Sunday, March 18, 2012
Subject: White male, 57, although if you'd asked him at noon he'd have suggested 77 and if you had watched him climb the stairs an hour earlier, 97. Subject has a charlie-horsed left quadricep, bruised right ribcage, aching everything, and a nagging suspicion that his body has evolved beyond the playing of kid's games. Now if only his mind would. Competitive soccer at 8:00am is hard on old bodies.
Status: Subject is lying on the living room couch with no intention of rising until his body stops aching or mid-spring - whichever comes first. He plans to flip back and forth between recorded Champions League games and live NCAA basketball for the next twelve hours, feeling fairly confident that he has enough energy to press the jump button on the DirecTV remote for that long. A pre-noon anesthetic Newcastle brown ale sits on the coffee table and the manly scent of BENGAY fills the air.
Stimulus: The cell phone rings. If it's not sitting within easy reach - next to the Newcastle - it goes unanswered.
"I'm lying here on the couch and I'm not moving for the next 4 days."
"The white bass are running. I'm slammin'em. I can pick you up at the canoe launch."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
And the subject, miraculously, is.
Hypothesis: Anecdotal evidence of the recuperative powers of fishing - even the notion of fishing - is compelling. It suggests that the mere prospect of sitting in the middle of a white bass migration with a 6wt and a box full of pink and white clousers, fighting feisty fish after feisty fish, significantly diminishes the debilitating effects of injury and illness. Further studies are warranted.
Alternate hypothesis: The subject is fucking crazy.