The Finch Formerly Known As Gold

25 May 2006

Pushin' too hard

One of the axioms of Life As I Know It, or at least as I've known it for the last couple of years, is that it takes 40 minutes to mow the back yard. Start along the west fence, start where one of the sweetgums used to be, start anywhere you like, and forty minutes later it's over. (The front yard, half as large, takes 20 to 25 minutes; the terrain, however, is far more treacherous.)

Yesterday afternoon, tackling this chore before dinner, I wound up stopping about halfway through, fearing I was going to overheat. (It was 92 degrees; humidity was maybe 40 percent, which is good for about two degrees extra on the heat index.) I grabbed a folding chair out of the garage, sat out on the patio for three or four minutes until I could feel my pulse returning to some semblance of normal, then got up and went back to work.

Elapsed time, including the break: 36 minutes.

I don't feel like I'm going any faster, and certainly the mower isn't going any faster. (It's nominally self-propelled, but inasmuch as the Nanny State demands that to engage said propulsion I have to work a lever with my left hand while I'm holding onto something else with my right lest the engine die, most of the time it isn't worth the bother, and besides it's front-wheel drive, which strikes me as an even goofier idea on a mower than it is on a car.) But the numbers don't lie.

The most reasonable assumption here is that today, a year and a half after knee surgery, I'm no longer making allowances for my putatively-reduced mobility. This might be a good thing, or it might be asking for trouble.

Posted at 7:08 AM to General Disinterest