Oh, the thrill of anticipation. Next year I’d cycle my heart out each and every day. Seven days a week, 180 kms a week, aiming for 8,000 kms over the year. I’d become a proper cyclist, a slick combination of human plus machine.
It’s not to be. I intended to retain some jogging capability, say twice a week, and I couldn’t bear zapping what little gains I’d made at the gym, so add two sessions a week there. All up, my 2017 week would contain 13 hours of vigorous exercise, 6 hours more than this year. A week or so ago, desperate to finish writing a chapter, I had a mild angst attack and the thought cropped up: if I’m panicking now, what will it be like next year? My 2017 Writing Big Year must – repeat, must and must – be top priority. I suddenly comprehended that the dream of a full-on cycling year was just that, a dream.
And my Plan B is?