"Stretch" sounds like such a comforting word.
The first stretch of the morning - (almost) as good as a cup of strong coffee.
Streeeetchhh. Ahh.
Reality? Think of those medievil tortures. Wasn't one of them where they strapped the offender's legs and arms to four horses and have them gallop off? That. Is stretching.
I'm under strict orders from my physical therapists to do 20 minutes of stretching per day. I'm supposed to stretch between sports. Haven't they heard of transition times? I'd rather the extra minutes being used in a Porta Potty (I refuse to take care of business on my bike. Really. Would you pee on $12,000?).
So I diligently stretch my hamstrings, calves, feet, arms, eyes, earlobes - everything.
I guess I can't prove this hasn't been working because I've been doing this regularly and it's impossible to prove it if I'm doing it. Or not doing it. (What exactly am I trying to say? I know what I meant but I'm still confused.) All I know is my hamstrings feel like pulling stale string cheese.
But stretching has become my body parts' crack. (Ha ha.) Following my long ride or run, my legs want to be stretched more that I want a gallon of icewater. Or a donut. Is that what this stretching thing is all about? The encouragement of addiction? Does this make my physical therapists my enablers?
My muscles don't just yearn for the stretch in the Computrainer room or beside my truck with bike leaning against it to prove that I know what I'm doing. The grocery store, Blockbuster, in front of someone whom I'm trying to interview for an article.
At least I don't do the quad stretch where people lift their leg by their foot in the least effective way possible. That's just cheesy.
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