It's 9:24 p.m. Friday night. I'm three beers in and on to orange juice and Gatorade. Ran into a client that I put out of harm's way this evening. He bought me a beer for my troubles. No trouble at all, that's my job.
Told me he's a runner. I told him I used to run. He asked a bit more, I gave him a bit more. He was impressed. Funny, I don't find myself impressive. He wanted to run with me. I set up a run. Work intervened, he can't make it. I'm running anyway. Legs are faded. Focus now on cycling. Two sports are completely unrelated. Whatever. I'm booked for a Sunday morning of pain.
Cycling is a bringing me joy. Reminding me of what I used to be and I used to be a crazy mofo, playing in traffic, running lights, attacking cars. Been back on the bike for about two months. Legs starting to come back, but nowhere like they used to be, but starting to feel the flow.
Excited. Go to bed, wanting to get up and ride. Boston killed me. No desire to run. Associate with pain. Feel like a dog that was whipped. Cycling makes me feel alive. Feels like running three years ago, before running became a job.
Riding tomorrow. Excited. Hope it lasts.