Yesterday Nicky and I ride up
the Tourist Road to Olinda. I lead, but only because if she goes to the front I
won’t see her again. I tell her that pride is all that’s keeping me in front of
her. I’m working on cadence, sticking near or above 70 rpm.
My strength is fine but my
cardio fitness is down and I huff and puff when the gradient nudges five per
cent and beyond. Foolishly I suggest Ridge Road just for variety. Nicky’s never
ridden Ridge Road: the grade arcs up to double figures for 700 metres as soon
as you veer right off the Tourist Road. Wisely she says she’s not ready yet.
My health is mostly a source of
pride: it’s robust and fights germs off without much fuss. Many times I sense something
coming on but 24 hours later it’s gone. That’s what I hope for yesterday after
riding when my throat feels a little odd and clearing it frequently develops into
an irregular dry cough.
This morning in 6:15 pump class
my lower back is grabby and doesn’t respond to the gentle stretches I try to
placate it with. Still I hope that the signs mean nothing, but as the day moves
into late afternoon I know things are bad.
For a five-year spell I have
not so much as a cold. Then last year I have two, three months apart. Even then
I can console myself, pride myself, that unlike the month-long grips others suffer,
I’m all but over mine in seven days, although days three to five are tough going
when the sinuses saturate then inundate.
So I wait to see what will come
now, knowing that in 48 hours I’ll be on a plane to Adelaide to meet the
national MindMatters team I’m about to join. Nice look, the wet hanky hanging
out of a pocket, turning away from conversations to hack up a lung, gasping for
air between sentences with a bung up each nostril. Makes a fine first
impression.
“Leigh. Yes, I think he’s the
pasty-looking guy slumped over there behind that potted palm. I’d stay well
clear of him if I were you.”
Rock on.
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