Sunday, July 22, 2012

The Slowride to Paraplegia

"All aboard for the 8:30 to Hurtsville!"
A witness account of this story will be posted shortly on this.

In consideration for the closing gap between my life in Savannah and my life somewhere the fuck else, my boyfriend and I thought that it might be fun to schedule a Savannah Slowride on a warm, balmy Saturday evening. We had various things planned for other weekends, but on this particular weekend, we were going to leisurely stroll downtown Savannah in a new, modern way. Neither of us had done such a thing, so it seemed logical to try something as new and futuristic-hipster like pedaling a crawler for 2 hours. 

I mean, why would anyone just want to walk downtown? Fuck that shit. We think we're breezy cool, bitches. We aren't walking like an Average Andy! We wanted to fuckin' pedal on some strange vehicle probably constructed from the lost illustrations of Leonardo DaVinci throughout the town, drinking beer and listening to The Beastie Boys. 

It had to be fun, right? RIGHT? ...Maybe.

I need to begin this story from earlier in the day. Early on a Saturday morning, I begrudgingly slid out of bed, got dressed, and drove my Jeep to an undisclosed location and gave her away to a man from South Carolina. In my immense sadness and hungover vulnerability, my boyfriend thought that it might be nice to drive me to Lake Mayer so we could both get our fitness on and my mind off giving away my four-wheeled friend. 

We didn't do push-ups, but I still felt like a constipated walrus.

I merely wanted to walk at a moderate pace, allow for pensive reflection of my relationship with my newly-emancipated Jeep, and come out of my hangover before my entourage and I later gathered to experience that which is "Slowride." But noooooo, the boyfriend wanted to actually fucking work out. And I genuinely feel bad for him, because he wanted to work out with my mildly fat ass (yes, I am minimizing my ass size. Suck it). And yes, I do whine. A lot. I seriously have no idea how he puts up with it. What may seem as a small amount of air squats and forward lunges later, my weak thighs of thunderdom decided, "Fuck this shit. I want a breakfast sandwich with chocolate syrup on it." We left Lake Mayer, had breakfast, and lazed about until it was time to go on our pedaling adventure.

No, no. It's PEDALING, not PEDDLING. 

There were a couple flakers in our group who decided that they were much happier having us pay for their empty seats instead of showing the fuck up. However, my boyfriend's friend - on last minute's notice - showed up, and there were four strangers on the crawler as well to help us on our drinking/pedaling/sweating journey. We were all excited, because none of us knew what the hell we were getting ourselves into, but we all knew that it might involve something called "hard work." At that time, I didn't have a good idea as to this "hard work" people speak of, but I obviously figured it out soon enough.  As we signed our waivers for Jerry's Kids helmets and paid our dues (and paid for those who didn't show up. You know who you are. Assholes.), we still didn't know just what would happen. Sure, we knew it was going to be a challenge, but damn. We didn't think our four stranger-friends on the crawler with us wouldn't pedal the whole time, which caused almost immediate resentment. 

Two hours later, we were all covered in sweat and looking like we all had an impromptu orgy in a dark alley. For those of us who had hair, it was stringy and had the salt content of all the McDonalds french fries within a 10-mile radius, and every square inch of our collective bodies were soaked in the salty bodily excretion (I just made that sound so naughty). My thighs felt as if they had been fitted with squeegee-laden rubberbands that dragged the dry, rubber part of the squeegee over every nerve each time I took a step. My upper back, tightened into a multitude of knots, ranging from overhand to clove-hitch, denied every pleading request for me to sit down without pain. Great Poseidon's Salty Asshole, I was feeling the darker side of being fit. Holy crap my shit hurt.

As you can see, my back is now attractive only to sailors. 

But surely it would be better in the morning, right? Haha! Fuck you, it wasn't! I can't move without grimacing, and unbeknownst to me, while I was pedaling away my boyfriend's bet that I couldn't pedal the entire time, my thighs were chafing away at the bicycle seat, leaving two wicked sick chafe-burns on the insides of my thighs. It looks like I have a thigh disease. Oh yeah, and my ass is bruised, too. You know that part where your butt and thigh meet (I call it the butthigh)? Yeah. That shit's so bruised, it hurts to sit on the damned toilet to relieve myself. My entire lower body feels like an angry baker beat me with a granite rolling pin. 

So, it was fun, right? Yes. Bitching aside, I still think it was fun. Did it make me feel like a fat-ass? No; at least, not until I woke up that Sunday morning and realized I couldn't get out of bed without sliding out and subsequently walking like a pirate with two peg legs around the apartment. I'm so happy I didn't have to be anywhere that day, because those previous engagements would have had to been orchestrated in a way that allowed for a much-desired wheelchair, because shit, man, I think my legs are going to fall off. 

Regardless of the intense amount of energy one must exert in order to get anywhere, Slowride is actually fun. I recommend you do it if you have friends who don't flake on you (because you will be stuck with the bill), but if you're that kind of person who can't commit 100% with the rest of the team, I recommend you get one of these instead: 

"Of course you can shove a pizza in your mouth-cave while I do all the work!" 

And yes, I will judge the shit out of you. While Hernando here pedals your chunk-ass around town and lets you shove soft pretzels in your face, I'll be getting the pretzel knots out of my thighs and earning the BAMF Badge for donating my legs to the Foghat Wheelchair Foundation.





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