Going For Broke...er....Broken?

One trait I have never endorsed as a strength would be my ability of monitoring & consequent preventative action. The section for recommended maintenance somehow was ripped from my text book a long time ago. From the check engine light, to that peculiar smokey smell in the kitchen, from the fraying skate lace to (and most importantly) that tweak in my back/knee/foot/(insert every other body part imaginable). Maybe I'm an optimist, a dreamer, the guy who thinks everything will work itself out, the ice fishermen who thinks a couple cracks are all part of the plan, a guy who puts his head in front of ninety mile an hour pucks, shielded only by a centimeter thick piece of steel, bent already to his nose, and "thinks" "Ah, it's cool". Or maybe I'm blissfully naive. He who believes will achieve, right?

I hate prevention, I despise slow, and for this, lately I am feeling the effects. My body is madder than Christian Bale at the odd greenhorn lighting technician. My current injury report looks like the print out for the Pamplona emergency room. 

This current "Streak" began in April when I effectively asked two tiny muscles in my lower back to hold onto an anvil being dropped of a proverbial cliff in the gym. They bent, but they didn't break. Some mild pain, slight discomfort, a warning to take it easy? Please! Yet for me, this simply translated into a clean bill of health and no cause for concern. I could still make all the motions of my athletic routines so why change? Three days later cut to me on the ice, crumpled like a empty bag of kettle chips, dragging myself off like Tom Hanks on the beach in Saving Private Ryan. The punishment, 3 weeks of intensive electro-therapy, and daily visits to my chiropractor or "Pain Practitioner" who put me through more body contorting, lip chomping, eye popping pain than Henry VIII's dungeon staff. 

Next came what I like to refer to as "Lowe versus beast." My team obliged to a gentle men's challenge from the local under 18's team for a "Friendly" scrimmage to prep them for an upcoming tournament. With the invitation to skate as a forward too delectable to pass up, I patch worked a gear set-up and took a left wing slot. Little did I know the under 18's had a secret weapon likened to Priceline.com's "The Big Deal" chomping at the bit to prove his effectiveness at demolition work, using opponents bodies as his wrecking balls. This Kodiak Grizzly on blades caught me looking the other way late in the game and sent me hurling through the air further than a Red Bull Flugtagger and my right upper rib cage doing its best play-dough impersonation against the merciless boards. For a month now I've cursed this kids name daily through every imaginable basic activity, especially coughing. I tell ya, you never think about what you need your rib cartilage for until its the fleshy equivalent of potato mash. Over a month later and I still walk around convinced if someone were to punch me in the side I would tear up faster than Terrell Owen's defending "His Quarterback". 

My feet have never been right. Maybe it's the fact that they live most their life suctioned into a skate boot tighter than Serena Williams tennis shorts. But lately I've been getting a nagging dull, nothing but annoying pain on both feet's outer edges. Being the online medical professional that I am, I've diagnosed this problem as Cuboid Syndrome. Granted, my accuracy rate is probably more akin to Shaq's free throw percentage, but whose to say I'm wrong? A doctor? Common web knowledge suggests rest, icing, and a chiropractic adjustment known as a Cuboid Whip but in this instance I didn't even have time to flip to the "C's" in the Canberra yellow pages. 

And why? 

Because yesterday in net, doing my thing, which lately seems to resemble a block of Gouda in a mice colony, I felt a slight pop in my right knee on a harmless squat to stand recovery. Up to this point I had survived a few shoves, a couple post-whistle hacks, and a death threat from the AIHL's Kimbo Slice equivalent. But leave it to the harmless skate push to screw the pooch. I finished the game, yet in waking up today I am hobbling worse than Kurt Gibson in 88', after he's downed six rum and cokes. I don't know the diagnosis yet, but the outlook looks about as bright as the US economy at this point. Fantastic. 

The one constant in each of these health calamities has been the recommended prescription of rest. Unfortunately it's a luxury I don't have, or don't want at this point. Maybe that's my issue, and it is probably why I seem to be making it a habit of digging myself a deeper hole than Sammy Sosa at a congressional hearing health-wise as of late. But I can't stop, activity is my drug, and if I can't do something at least mildly athletic each day let's just say I make Courtney Love look straight edge. I'm a fitness junky, maybe it's my vice, but nothing stirs more aggravation and frustration from my core than being restricted by my own means. If my mind is the American Militia, my body is quietly becoming a full fledged Benedict Arnold, or Lebron James? (had to) 

The worst part, the thing that stings most lies in the truth of the signals, the ones that say I need rest, I need to take care of myself, to call the dealer and schedule a service check and of course my blatant lack of will to heed this advice. I've always believed in my ability to beat it, to stay the course, even speed up at times, thinking I can work through it, sweep it under the rug.  This seems to of been about as effective as Clinton trying to hide his cigar Olympics. 

If my body is listening, I'm blasting White Snakes "Give me more time", just until September, please! I've made little secret that this hockey season is my Alamo. I'm Custard and the injury Apache are screaming at me from 360 degrees. I know I've probably neglected the necessary maintenance and service checks every couple thousand saves and I don't doubt that I'll have to pay for the mileage at some point down the road, take it out of my re-sale value. But can't we just push the last pit stop back a bit. Maybe I should of listened to my bodies crew chief and re-fueled fifty laps ago, but the line is so close, wrong or not I am going for it baby, fumes don't fail me now.