Five Steps Back.

I thought I had turned a corner the last time I had gotten on the trainer. I had gotten three or four hours of continuous sleep before the hacking and gagging began again. My whisper of a voice had improved to a raspy croak.
 
The trainer told me I was still recovering, but I was happy to be doing anything related to a bike.
 
That night I paid for it. The plague hit me full-force, and I felt like I had been pummeled with baseball bats by the time dawn rolled around.
 
I went to the doctor, and he gave me a whole new set of pills and nasty concoctions that managed to let me sleep a few hours at a stretch.
 
What did I do? I got back on the trainer.
 
Thirty minutes and three pukes later, I admitted my folly. This ain't letting go of me anytime soon. My fitness is likely wasted, but I won't know the extent until I can turn over the pedals without vomiting. Every last bit of energy I have is dedicated to fighting this bug, and I think we're losing the war bigly.
 
I guess it's just as well I don't have any grand goals or plans for this year. With the Tour of Fairbanks cancelled due to fuckitude, I'll just settle whatever I get in the odd race here or there. Maybe I'll ride a stupid amount of miles for no real reason. Maybe I'll play on the gravel a bit. Lots of maybes when life kicks you in the lady parts like this.
 
First I just have to get healthy again.

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