I used to be a bike messenger. And a bike activist. And a bike enthusiast. We were one. My arm ran fluidly into her bars, my legs extending, bending, and circling around her wheels. My love for the machine and my desire to impress it, myself and others pushed me to ride with gusto.

And now I sit here with an ice pack on my knee first thing in the morning because I rode with so much god damn gusto ten years ago. I think it was worth it. Most days it was worth it.

An injured knee means I can't do much at all. No bike riding (obviously!), walking, hiking, swimming. No wheel-barrowing, no weed pulling, no lifting the straw bale from the truck. No sewing. No dancing. Have I mentioned how much I love to move? This not moving thing is killing me. I have to rest the joint and so the only thing I can do is go to the river and lay on a blanket and read the new Vanity Fair or sit myself in the water up to my waist and stare at the tree line. A knee injury is very meditative. I see how useful it is to hold still, even though I'm distraught and feel like over-night I have become fat and old.