strength work in a light, controlled fashion, I was usually a sweating, heaving mass gasping for air.  It was more akin to a cross-fit class than what I imagined PT to be like.

I accused Phil of just making stuff up with the other therapists to see if they could get me to do it.  I'll give you a couple great examples.  The first one was sitting on a rolling stool where I had to use my legs out in front of me to pull myself around the room, holding on like I was on a bucking bronc, having to weave around people that were stretching and conditioning while lightly chatting with their therapists as I left a trail of sweat in my wake.  The other one was having to balance on one leg on a high-density foam pad and touch a couple of points either out in front of me or one in front and one behind me with my other foot.  I was tipping and falling all over the place and generally looking like a buffalo trying to balance on a small rock.  And until the end of my visits it remained that way until I saw something beautiful to me.  ProMotion is also the official PT of the Rapid City Rush hockey team and there was a Rush member in there balancing on the pad touching the points with his other foot.  And guess what?  He was falling all over the place!  YAY!  No, not yay because he was falling, but because he's a paid athlete and was having the same difficulty I was.  Maybe they secretly record us doing these things to get on America's Funniest Videos or at least YouTube.

Needless to say, I'm SUPER excited that I'm done with PT, although I'll secretly miss my Thursday torture sessions.  I am thankful that I had someone like Phil be my physical therapist (this is starting to sound a bit like a bromance).  He understood what was needed to get back on the bike and it has worked.  I just hope I NEVER have to see him again, and as fast as he is on a bike (and as slow as I am) I probably have nothing to worry about.

SH*T Cyclists Say

As I may or may not have described over the years on this sad little blog, I mentally plan out my posts over the course of riding a few days, then I put pen to paper, or fingers to keys, or what ever the hell we do now,  and the mental diarrhea comes spewing out.  And, as is typical with me, I have been planning one post for a few days (or weeks in this case) and then something comes along and blindsides me causing me to put the previous post on the back burner to share at a future date.  

The postponed post had to do with physical therapy, dares between physical therapists and the odds that I'll end up on America's Funniest Videos or become a viral video on YouTube, so stay tuned for that one.  BUT, something happened this week that made me stop and question everything I do when it comes to riding my bike.  

I'm sure everyone has seen these Shit Cyclist Say videos floating around the interwebs....

There is much truth to this video (and the others), but especially the comments/excuses about not why they are not riding well.

So, I ended up riding with some people recently that I'd never met or ridden with before.  As usual, I am happy and excited to ride with new people.  I've ridden with people in my past that I definitely wouldn't hang out with outside of riding, so I have a lot of patience when it comes to riding partners as I am sure many have exercised when riding with me.  

Shortly after starting the ride with these people, the excuses started flying. 

"This is my second ride today." 

"I gotta get home soon, my daughter is making dinner." 

"I haven't been feeling well lately." 

"Ugghh, I ate Taco Johns for lunch today." (Well, this might be a legit excuse.)

"I nicked myself shaving my balls so my seat is irritating me." 

"I gotta puke out an excuse so if you beat me up this climb/down this descent, you'll know why, but if I beat you up this climb or down the descent you'll be amazed in my ability to ride with a handicap."

(I really wish the last thing is what everyone would say, 'cause it is exactly what we're doing.)

AARRRGGHHH! WHY do we do this?  We've all done it (some more than others) and we all should know better.  I guess I've never heard any of these from the few women I've ridden with, so maybe it just a testosterone soaked guy thing, but really WHY?  Do we do it so we can save face with the people we're riding with?  Do we do it to convince ourselves that we there is a reason we're not riding well (in our minds) or so we feel better about how we're riding on a particular day?

Here's the thing...I DON'T CARE.  I don't care if you are climbing/descending faster/slower than me.  Don't get me wrong, I care if you truly are sick, 'cause I don't want to see you toss your cookies all over the trail, but if those comments are flying, typically you're not truly sick or injured.  I'm just happy I'm out riding and riding with someone else, sharing in the experience.  If I beat you up the climb or down the descent, guess what?  I won't think anything more or less of you, although there could be a high-five at the end of the run, saying nice job.  That's it.  

So, no more excuses.  Just ride and have fun, which is what I'm gonna do tonight.  With a group of guys.  We're gonna ride then "tailgate" afterwards, should be a good time.  But it is a group of guys so I'd better go stub my toe, eat something to upset my stomach or nick myself with my razor, you know, just in case.

Fire...Fire on the Mountain...

Fire on the Mountain, or so the Grateful Dead song goes...

Over the last 20 years, mountain biking has fractured into a lot of different disciplines.  It used to be you'd race XC, do a DH race and ride with your buds on a Tuesday night all on the same bike.  Now we've got lycra clad XC geeks, baggy-short-wearing All-Mountain riders (I think we used to call all-mountain just mountain biking), armor-clad DH riders, young Freeride groms, and everything in-between.  And even though we've got all these "disciplines" in mountain biking now, we all have one thing in common.  We love to ride our bikes in the forest.  There is something soul cleansing about getting out in the woods, hearing the crunch of the gravel and dirt under your tires, smelling the earthy scents of the forest, and feeling the wind rushing across your face.  It centers you, makes you feel energized and relaxed all at the same time.  We don't really have much of a sport without the forest.  Sure, there are those that have adapted, finding riding in their respective areas, but everyone dreams of riding in the mountains and forests, it is just the way it is.  So, when one of your local riding spots goes up in flames, a bit of you gets burned up with it.

A view of the fire early on.

It seems that every town/city has a riding area like this.  You know, it is a spot in or close to the city that is good for a quick afternoon spin, a place to take beginners, a place to ride when the rest of the local trails are under snow or too wet to ride, a place that you don't think twice about riding unless you can't.  I've had a place like this everywhere I've lived.  I had Lookout Mountain in Spearfish.  I had Palmer Park in Colorado Springs and now I've got HLMP (Hansen-Larsen Memorial Park)/M-Hill in Rapid City.

I get a call from the Chef on Friday afternoon to tell me that M-Hill is on fire again and in the same area burned last time.  I think, "Oh great, no school today, kids were out playing with matches again, just like last time, hopefully they get it under control quickly" and I go on with my day.  I went to lunch a short while later and can see the flames running down the hill like a newbie on a bike with no brakes, fully engulfing the entire Anamosa node, where the fire from last Autumn happened.  No worries I think, they'll get it shut down soon.  The trails provided a great fire line last time, they'll do the same this time.  Little did I know that the trails would provide no protection at all, the firefighters wouldn't be able to get it under control quickly and the fire would spread fairly rapidly, thanks to very little snow this winter and a warm, breezy day.

The Apatosaurus looking on in disbelief

As I pedaled home at the end of the day, the fire was still raging up the hillside, the entire "bowl" was a charred mess, with the fire reaching the top of the mountain.  No bueno.  No bueno indeed.  The fire had become so serious that a bucket-helicopter was deployed to drop water, as I am sure the path the fire took was one that was too rugged for the firefighters to chase the fire quickly.  As I continue my pedal home, I continually look at the mountain to see the thick, black smoke emanating from the top, making it look somewhat like a volcano, which might be appropriate since on the ridge to the South are the dinosaur sculptures that dominate the Rapid City skyline.

The sun was setting and it appeared that the fire crews were no closer to getting the fire contained than they were when I was at lunch many hours earlier.  Then, as quickly as it started, the fire department announced that they had it contained.  147 acres of charred landscape later the fire was under control.  The fire department closed the mountain down to recreation for the weekend so they can continue to monitor the area for flare-ups and find what caused the fire (it appears that it was some heavy machinery doing work in the area and thankfully not kids) and keep people from getting hurt.  We drove by the next day and it looked not unlike an alien landscape, black and barren with the brown ribbons of trails zigging and zagging across the hillsides, now highlighted by their contrasting surroundings.  If there is anything good that can be taken from the fire was that no one was injured, none of the surrounding homes were destroyed and it appears that the fire stayed localized to the ground, not burning any trees down (or at not very many).  The area should recover fairly quickly, which will be good, although having the black, charred reminder there for everyone to see might not be a bad thing either.

I was really looking forward to having some dry trails to ride on this weekend, I just didn't want them dried out this way.  I take HLMP for granted, having it be right there, half way between work and home, making for an easy after work ride.  We could have lost it all but thanks to some great firefighters in our community we didn't. No more will I take it for granted.  I'll make sure to stop and appreciate it every time I ride there, even if the smells will be a bit more Kingsford than pine for a while.

What the HELL is wrong with old men?

Get in the WAY BACK MACHINE and let's go back to December 3rd, a week before I tore my quad.  The last cross race of the season had taken place and I was able to pull off the ultimate coup by giving my wife a surprise 40th birthday party and having it actually be a surprise.  That night at the party, a good friend, the Chef, who helped me pull off this coup, and I had made plans to start swimming laps in the mornings before work at the swim center.  Maybe it was the beer talking, maybe I hurt my head in my crash at the cross race earlier that day, I don't know why that seemed like a good idea, but I was committed and come Monday morning we were going swimming.

Monday morning comes and the Chef and I roll to the swim center and we're in the water by 5:30.  Did I mention that the Chef was/is a swimmer?  No?  Well, he is.  He's a fucking fish.  I'm more akin to a manatee or a walrus, moving slowly but methodically through the water.  That first morning I was able to eek out 10 laps or so with a LOT of breaks.  I think the Chef peeled off 20 laps.  This morning there were a few other guys in the pool swimming laps and the Chef and I were the youngest people in the pool BY FAR, and this will be a very important fact soon.

The only shot of Gimli you'd ever care to see...

So, the plan was to go for somewhere around a half an hour so we can get cleaned up and off to our respective duties for the day.  Around 6 am, we roll out of the pool and head to the locker room.  When you walk into these locker rooms there's a small hallway for a few feet, then you turn right where a swim suit dryer and the showers are.  Past those are the lockers, where we need to go.  As we enter the locker room, I turn the corner to find a man, looking somewhat like Gimli from Lord of the rings, standing there BUTT-ASSED-NAKED with his swim suit in the dryer, standing full-monty looking straight at us.  What the hell?  And let me tell you something, this "dryer" just is like your washing machine on spin cycle, so imagine the jiggling and shaking going on while this head dwarf dries his suit out.  Fucking disturbing.  But I think it is just an anomaly.  Boy, was I wrong.

I think you get the visual...

After this first week, my quad injury happened, so I was out of the pool for a few weeks.  Once I got back to the pool, I found out that Gimli was the rule and NOT the exception for this geriatric exhibitionist behavior.

Gimli was there in his round bellied, naked glory, but it didn't stop there.  There's this other guy, we call Galapagos, who spends an inordinate amount of time washing, um, well, himself, if you know what I mean.  (He's called Galapagos 'cause, well, it's like a tortoise head sticking out.)  Then to round out the group, there is Cannonball.  He's one of those cats that has one eye that looks one way and one that looks the other like Dr. Nikolas Van Helsing in Cannonball run.  He's that guy that wears "aqua socks" into the pool.  He doesn't swim laps, but just walks through the Lazy River with the water walkers.  He likes to stroll around the locker room with nothing on but his aqua socks, his man-meat hanging down like an empty sausage casing. 

From these descriptions, you might think I like to look at this nonsense, but nothing could be further from the truth.  It is just so blatant, in your face nudity that even if you try to NOT look, you can't avoid it.  I've asked around at what age does this happen to men?  (And from accounts from the women's locker room, there are a bunch of grey-beards running around naked in there too.)  General consenus is 67 years old, which means I've got another 27'ish years until I start running around locker rooms in a full on naked-manatee glory.  Which also means you've got a 1/4 century to prepare yourself.

(Michael McIntyre says it WAY better than I do.  It is simultaneously reassuring and disturbing that this happens everywhere, not just here.)

How I was injured by a Christmas tree...or...Quads of paper.

3 months.  That's how long it's been since I've last graced these pixelated pages with silly drivel.  I could give a whole bunch of excuses as to why I have not been on here, but the first step in being able to move forward is to forgive the past, so I'll just tell my story.

There was some seismic data recorded after this crash.

My story starts WAY back on December 11th.  Cyclocross season had just wrapped up the previous weekend and I had a decent season.  I didn't get lapped by the "fast guys" like Eppen, Colston or Carpenter, which was a success for me.  The final race wasn't as good for me, crashing on the first lap and spending the rest of the race playing catch-up, but that isn't the purpose of this story.

So, back to December 11th.  This Sunday found me getting up early, getting the Boy ready and heading to Terry Peak for a morning of skiing and snowboarding, then going into the woods on the return trip to cut down a Christmas tree.  We have been going to the Dalton Lake area for a Christmas tree since we came back to SD, so this day would be no different.   Dalton Lake is almost an hour drive from our house.  Remember this as it will be important later on.

The morning went well and we went to the lake area around 1pm.  As is my anal nature, I drive all the way to the lake, scoping out potential trees along the creek, making mental notes of "good" ones and then turn around and get the best one on the way out.  This day, we decided to go past the lake toward the Little Elk Creek trailhead, turn around there and work our way back out.  Just as we get to the spot where the road dead ends, we see two perfect trees down an embankment and across the creek.  We decide to go down and check them out.

As we get down to the creek, I start looking for a spot to cross as it is only partially frozen.  I see a rocky spot about 20 yards up the creek which should work.  We get there and I step out onto the rocks and think I can jump across to a little outcropping on the other side.  I realize that if I jump across, there is no way the Boy can make it, so I turn around to see if we can find a different way across.  As I step on the next rock with my right foot, which is covered with ice, I feel my foot slip away.  As it slides out to the right, now with my foot off the ground and pointing away from me, I feel the MOST EXCRUCIATING PAIN in my quad (thigh) I've ever felt in my whole life!  It felt like someone took a searing hot knife and cut across my leg, mid-thigh.  After it happened, I said it felt like I'd been shot, to which some fucking smart ass said, "Have you ever been shot?  So, how do you know?"  I wanted to trade places with that ass to see what they'd say.

The pain drops me to the jagged, icy rocks.  As I lay on the rocks, my mind races, "What the hell just happened?  Did I break my leg?  How am I gonna get out of here?"  If you know me at all, you probably know I am fairly stoic when it comes to pain, so when I tell you I was in SERIOUS pain, you have to understand it was almost, almost, to the point of being unbearable.  This whole event took just a few seconds, but as I looked up at the Boy, I could see the worry on his face.  I am trying to reassure him, and tell him I need to get up.  I can't even bend my leg right now without blinding pain, so getting up on jagged, ice covered rocks is almost impossible.  I finally bite the bullet and get up, but again the pain is too much and it makes me fall back to the ground, at least on the snow covered ground this time.  As I lay there the second time, I can see this is becoming very worrisome to the Boy and now my mind has gone only to focusing on getting him home safely.  But, being the awesome kid he is and utilizing his Cub Scout Readyman skills, he says to me, "Should I go to the truck and get your cell phone to call for help?  What do you want me to do?"  I reassure him to not worry and that everything will be OK, but I am really glad he was there.

After lying there for what felt like a half an hour, but in reality was only 3 or 4 minutes, the wave of pain had subsided enough that I felt like I could try getting up again.  The Boy helped me out getting to my feet, which was about as horrible pain as I could take.  Once on my feet, I found if I kept my right leg perfectly straight with all my weight on the bones I could peg-leg it like a pirate.  Now came the couple hundred yard hike back to the truck, with the last 10 yards or so up the embankment which was quite the chore.  My leg buckled a couple times and I thought I was going back down.

I get back to the truck and we get in.  Driving should be a challenge, operating the brake and gas with the injured leg.  We get turned around and start heading home, sans Christmas tree of course.  As we head down Nemo Road, we are frantically trying to call my Lovely, who is at an art show with her students and is NOT answering her phone.  Unfortunately, we can only call so often as there is very intermittent service along this road.  Add to this a couple cars pulling out in front of us, causing some very PAINFUL emergency braking and it all adds up to a long, LONG drive home.

Long story short, we drive the painful hour back to our house so I can go in and assess what the hell is going on.  I take my snowboard pants off and drop my base layer down to find my knee has grown a gut.  My quad is so swollen that it is hanging over my kneecap like a fat old man gut over the top of his jeans.  We need to get to the emergency room to make sure it isn't broken and to try and find out what the hell happened.  We continue to try and call my Lovely without success.  I bet we called her 20 times.  So, off to the Civic Center where we can go in and let her know to come to the emergency room.  I peg leg it into the room where the art show was being torn down.  We let her know that we're off to the ER and to come there when she's done.

Once at the ER, I get in fairly quickly and after an x-ray and some poking and prodding, the Dr. comes to the conclusion that I have torn my quad.  Of course their answer is to give me some pills to make the pain go away, which doesn't fix jack-shit.  I don't want pills, I want my leg fixed.  So, they wrap my leg up like King Tut and send me on my way with some super-expensive crutches, which I only used to walk out of the hospital and haven't touched since.

A couple of doctor appointments over the next few weeks have confirmed that original diagnosis and now I'm about 4 weeks into physical therapy.   Everything seems to be progressing well, as I am back riding my bike, swimming 3 times per week (which is another story) and back snowboarding.

And as for the Christmas tree?  Well, I felt pretty bad about the whole situation, feeling like it was all my fault we didn't have a tree less than 2 weeks before Christmas.  I initially said we'd just go get one at Boy's Club, but the next weekend we still didn't have a tree and still had a permit.  I said I was gonna go get the tree that caused all the damn trouble.  So we did.  We went in from the other side, so no creek crossings were involved.  With my leg wrapped tight and doing my best "Blackbeard" impersonation, I peg-legged it back into the woods with the Boy and my Lovely, showed her where the incident happened, and we got the tree.  And you know what?  It was the best Christmas tree we ever had.  And factoring in the ER, doctor and physical therapy caused by the tree, probably the most expensive one in the history of mankind.