Summit

I’d forgotten the exhilaration. The heart pounding, the sweat pouring, the lungs breathing oh, so deeply.  The oh, so alive feeling. The crescendo, up and up and up, to that mountain peak, that climax so delicious when reached. My legs working at maximum expenditure, my arms reaching, my hands grabbing on so very tightly, holding on to that life-giving force.

No, I’m not talking about sex, though that does have its virtues. Especially with someone you love. I’m talking about exercise. It used to be my almost daily routine, more so than not. I looked forward to it. I longed for it. My stationary bike called to me, come, come, come.

And I would come. And then stay, for a long while, an hour, an hour and a half. I pushed and pushed, faster and faster, to find the limits of my endurance. I wanted to know how far I could I go, how many miles on my bike that went nowhere. It would keep track for me, if I so requested. Sometimes I didn’t want to know distance; just time and it would comply. I wanted to know how long it would take to hit my summit.

But, I never reached that climax, that peak. I found I could go on and on and on.  The only thing stopping me was will. How long I wanted to ride. It was a race against myself that I could not lose. No matter how hard I tried.

Until I stopped. I don’t even remember the exact reason. Some emotional upheaval. Some physical flare-up. Something I let beat me, suspend me, interrupt me. And that led to a very real flare, a flare we all know only too well, those of us who can claim RA as an unwanted companion. It took my hand, my right hand. Tried to claim it for its very own.

I gave in to the pain. For a little bit.

I let myself be led into a big dark hole. For a little bit.

And then, I fought back. And I will continue fighting back. Forever.

I’m back in the saddle and wondering about a little nugget I picked up during my daily reading.

What’s this about women reaching orgasm during exercise? Interesting. . .

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