My hikkuri-goshi

October 19, 2012 § 21 Comments

“Yowwwww!” I screeched.

“Why you gonna wake me up with a yammering onna leg cramp?” It was 1:30 AM, and Mrs. Wankmeister was not amused.

“Yowwww-owwww, owwwwww!” I caterwauled, doing the double pretzel with a reverse back-arch.

“I told you you gonna leg cramp if you don’t drink more water instead of coffee,” she groused, covering her head with the pillow. “Is alla other biker wifes have a yammer husband onna night leg cramp instead of good whoopie? When I gonna get a good whoopie?”

This, however, was no ordinary leg cramp. In fact, it was no leg cramp at all. It was my first ever gikkuri-goshi.

Injuring your way to fitness

A key part of any gym and cyclocross winter routine for older fellows is to get good and injured. Fukdude had made that clear from the start. “Dude,” he said. “You’re gonna fuckin kill yourself racing cyclocross.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you sure fucking are. And what you don’t ruin falling headfirst into some fucking mudpit or splitting on some fuckin barrier, you will for sure wreck forever in the gym.”

“So far I’ve done okay.”

“Okay? Fuck dude, you’ve crashed in both your ‘cross races, smashed your new bike, scraped up your left leg, hurt your right knee, and pulled your fuckin hamstring so bad you couldn’t bend over for a whole week.”

“I’m better now.”

“You think you are. But in order to really get fucked up you gotta fuck yourself up in the gym. Heavy shit twisting all the fuck over on spindly old dude arms, backs, and knees. Try squats or box jumps. That way you’ll just fuckin cripple yourself and be done with it.”

Finally got my big gym injury…outside the gym, of course

Last night I was waiting for dinner and figured I’d do a few sit-ups and maybe a couple of curls and play with my medicine ball to dull the hunger. I was more vigorous than usual, but it was the same set of Jane Fonda routines I always do.

I felt fine.

I ate dinner.

I felt fine.

I went to bed.

I felt fine.

I woke up screaming with indescribable pain in my lower back. Mrs. WM finally realized that this was more than the usual late-night cramp dance in bed. “You okay, sweetie honey?” she asked. When she breaks out the “sweetie honey,” it’s flat fucking bad.

“My back,” I grunt-moaned. “My fucking back just went out.” The slightest motion other than completely flat and still sent pangs of all-consuming pain radiating throughout my body. It was worse than my first day of calisthenics at Jane Long Junior High in 7th Grade, with Coach Castoria berating us as we lay on the slab, melting in the fiery August heat. A thousand times worse.

“Whatta happened?”

I panted, not moving. “Dunno. But my back is killing me if I move.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, I’m gonna tell you an advice then.”

“What?” I panted.

“Don’ move.” Then she rolled over and picked up her iPhone. “You was doin’ onna exercises before dinner, huh?”


Tap, tap, tap. “Okay. It say right here onna doctor Google you gotta gikkuri-goshi. It’s a gonna go away.”

“What the fuck is ‘gikkuri-goshi’? And I’m sure it will go away. Everything goes away after you die.”

“Itsa Japnese back problem. You just gonna have a big pain and then be better if you don move no more.”

Why her strategy was doomed to fail

“Honey, I have to move. I have to pee something fierce.” I tried to roll onto my side to get off the bed, but the pain was unbearable.

Now Mrs. WM was in full alarm mode. “Don you pee onna bed!” she yelled. “Hol it for a minutes I’m gonna get you a pee bottle.” She dashed into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and I heard the milk being poured down the drain. She rushed back in. “You still got the pee inside?” she was frantic.

“Dog, yes, it’s killing me. And my back, oh, dog, my fucking back!”

“Here!” she commanded. With a firm grip she jerked me over onto my side.

The world was plunged into pitch black punctuated by roman candles of pain. “Ahhh fuck! Ahhhh fuck!” Next thing I knew she had yanked down my shorts.

“Now stick it inna nozzle hole!” she commanded.

This was usually a procedure I excelled at, but tonight I fumbled under the dim lamp on the nightstand trying to wedge Prong A into Opening B. However, and I swear I’m not bragging here, my Prong A was not the right size for the plastic milk jug. “It won’t fit!” I wailed.

Mrs. WM reached down and with a sharp yank and a push poked it into the empty bottle. “Owwww!” I roared, as the corrugated inside threads on the plastic neck scraped and nicked.

Mrs. WM relaxed. “Okay, sweetie honey. Now you can pee onna bottle.”

Unfortunately, all the shoving and thrusting and poking and rubbing, combined with the excess fluid build-up in my bladder, had caused a certain phenomenon to begin. “Ahhhhhhh!” I cried in pain, as I’d already been tightly wedged into the nozzle..

“Itsa okay! I can get it out!” She reached over to yank the jug but I slapped her hand away, sending massive waves of pain up and down my spine and concentrating in my dick.

“Don’t you touch that fucking jug!” I yelled.

“Itsa okay!” she said, still afraid that the hose would come loose and pee on the sheets. “Imma call the 9-1-1!”

There was nothing on earth that could have made me sit bolt upright except that phrase, and the mental image of an EMS team showing up in my bedroom.

I could see the EMS dude talking into the mike. “Roger, home base, we got a white male, late 40’s, penis wedged in a milk carton with a back injury and sopping with sweat. Proceeding with Code 7. Bill, hand me the penis-bottle removing tool. And stabilize his neck and spine.”

“Honey, don’t fucking call 9-1-1. I can get it off.” With care I extracted Prong from Opening. Now I was really getting ready to lose it.

I heard her clattering around on the balcony. “Hold onna pee! Hold onna pee!” She rushed back in with the giant mop bucket that I use to clean my bike. I had fallen back onto my side, gasping in pain. “Pee inna bucket!”

Holding the giant plastic bucket in position, I slowly drained the tank, and it’s a good thing the milk carton hadn’t worked: I would have overflowed that sucker and then been banned from the house forever, gikkuri-goshi and all.

Mrs. WM looked on, proud of her quick thinking. “Thatsa good ol’ pee bucket,” she said with satisfaction. Then she wrinkled her nose as the pungent reek of ammonia filled the bedroom. “But thatsa stinky ol’ pee you doin.”

She carried away the sloshing bucket and dumped it in the toilet.

“Now be still, honey sweetie!” she commanded. “An no more peein!”

Somehow I drifted off to sleep.

The alarm went off at 5:00 AM, and I could move. Somewhat. Without total debilitating pain.


Gikkuri-goshi? I can check that shit off my list. And once I can walk again, I’m gonna race ‘cross. Hopefully tomorrow.

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