This Tuesday I grudgingly hoisted my large and cumbersome self out of bed, threw together an outfit and was out the door on my bike faster than you can say lickety split. Having stayed up late in a long weekend rebellion and fingered snooze alarm clumsily twice on my brand new and glossy touch-screen phone, I was in a two-fold terrible state and running late as well.
It was quite a cold morning, and as I wheeled down the criminally uneven surface of Meredith street I wondered what possible reason I could have for riding my bicycle to work. Surely this was some kind of punishment devised by the gods themselves for my crimes untold.
Alas it was a part of my then-new fitness regime. Having cycled to and from work a few times the week before, I’d decided that it was time to get back into the mix of cars and trucks and Kingsford Smith Drive, and cycle-commute myself to work.
The trip was surprisingly easy; the wind was favourable and the final stretch along one of the worst roads I’ve ever ridden was swift and pleasurable. There were only two vehicles that cut me off throughout the entire trip, and by the time I got to work I was positively glowing.
In the showers I discovered I’d lost my asthma puffer, and consequently wheezed throughout the morning.
The week continued in the usual fashion. Work; commute; sleep; commute; repeat, as if wishing my life away were as easy as that. Come Friday I had ticked a similar number of sweet nothings off my long and listless manifest of life missions as the futile week before. Continuing the trend of health kicks past, I drove home and had corn chips for dinner.
Next week I begin anew, a fresh slate for an arbitrary period. This time my resolutions will stick.
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