To say I am driving Wifey nuts with worry about me is an understatement. That is not my intention, but that has been the result.
I really thought that our vacation in January would work wonders to get me through my 2nd most hated time of the year (January thru March runs neck and neck with the November and December holiday season). The trip was an amazing experience, and I’ll never forget it, but the Great Plague of 2019 entered my lungs before our plane even touched down in Michigan and never looked back.
I’ve mostly recovered from the plague and my infected leg, however to this day I still have unexpected bursts of phlegm that exit my face like water out a whale’s blowhole, and given my girth these days, it looks about the same. Only way less cool, and way more disgusting.
Too much time in bed, too much time being a crank-puss, too much time dwelling on the fact that I’m a rudderless and careerless 47-year-old man, and too much time away from doing physical activities has me feeling the worst I have in years; both mentally and physically.
Eating better, medicine, Daddy’s Little Helper, and weekly trips to my mind bender have helped a bit, but I’ve been balls deep into this mood. But Tuesday, I finally felt some foreplay-like stirring in my mental nether regions that gave me some hope.
With a playlist of old electronic favorites, I headed to the Not So Stankment and climbed on the Hammer to Zwift™. Since the illness, I had only done one ride beyond 10 miles and suffered like a dog as I hacked lung butter all over myself. Today, however, I finally felt right on the bike, didn’t go into any coughing fits, and rode for over an hour, doing the 18.5-mile Figure 8 course.
The ocean of self loathing, slack and fat that I reside in is vast, and trying to keep my head above water these days seems like I’m pissing in said Slackfatnic Ocean, but Wednesday Tuesday felt damn good. I wish I hadn’t worried Wifey with my moods, I could manage to stay awake past 9 PM these days, and could maintain interest in anything other than making things like the fucking amazing veggie burrito1 you’ve pointlessly seen pictured here today on this cycling blog turned platform for my self-indulgent idiocy, but alas, I have not.
Spring will come, things will change, and more burritos will be eaten. Could be worse.
Later.