My friend Michael once described me as someone who followed the “method acting” method of writing. “You live it, then you write about it,” he explained.
He’s kind of right: It’s all true except for the parts I make up.
In that vein I’m hoping to assist those who have suffered a bad groin injury while cycling. After getting hurt, getting x-rayed (“Nothing broken!”), getting diagnosed (“Groin pull; will heal in two weeks”), doing vulvular stretches, and failing to get even the least bit better, I decided I’d better get some professional help.
As cyclists we think we can self-diagnose, or figure it out with the help of Dr. Google, or make a phone call to a pal who knows someone whose buddy is an orthopedist. But that’s foolish.
In the end, our bodies are delicate mechanisms, and it takes a trained expert to figure out what’s wrong, how to fix it, and most importantly, to lay out the course of care that is unique for you–because no matter how many generic Taiwanese bikes you own, you really are unique.
It was Friday morning when I met with the Super Medical Dream Team. They were finishing up their coffee cruise and had swung by my apartment to drop off coffee medication and some sugar-encrusted prescription apple fritters.
I stumped down the five flights of stairs, each step a hammer blow to my ballsack, to meet them where they convened at the pool. Fortunately, cyclists are a diverse group and there are quite a few who have expertise in medicine. Here was the team I assembled:
Junkyard: Occupation, graphic artist. Medical specialty, broken shit. Recent publications, “How I Ran into a Crack on the Sidewalk on Skinny Tires where I Shouldn’t Have Been in the First Place and Broke Three Vertebrae,” “Compound Elbow Fractures,” “Broken Wrists and the Velodrome,” “Post-care for Compound Femur Fractures,” and “Metal Detector Avoidance at Airports and Other Security Entrances.”
Major Bob: Occupation, retired military. Medical specialty, visiting injured friends in the hospital, listening to their organ recital. Recent publications, “STFU Already,” “It’s Your Front Wheel, not Mine,” “Cry Me a River,” and “If it Hurts, Stop Doing It.”
Hockeystick: Occupation, real estate development. Medical specialty, blood sugar levels. Recent publications, “Collarbone Fractures on the Velodrome,” “Socio-Medical Effects of Closing Down Local Farmer’s Markets,” “Beer: Does it Solve Everything?” and “Your Stupid NRA Shit Makes Me Sick.”
Punkin: Occupation, fitness trainer. Medical specialty, ballsacks. Recent publications, “Quit Whining,” “It’s Supposed to Hurt,” “I Can Fix That,” and “How Does THIS Feel?”
After an apple fritter apiece, the dream team went over my symptoms.
Hockeystick: Can you still get a boner?
Hockeystick: Then it can’t be your groin. And even if it is, who cares?
Punkin: Let me press it with my thumbs.
Major Bob: Is there any more coffee?
Junkyard: Is there any swelling in the pelvic area?
Me: Only when there’s a boner.
Junkyard: I mean the muscle and the area around the inner thigh.
Punkin: If you have a torn muscle you will feel a lump where the muscle has torn away. Here, let me press on it for you.
Me: Get your fuggin’ thumbs away from me!
Junkyard: Hurt when you walk?
Junkyard: Hurt when you lie on your side?
Junkyard: Hurt when you sit?
Major Bob: At least you don’t need eyedrops.
Junkyard: Dude, you have a cracked pelvis.
Then the Dream Team took a vote and concluded that that was the proper diagnosis.
Me: Do I still need to go to the other doctor for the MRI?
Dream Team: Naaaaaaah.
Hockeystick: Just give us each fifty bucks and we’ll call it good. Hella cheaper than an MRI.
[To be continued … ]
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