In an effort to play rugby this season without having my legs pull a Mr. Burns and shatter beneath me when I try to run, I've resumed physical therapy. With a new guy. I'll call him Painbringer, PT. Today was my first appointment. After an excruciating 2 hours with him, during which, inexplicably, only 30 minutes actually passed, I had been stretched, prodded, pushed and poked to within an inch of my life.
Painbringer, PT's assessment was that I should come in three days a week. I will stretch, lift weights, get ultrasound, do cardio and get ice packs. Woo hoo. Of this, the only thing I really enjoy, and hence, the thing that takes the least time, is the ice packs. 10 minutes of bliss. Which unfortunately comes at the end of 80 minutes of pain.
I know that all of this will eventually pay off. I may even be able to play a couple of games this season. But right now, all I can see is the clock ticking away the hours until I have to meet Painbringer, PT again.
I need a drink.