day 51

I am in training for when they put the stationary bike in the Olympics. On Friday I did an hour on the bike. I think it would be at least as exciting as curling.

Then I walk up these spiral stairs to the small room upstairs in the club where I usually do some stretching, but on Friday there were two women sitting in the Lotus position and one asked me if I wanted to join them for Yoga class.

Well sure, says I. And I grab a mat and it starts off easy enough with some hand wringing to generate heat and some chanting (I'm good at that) but soon I realize that the teacher and the one woman beside me are way beyond my stretching capabilities. But I'm trying to stay with them and I won't go into the whole thing but by end of an hour session let's just say that I felt like I had just finished a 20 mile march with full pack.

The teacher and the other woman tell me that I did very well, considering this was my first time, and that they had been doing this for many years.

I say that I think I did okay in that I'm already sore, but I don't think I sprained anything.

Wrong.

I'm sitting here with a badly pulled lower back. My bad. I'm sort of an idiot when it comes to this stuff. Way too competitive with myself?

My family is like that: very politically sensitive, and aggressive maniacs when it comes to any sort of game or athletic activity.

One day, about 20 years ago, my parents put up a badminton net near what was then our country house. My younger sister (seven years younger) and I played all the time and one day I told her that I had gotten good enough to serve and hit her in the head. Sort of like Babe Ruth pointing to the stands.

And so I did. The shuttlecock left a crimson mark in her forehead.

She was 14 and went running in the house screaming. Out comes the old man. A tough bird.

Hey, did you hit her in the head!

Sure did, dad. Right in the forehead. I told her I was gonna.

Yeah? How'd you like I did that to you!

I told him he could try if he wanted to but it took practice. When he started down the stairs, I took off. He doesn't tolerate wisecracks well.

A few years later, my sister dug a small hole (she swears she didn't) on my side of the court, covered it with leaves, and hit the shuttlecock so that I put my left ankle into the hole and had to be taken to the hospital.

Revenge, the dish that is best served years later.

But that stuff comes from big daddy. Dad was an excellent paddleballer and even when he was in his sixties, he used to be able to drive me all over the court until I was ready to collapse. He could not stand losing. Not at anything.

After he taught me to play chess when I was around seven years old, he absolutely loved to play. Until the day that I beat him (I think I was about ten years old) and he would never play me again.

No, I'm too busy. Much too busy.

And out he'd go on to take care of his business.

Anyway - health is tough. But I'm going to stick with it. Ouch.