The walk of shame

I walk my youngest to her class room. It feels colder down here than half-way up the mountain (where we live) and there is modicum of concern that maybe shorts wasn’t the best haberdashery for this little excursion.

When I get home my wife shows me pictures of the kids being let out of class to go and see the frost thats formed on the field. Its a big deal (apparently). Climatically it almost never drops below 8C (46F) and there are kids here that have NEVER in their lives experienced sleet or snow… or crunchy grass, as they gleefully hold up a leaf or piece of grass that they’ve found for the camera.

Its so lame. But also quite cute I decide. And I’m a little disappointed that I will never again in my life experience the euphoria of finding a well-chilled twig and chalking that up as some sort of achievement. Being now well into the grouch and ennui that comes from advanced old age I get excited when I wake up and don’t feel like I’ve fallen out of a three story building. (which is rarer experience these days than I feel it should be)

I decide to cycle to my… it’s not quite a HIIT class. The breaks between sets are longer. Maybe functional strength I decide, scrolling through the various options on my watch. I’m deep into a empirical tracking phase. Next month I will abhor modernity and bench my Apple-watch in favor of the trusted (and indestructible) Casio G-shock, espousing how everything was better when we didn’t measure and compare everything. But at the moment I’m all about collecting trophies and completing circles. (again)

Its a 18km round trip (eh… 11mi). Single track for the first bit, but then I have to merge with traffic as I chop my way through town. I note (with some annoyance) that I’ve lost the wherewithal to lane-share agreeably with cars. Has it always been so frightening I wonder vaguely? Maybe its because I now live in a small town that harbors an above average number of coffin-dodgers and my belief in their ability to hold-the-line is very much diminished. Its all cataracts and Parkinsons out there. Or maybe its the dim realization that if I come off my bike and tweak something, I’m not just walking it off with two ibuprofen in the morning anymore.

Maybe its a bit of both.

In any event, today I learnt that dead-lifts and squats and the ability to climb the incline back up to my house are mutually exclusive. My legs give out about 200mtrs before the end and I’m forced to do the-walk-of-shame.

Shuffling along with my bike I decide the last time I had to do this I was likely ten years old. On a BMX without gears. Ha ha. So in some ways I am reliving my childhood.

Although now I have this intense fear that one of my neighbors will drive past and… god what if they offer to give me a lift? How awful would that be? And perhaps even more awful is the realization that I might actually take them up on it.