It’s one thing restarting cycling, quite another the first run back. Soon after sunrise on Sunday, I work my way through our back streets for a trifling 5-km road outing. A chill grips the suburbs but I barely notice, I’m so nervous about this jog. Every hundred meters feels like a kilometer, every minor rise is a mountain. My flaccid lungs heave.
I barely make it back home. But it’s as I recall from past reboots: this is marvellous! The sense of aliveness stuns me. Why do I gloss over this sensation in regular times? I search for a non-cliché to describe that aching run and all I can come up with is: salvation!