A sign out front advertises it as the Sports Therapy Clinic. It's run by a mother, Shirley, and her daughter, Connie. Part of their training, as I understand it—one of their specialties—lies in the treatment, the massage, of horses; but if your back, or neck, or anything, is hurting badly enough, they'll work on you, too, and you can take it to the bank that if there is anyone who can repair you—can piece you back together—it's them. Their hands—strong enough to push a horse's entire hindquarter back into position—stretch and knead and twist and torque your own puny hindquarters, and often you get the feeling (read: pain) that they might be in some zone or trance where all good artists go when they do their work, and that they are working on your spine as they would that of a horse or some other creature five times your size and more oblivious to pain. These are not light touches, nor particularly pleasant experiences—these sessions on the table. Sometimes it approaches torture.
