Zipp 808s and Heartbreak

I was positive that today, Monday, November 22, would be a revelation. That I would know for sure what's been bothering my knee. That, even if it was a torn meniscus or other easily diagnosed injury, I would have a name and defined treatment path.

But after scrolling through a cross-section of my knee from every angle, the view was inconclusive. Nothing to be overly concerned about. A slight abnormality, but the radiologist wasn't worried enough (or didn't even notice it) to make a note on the report. I heard the words "chondral sclerosis" and "maybe a little bit of pre-arthritis."  But the official prognosis is still: Wait and See; Don't Run; See You in Four to Six Weeks.

This was doubly disappointing, because last week I received an invitation from Sports Bistro to join their ambassador team for next season. I've waited to even accept -- much less publicize -- my position, because I'd be a pretty crappy ambassador to the sport of triathlon as a gimp (and not even a gimp with an inspirational back-story of competing against all odds).

They say no news is good news. In this case, it's more like 24-hour MSNBC: still no real news, followed by sporadic hopeful updates that get quashed by the realities of more misinformation, then a bunch of commentators who are paid to say things that frustrate the hell out of me.

I spent Sunday following Ironman Arizona. That's looking farther and farther away, as I can only spin my wheels on the elliptical for the immediate future. I feel like I can save my money on lusty expensive bike wheels for the moment; it doesn't do any good to have a tricked-out tri bike if I can't run afterwards.

Please, somebody: when I'm at the YMCA, humming away on the rowing machine with my iPod earbuds drowning out the sound of the resistance fan, just sneak up behind me with a 35-pound barbell and put me out of my misery.