Rooted

I put in a long day of reasonably hard physical labour on the weekend. On Monday morning, I was utterly rooted. I hopped on the bike, and could hardly move. I wasn't particularly stiff or sore - the legs simply had nothing to give. There was nothing in the tank. I had a problem with a clogged fuel filter in the car last year - you'd put your foot to the floor and nothing would happen - the fuel pump simply couldn't deliver more than a trickle of fuel to the engine. That's how it felt.

What pleased me no end was that I did the work with a bloke who was about a decade younger than me. He didn't even show at work on Monday - he was too knackered to leave the house, and he takes the train to the office!

Strange thing is that come Monday afternoon, the legs were on fire. I blasted home in record time. It was as if the morning lethargy had never existed. It was the same again today going to and from work - I've been riding like it might be my last ride ever, not worrying about crawling out of bed tomorrow and climbing into the saddle at oh-dark-hundred.

The body certainly works in mysterious ways.

Now that it's warming up again, I'm striking a terrible problem in the way home - barbeques. I'll be charging up a long, slight hill and I'll get a big whiff of steak and chops wafting over someone's fence. It's a terrible thing to smell when you're hungry and riding hard - the urge to stop, jump the fence and make off with a chop or two is irresistible. I've been getting home feeling utterly ravenous thanks to those barbecuing bastards on my route home.