I am starting to develop cyclist’s legs.
No, I’m not referring to musculature, although it is true that my gams are a bit shapelier than usual. Also, my haunches combine the tensile strength of spider silk with the buttery suppleness of Kobe beef. Or so I’ve been told.
What I am referring to is the collection of scars, scratches, abrasions, nicks, and indentations I now bear. Most of the minor scrapes are the result of shin meeting pedal or shin meeting chain ring. They heal quickly and are easily ignored.
The worst by far are the remnants of my crash in Saigon. Of the original five cuts on my knee, three have faded into barely detectable smudges. The fourth is a protuberant lump of scar tissue, the approximate size, shape, and color of a raspberry. The fifth is a great purple eye staring outward from the side of my knee. The cut on my arm looks like a burn mark from an oversized stoagie.
I’ve been waiting for them to turn white like scars are supposed to. But after two months, it may be time to accept that I will never again star in a beach movie.
