This is The Shorts, in your listening to The Dirtbag Diaries, a duct tape

and beer production, with additional support from New Belgium Brewing, Kuat Racks, and Patagonia.

The

Burley Shouts of Enthusiasm, whoops of joy, and the sound of rushing water filled my ears.

The raft quivered in the current as I leaned over the paddle, trying desperately to keep it

from flipping over and catapulting its six other passengers overboard and into the chilly

river. Admittedly, they weren't clients. They were my fellow course attendees, and

frankly each one of those hulking guys would have relished the opportunity to go for a

swim after the relentless afternoon that we'd had. It was the first day of a raft-guide course,

the key to endless travel, adventure and exploration in the years after my upcoming graduation.

Or so I thought. I was on the final maneuver of the day. Perspiration beaded on my forehead

around the room of my helmet. I would get this raft to turn. I firmly yelled my instructions

to the rest of the team and steered. The raft spun in the white water like it was dancing

and I swirled with pride. Then I felt something inside my right shoulder shift. I ignored

it or tried to, and rearranged my face into as composed and astute as I could for the last

hour of the session. When I got home that evening, my shoulder felt like it was carrying a dead

weight rather than an arm. But I reassured myself that it was probably nothing, took a few

painkillers and headed out to a party. After all, I'd had aches and pains before. I was strong,

fit and pretty hardy and I had spent almost as much time in a kayak over the past three

years as I had out of it without any problems at all. Surely I'd wake up feeling fine.

Getting out of bed the next morning, blerry eyed and pretty fuzzy headed, it became clear

that everything was not fine. A combination of niggling ache and dull throb had lurked quite

...