Mal!

One of the funny little quirks I love about the French language is that in certain situations where, in English, one would say one is something (I'm hungry; I'm 22 years old haha not really; I'm sore), one by contrast has something (I have hunger; I have 22 years; I have soreness).

This is relevant because today I am sore. I am not just sore: I have soreness. J'ai mal!

Let's start with the physically incomfortable: the ass. Saturday was our city's Day of the Bike, a celebration of things two-wheeled and the people who love to pedal. It is not a race but rather a chance to share the pleasure of cycling on one of several courses of different lengths, each winding up and down and through the countryside to the sound of cowbells and the occasional alphorn.

Gilles is one of those who loves to pedal; it's truly his passion. "Why don't you ever go cycling with him?" one of my friends, a runner, asked me, naively, to which I could only respond: "Why don't you do a marathon with your grandma and then see if you'd still like to wish a similar fate on the poor guy?" His bike is so special that it lives with us in our flat and can be lifted with a sole finger. I have one that was intended only for the short back-and-forth to the university on a flat lakeside path; it requires two hands and some muscle to lift, and when it's not being ridden, it's relegated to the cellar with the stupid baby clothes.

He does this tour almost every year. Last year I met him at the finish line with a smile and a small pang of regret about being on the sidelines; this year, I wanted to join in the fun ... for 30 kilometers, at least. He'd chosen the 100-kilometer course (but only because his back has been bothering him lately, again. Otherwise he'd have (lightly) sweated it out on the 150. Like I said, it's his passion.).

On Friday, we brought my bike up out of the dark dustiness in which it had been dumped since last summer and freshened it up. This would be my first ride in many months. Turns out I was right not to fear the fitness component of my 30 little kilometers – those hours in the crying room have paid off – but, oh, the hard jabbing, bumping, jostling seat component ... I should have feared that.

So that's the ass. But I have another mal, this one psychological: tan lines. Disgraceful ones. We were careful about protecting ourselves from the sun in Granada but I neglected my feet and came back looking like I was wearing white sandals when I wasn't. Add the sun's malicious toying with what skin was exposed between Saturday's sporty ankle sock and capri-length legging combination and my walking half is just shameful. My only consolation is that if the cheery doctor thought I'd already shamed myself to the maximum at the last appointment, I'll be able to take exceed expectations at tomorrow's. 

last year's view from the sidelines.