I meant to get a bike ride in on Monday afternoon, first down to Mount Vernon to meet E. for a chat and then, oh, wherever I felt like going. But then I was stepping off the curb with my bike and stepped funny, and I heard a crack so loud it made me want to puke on my new orange Ortlieb front roller classics. That was the end of the ride for me, so after sitting on my front steps long enough to catch my breath, I headed back inside to elevate and ice it. Sigh. I made it out that evening for a quick pedal down to Mount Vernon for another event, but the plan was to keep the riding to a minimum, at least as long as there’s swelling. And then it was Tuesday, and the last thing I wanted to do was ride the bus, so I went ahead and rode downtown to catch the shuttle to work where I spent most of the day on my feet, pacing and excitedly talking about Emma Goldman–this part of the syllabus is one of my faves–and then it was time to head home. I pedaled up the hill with the 4pm traffic, using my hand signals and wishing I’d remembered my gloves, because as much as I want it to be spring, it just isn’t quite spring yet. And my ankle was hurting. Gut it out, gut it out, and there I was, almost home, greeted by the birds in the bush here at the corner of 32nd and Barclay. They’re there all year round, the tiny sparrows–you can’t see them in this picture, but the bush is just full of them. The whole thing vibrates with their chatter, and it happens all year, but at this time of year, I hear it as the harbinger of spring. That’s what birds mean, even though they’re always with us. I snapped this picture and pushed myself the rest of the way, took off my shoes and socks, and compared the ol’ feet. Yep, it’s swollen alright, just in time for not-spring.
Trauma seldom speeds healing.