Not Whining. Recapitulating in Stream of Consciousness.

So, first it's just some nagging tendonitis (read: hurts like a mother incapacitating f*cker and won't go away) in both elbows, then it's a quick double-up on an upper respiratory infection and - are you kidding me? - shingles. Let the shingles linger a bit, not as long as the tendonitis, but who cares? with shingles, you don't get to do anything. Sit there and turn into a mushroom and wish you were dead.
Then, cut my neck open and rip out the alien cancer in there, and now, tell me I'm anemic.

No wonder FGB! felt like shite. No wonder Volkslauf didn't have any pop. I'm dying on my feet here.

Which, I suppose, for the best of us, is the human condition. We're all dying by inches. The best, by inches, with no whining. Some are dying and making certain all those around them are dying by inches as well, dragging them into a common grave with their grumpy death-rattle attitudes. Some are dying by mph, those who are destined to get smashed by busses, but for the rest of humanity, we either are going gently into that good night ... or are railing and kicking and fighting all the way.

I'm just hoping to prolong the inevitable a bit, I think. I know it's coming. I held up a bit of newsprint a few months ago and had to hold it further away to focus on it - for the first time. Oh my lands, I've got Santa Claus' vision now. Next step: rectangular lenses in wire frames.

The one thing that I've been able to rely on is the Mind over Matter bit, and now even that is fading. You know, where you're tired/sick/hung/lazy, but your inner self says, "Saddle the freak up!" and the physical you is forced to follow suit. And does.
But not now. Now the overmind says, "Ring dips, now," and the elbows say, "Feel this." And the mind says, "Holy shite, that hurts." The will wilts, you end up calling it a day. And you die by another inch.

Damn it all, I'm getting old. I'm feeling old. And I'm acknowledging that the better days are behind me. Sucks.

So, in the face of it all, I'm creating the next 6 months of periodized training. Planned pain. Knowing that I'm not setting any PRs this year. Knowing that it's gonna suck, mostly. Knowing that it's going to take at least 6 months just to get back to a desultory training base. Knowing that if I run into training partners, they're going to think little of me, or that I'm slacking off, or ... or who cares what they might think. This is about me. Keeping from turning into a grumpy old codger with a hunchback who can only bitch about kids these days and talk about how good he was. I know who I'm dealing with now. Me - rolling downhill on the over-the-hill-side-of-the-hill, but rage, raging against the dying of the light.

I mean well. I mean to do what best I can. I don't want to take anything from anyone else, and only want to suffer what portion I can each day. I'm only asking for the opportunity to show some consistency in training, and put together a good string of workouts and recoveries so I can get back to a base. One more base camp on the way down the mountain.