Well, care of last Sunday my life-long broken bone tally has shot to nine and my number of operable arms has dropped to one. Essentially my right wrist is busted in two places after an aerial dismount of my motorcycle at the track and before you ask, yes, the bike is ok. I think I’d like to get the bone count up to eleven or so before I die, ten’s too round a number and nine’s just a little too small. I think I might steer clear of outings to the track for a while though as it seems to be the source of my undoing rather than my time on the road, of which there is plenty.
I’ve made a bit of an effort to teach myself to write left-handed due to my current state of incapacitation, which currently serves me at a level which would be on par with most four year old colobus monkeys. That is to say – not well.
I also ended up at a card game last night, where although I managed to show great finesse at dealing with one arm, my most dynamic feat was the resounding manner in which I displayed my finely honed ability to suck arse at gambling. Thankfully there were minties to ease my troubled soul.
It’s now been around a hundred and eight hours since I’ve ridden a motorcycle and I’m starting to get edgy. It’s probably best that I let the nurses put the clamps on now, otherwise things might proceed to get slightly less than cheery.
Until next time, your rabid self.