Back when my mother was still deluding herself into thinking I had some musical promise, she would send me to weekly piano lessons. I don't actually remember being presented with the concept of "choice" in this decision. I was supposed to learn how to play piano. End of story.
I was maybe six or seven at the time. In the living room of my piano teacher, I would alternate between awkwardly trying to navigate the stretch of white and black keys and sitting in a chair, writing out the rhythm of whatever my teacher would play. And while regulated to invalid-child-with-epilepsy status, I absolutely could not sit still.
It was one of those days where I was supposed to write out rhythms when it happened. I was seated on a wooden chair but had tucked my legs underneath me so that I was perched on my shins. My toes stuck out of that narrow space between the seat of the chair and its back. I was fidgeting, and as I shifted in my seat, a heel got caught in the back of the chair. I panicked, pulled and struggled. The chair wobbled as I fought it, then fell back, me stuck to it, and the back of my head smashed against my piano teacher's glass coffee table.
She totally freaked out.
A few stitches later, I was fine. I actually remember wondering why we weren't just continuing the piano lesson.
Two decades later, I've come to terms with sitting for long stretches of time, but that doesn't mean I don't hate it. And a 12 hour school day means that while I'm not on my butt the whole time, by the time I get home, the only thing I want to do is eat something decent and be horizontal for an extended period of time [preferably for more than 6 hours].
But yesterday, I came home, peeled off restricting clothing, and hopped right back onto a bike. With the weather turning positively freezing and the heat turning my apartment into a sauna, unlike the true road warriors who are shunning the indoor trainer at all costs, I'm hiding inside, rolling happily. Ironically, the stacks of books smothering my desk and every flat surface in my apartment, along with the "to do" list that never ends, is pushing me into higher gears [literally]. The mental image of that adorable Phil Wood 12T cog helps, too.
So after a make-up class that ended at 7.15pm last night, nursing a headache from incomprehension of corporate taxation, starving, and exhausted, I rolled for a little bit. And despite the sweating, I realized that it doesn't burn so much on my increased gearing. I actually might be getting used to it.
I stretched properly for once afterwards, and because I like cylindrical things, even rolled out my IT bands with my new favorite toy - a giant foam roller. My legs felt happy, even if I couldn't wait to dive into bed a few hours later.
And in case you were wondering, I slept like a baby.
