Caring is Crepitus

Of all the sensations one is likely to have in one's Achilles tendons, crepitus is certainly among the strangest. Oddly, Dictionary.com defines crepitus as "[t]he noise produced by a sudden discharge of wind from the bowels." Synonyms would be: "fart," "boost," "break wind," "pass gas," and, apparently, "flatus." Wikipedia and Baudelaire tend to lend some credibility to this definition in speaking of the hotly (ew?) debated ancient Roman god of flatulence, who was also allegedly named Crepitus. Fortunately for my Achilles, this is not the definition of "crepitus" I have in mind, although "Flatulent Achilles" is a rare but very real and severely disconcerting disorder completely unrelated to tendonitis.

No, in the context of sports medicine, "crepitus" does not mean "to break wind." What it does do, however, is connote the sensation of a cracking, creaking, or grating sensation under the skin generally associated with certain injuries and inflammations. In my dealings with Achilles tendonitis I have lately been unlucky enough to grow intimately acquainted with crepitus, and have found it to be a strange fellow. Crepitus usually saunters over after I've finished a long ride, acts all crazy and freaks me out a little bit, and doesn't take off until it I fall asleep. It doesn't respond well to my efforts at preventing its arrival, is slow to take a hint that it may have overstayed its welcome, and just generally sucks. Crepitus's habits suggest that it likes to hang around with me one hell of a lot more than I like to hang around with it. Basically, what I'm trying to say is that crepitus is the Steve Urkel of the sports injury world, and I am its Carl Winslow.


Since I've been in the middle of a pretty intense block of training for the last few weeks, Crepitus has been finding more and more opportunities to drop by and harass me, and of course, to blatantly hit on my girlfriend, who's name just so happens to be Laura. Coincidence? I think not. Next week I'll start to taper down for my first peak of the season, and hopefully that will help keep this four-eyed nerd of a symptom out of my home. Pray for me...

In other news, today was 55 degrees in Boston. I know I said the other day was warm, but I was full of crap. Today was warm. And of course, with the warmth comes the melting snow, and with the melting snow comes the crust. In order to illustrate the crustaciousness of this crust, I've taken the liberty of adding a few photographs.

First:


That's my bike, covered in crust. It doesn't look like that anymore though, thanks to a very versatile shower head.

I think the next one may need some introduction before I post it, so I'll try to do the majesty of this photograph justice with my words. As I mentioned earlier, it was warm today and I was feeling daring, so I headed out of my house into the wild blue yonder in bibs and knee warmers, rather than wearing full-length tights. While this made the ride much more enjoyable, when I arrived back home and removed my socks and said knee warmers, my legs revealed this crazy formation:


Yes, that is crust. My legs were striped with crust, just like everyone who's ever raced Paris-Roubaix or dipped themselves in tempura batter (it happens more often than you'd think). After doing a little research and consulting Miss Cleo, I discovered that the pattern of crust on my shins actually formed the figure of the "skillet," a sign favored by, you guessed it, the ancient Roman god of flatulence - Crepitus. This is generally considered to be a positive formation by Miss Cleo and her followers and, aware that Crepitus was most certainly trying to send me a message through my leg crust, I took it to be a strongly favorable omen for the collegiate season to come.

T-minus 24 days and counting until Rutgers!