That is where I am. Improvement seems to be happening at the pace of geologic time. And although I can do slightly more than a week ago, I don't feel one wit better. This feeling of having an infinitive hangover is slowly putting me in a daze, but it is an interesting self-experiment on how persistent discomfort affects one's psyche.
So yesterday I finally moved at a pace greater than a walk, splitting four miles into a walk and jog followed by a very light weight routine. Beginning to run again is a very big deal. But today, feeling utterly crappy in a cold morning mist, I breezed through a 20 mile bike ride on my '65 Puch.
One can feel horrible laying in bed, or one can feel horrible listening to the birds along the trail....
Even with the persistent nausea, it was a good ride. My $50 Craigslist bike is ridiculously smooth with its steel lugged frame and a long rake. The ancient Huret derailleurs, absent of the slightest plastic component, behave with a solid no-fuss click every time. It is easy to become hypnotized by the silent speed of such a well-oiled machine. With mechanical work complete, I am now focusing on period embellishment and accessories, scrounging them for cheap or making them myself. There are a zillion things I can't do well, but with a bicycle, inspiration comes easy. The photo is from the driver's seat, looking down at yesterday's work: the polished handlebars and stem assembly woven with '60s style cotton tape and hemp whipping, covered in four coats of shellac. Bottle corks from local wineries plug the ends. It is such a pure organic machine, all screws, washers and loose bearings -- all stuff that needs constant attention. And then there are the subtle details - like the pattern on the aluminum handlebar stem. Making such a thing move again, on a slow spring morning, that is the magic that keeps me moving.