Where I gingerly complain

My physical therapist spent his entire time driving his elbows and forearms into my shoulders. It felt like he was just grinding my bones away.

His job is to assist in regaining a range of motion — which is doing very well, thank you — and minimize the impact of scar tissue. Instead he just performed top rope elbow drops on my shoulders.

It helped, a little, I suppose. By the end of the day I could feel it in my hands and in my head. Ice wasn’t doing anything, so I switched to heat. Then I tried the foam roller — great for legs after a long ride or a hard workout. I just wedged that between my shoulder blades and hoped for the best.

So, now, ready for bed, I feel better than I have all day, which has been less than desirable.

Sorry to complain, but muscles that aren’t spasming are sore because of the strain. That’s just wrong.

Football season is upon us and I’m posting photographs we found last week while sifting through archives in Auburn University’s collection in honor of this most festive time of the year. This one is Dean James Foy and an unnamed young lady hanging out with, I’m guessing, either War Eagle III (1960-1964) or War Eagle IV (1964-1980).


I mentioned Dean Foy, who died just two years ago, in a roundtable piece for TWER the other day. It has been broken up into segments here and here and here. I find it hysterical, though, that the Dean would get no closer to the eagle.

But then I remember what the raptor experts always say. “He’s thinking ‘If I were bigger, I would eat you.'” Good advice to remember.

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