2 posts tagged “work”

From: [redacted]
Subject: Timesheets

Tell me about this week … the more dramatic, the better…

I have a sort of love/hate relationship with autumn. Good summers make depressing autumns, and I had a great summer. I expected Monday to be a fiercely fall day, so when I stepped out of work for lunch and it was 90 degrees, I felt at least a small measure of relief at having been spared the cold for a day. Summer never dies as long as it’s hot and humid. Took a deep breath—hot, humid.

Tuesday came and went. I could look out the window at Central Park and stare at the expanse of leaves: green, so far. Just green. Felt like summer, but it’s not summer. I sat back, tapped at the keys, caught myself thinking about apples. Is this what people in California do? Dream of apples?

I took the subway to work on Wednesday and Thursday; I typically ride my bike, but I thought it might be a good idea to acclimate to the train (wasn’t raining, no latent cold weather hostility, and I wanted to watch a movie on my phone). On both days, I stopped for coffee near my house. I like an iced Americano. Nobody was drinking anything iced. Got a foul look from the “barista”. Screw that.

Outside the coffee shop on Thursday was a dachshund with one brown and one blue eye, sitting amidst a few dry, yellow leaves. He just sat and stared.

Today I rode my bike. It was windy. The very tops of the trees in Central Park are pale green, turning paler yellow. It’s humid, but it’s fall.

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I have been riding my bike to work on and off for the last three years. When I worked downtown, not far from my apartment, this was easy--a matter of two turns and a bridge. My last two jobs, in midtown Manhattan, have required more arduous commutes. More distance, more traffic. Today, I ride about four times the distance I did two years ago, yelling most of the way.

My daily routine, by turns: left on Borinquen, right on the bridge, right on Essex, left on Ninth Street, right on Greenwich, right on Eighth Avenue, right on 55th. The most relaxing stretch is Eighth Avenue from 14th to 23rd, when I am protected from traffic by a five-foot striped path. Most of the rest is harrowing, except for intersections, which are worse.

I have become keenly aware of the structure of my legs. Where I used to know four friendly muscle groups--knee, calf, hamstring, quad--are now several warring factions--Inner Thigh, Cusp of Quad, The Posterior Ligaments--working together only for the purpose of moving pedals, a simple vertical effort machine. There is up, there is down.

Monday morning, on three occasions, each as I pulled to a stop, I felt a searing pain at the top of my knee; I remembered a pinch as I climbed the stairs on Saturday, scolded myself for riding through the weekend, aligned my feet carefully, and rode on slowly. Every day since, I've been taking stock of all the moving parts, calculating their limits and feeling each pedal stroke. I seem to have brought everybody back in line; there is only the occasional threatening ache. It passes, but it makes me cringe.

Yesterday, on my way home, i caught myself quietly repeating a phrase, timed to the pedal strokes. I was focused so hard on the traffic, the doors, the knee, and the lights, that I hadn't noticed how loud it had become. I thought riding was supposed to keep me sane; I am becoming a lunatic on wheels:

"Ligaments, tendons, muscle, bone."
"Ligaments, tendons. Muscle and bone."