Audubon II aftermath; High Line Canal
Aug. 14th, 2010 07:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
grrgoylI'm suffering the aftermath of my spectacular fall at Audubon last weekend. When I say "aftermath," I mean a poison ivy rash that quickly spread down the entire right side of my body, covering my arm, leg and right buttock. I was sitting in the bushes for a good minute or two while struggling to get the bike off me; still, I can't account for the presence of a rash on my ass. I swear I was wearing pants.
I took over 60 pictures, but it was surprisingly difficult to get the angle and lighting right to convey how horrific my rash is. I wanted you to itch just looking at it. Sorry, there will be no pics of my ass
You would think your ass would be the worst imaginable place, and it's no picnic, but I've discovered the most annoying location is actually on your elbow, which I had never noticed before comes into contact with so many surfaces.
If you have never had poison ivy, let me be the first to tell you it is positively SINFUL how good it feels to scratch, when that's the absolute worst thing you can do. I would say it's better than sex, except I never have such huge feelings of regret a minute after finishing sex.
When you have poison ivy, it makes you nervous to scratch any part of your body, even bits you know are unaffected. And I sort of miss the days when my biggest worry was some scrapes and an elbow that wouldn't bend.
So I'm never going to heal because I can't resist scratching. Nor can I resist picking at the little fluid blisters. I've always been a picker, so I know I'm doomed. Lacking any other medicine, I started with Gold Bond powder which provided relief that was transient in the extreme. Now I've moved on to antibiotic and triamcinolone (steroid) ointment. When you reach in the drawer for a tube of toothpaste in my house, you'd better make damn sure of your selection.
~*~
I'm starting to think my outings with Gerry are hazardous to my health.
Wednesday he suggested meeting me and going to Cherry Creek, where allegedly there was a path leading under the highway that had off-road trails beyond. I was doubtful, but I went anyway.
He was correct. What's more, he opened up a whole new route to me where Cherry Creek connects with all sorts of major roadways that will certainly make getting about much easier should I ever need to rely more heavily on two-wheeled transportation.
He led me to a single-track path that was almost as enjoyable as Audubon, except much more overgrown and unfortunately running a good part of the time along the High Line Canal, meaning sheer drop-offs into raging water (okay, "raging" might be much. But I can't think of anyone who wants to plummet into a canal while bike riding). And all the overgrowth meant poor visibility of the trail and a few very hairy spots I'm frankly amazed didn't end in my demise.
My luck ran out at one spot where I misjudged a turn, plowing straight on into a bush/weed the size of a small tree. The bush/weed fought back and I lost, going partially over my handlebars in a very gradual faceplant.
I promise I'm not doing anything special while riding with him. Just plain bad luck, I guess.
Once again I was unhurt (dairy-based Adamantium comes through for me again!), though once again my handlebars were cock-eyed; only 15 degrees off this time, not the whole 90. This time Ger was behind me and saw the whole thing. I don't know if that was a comfort.
I didn't get any photos (one of the bad things about riding with someone else). The path snaked around behind some industrial parts of the city, uniformly non-scenic. "Gee, Ger," I joked, "you sure show a girl the purty parts of town." No kidding: At one point we even passed through a patch of cacti -- I didn't know we had any in these parts. No sooner had I finished picking all the needles out of my hands, he turned around and made me go back through it. I suspect he has a small sadistic streak.
Speaking of snakes (the noun, not the verb), we saw a huge one stretched across the path basking in the sun. I would have got a photo if Gerry hadn't kept poking at it to see if it was a rattler (it wasn't, fortunately for Gerry). It slithered off in annoyance before my camera app loaded on my phone. Gerry ruins EVERYTHING.
I felt more comfortable sticking to the high road on the way back. Not Ger, who consistently took the turns closer to the water. So I laughed at him when he went hurtling over a blind hill, only to (barely) come to a screeching halt when it deposited him at the edge of a drop-off down to the canal. Serves him right, dragging me through cactus and scaring off my snake.
Still, there's talk of meeting yet again tomorrow, possibly to ride the Lair o' the Bear trail. I've scoped it on YouTube and it looks like fun, except for another nicknamed landmark called "The Waterfall" that only looks half accurate to me. Riders with more ego than sense hurl themselves down it. Not me. It's all I can do to make it home just riding on smooth level ground.
I took over 60 pictures, but it was surprisingly difficult to get the angle and lighting right to convey how horrific my rash is. I wanted you to itch just looking at it. Sorry, there will be no pics of my ass
You would think your ass would be the worst imaginable place, and it's no picnic, but I've discovered the most annoying location is actually on your elbow, which I had never noticed before comes into contact with so many surfaces.
If you have never had poison ivy, let me be the first to tell you it is positively SINFUL how good it feels to scratch, when that's the absolute worst thing you can do. I would say it's better than sex, except I never have such huge feelings of regret a minute after finishing sex.
When you have poison ivy, it makes you nervous to scratch any part of your body, even bits you know are unaffected. And I sort of miss the days when my biggest worry was some scrapes and an elbow that wouldn't bend.
So I'm never going to heal because I can't resist scratching. Nor can I resist picking at the little fluid blisters. I've always been a picker, so I know I'm doomed. Lacking any other medicine, I started with Gold Bond powder which provided relief that was transient in the extreme. Now I've moved on to antibiotic and triamcinolone (steroid) ointment. When you reach in the drawer for a tube of toothpaste in my house, you'd better make damn sure of your selection.
~*~
I'm starting to think my outings with Gerry are hazardous to my health.
Wednesday he suggested meeting me and going to Cherry Creek, where allegedly there was a path leading under the highway that had off-road trails beyond. I was doubtful, but I went anyway.
He was correct. What's more, he opened up a whole new route to me where Cherry Creek connects with all sorts of major roadways that will certainly make getting about much easier should I ever need to rely more heavily on two-wheeled transportation.
He led me to a single-track path that was almost as enjoyable as Audubon, except much more overgrown and unfortunately running a good part of the time along the High Line Canal, meaning sheer drop-offs into raging water (okay, "raging" might be much. But I can't think of anyone who wants to plummet into a canal while bike riding). And all the overgrowth meant poor visibility of the trail and a few very hairy spots I'm frankly amazed didn't end in my demise.
My luck ran out at one spot where I misjudged a turn, plowing straight on into a bush/weed the size of a small tree. The bush/weed fought back and I lost, going partially over my handlebars in a very gradual faceplant.
I promise I'm not doing anything special while riding with him. Just plain bad luck, I guess.
Once again I was unhurt (dairy-based Adamantium comes through for me again!), though once again my handlebars were cock-eyed; only 15 degrees off this time, not the whole 90. This time Ger was behind me and saw the whole thing. I don't know if that was a comfort.
I didn't get any photos (one of the bad things about riding with someone else). The path snaked around behind some industrial parts of the city, uniformly non-scenic. "Gee, Ger," I joked, "you sure show a girl the purty parts of town." No kidding: At one point we even passed through a patch of cacti -- I didn't know we had any in these parts. No sooner had I finished picking all the needles out of my hands, he turned around and made me go back through it. I suspect he has a small sadistic streak.
Speaking of snakes (the noun, not the verb), we saw a huge one stretched across the path basking in the sun. I would have got a photo if Gerry hadn't kept poking at it to see if it was a rattler (it wasn't, fortunately for Gerry). It slithered off in annoyance before my camera app loaded on my phone. Gerry ruins EVERYTHING.
I felt more comfortable sticking to the high road on the way back. Not Ger, who consistently took the turns closer to the water. So I laughed at him when he went hurtling over a blind hill, only to (barely) come to a screeching halt when it deposited him at the edge of a drop-off down to the canal. Serves him right, dragging me through cactus and scaring off my snake.
Still, there's talk of meeting yet again tomorrow, possibly to ride the Lair o' the Bear trail. I've scoped it on YouTube and it looks like fun, except for another nicknamed landmark called "The Waterfall" that only looks half accurate to me. Riders with more ego than sense hurl themselves down it. Not me. It's all I can do to make it home just riding on smooth level ground.