Hard, very hard. Legs will hardly move. I try to keep going, but worry that The Very Bad Cold was, in fact, some nasty virus that has atrophied my leg-muscles and I hadn't realised it until now. I slow down. I pause. My head droops until it is resting on the handlebars. Maybe I'm just too old. Then it occurs to me. Maybe it's the bike. I swap over - and yes, on a low gear I'm at the head of the Tour de France, yellow vest, and there is a crowd of people cheering me on as I whoop down the Pyrenees. Slow, fast, up, down, music in my ears...life is wonderful.
At the end of that I feel so great I wonder what stopped me going before. I vow I'm going to go back every day. Then I return home, make a cup of coffee, decide I've earned a chocolate biscuit, and go into a sort of reverie in front of the computer.
And now it's past noon. How did that happen?