Well, it’s winter and there’s not much to write about as far as the world of pretend bike racing goes. There’s plenty to do mind you, but to weave descriptions of “riding a lot” into tales of “honing the blade of my aged body against the whetstone of effort to make myself the perfect weapon, capable of consistently contesting 15th place in nearly every field sprint for the hidden inter-field battles for masters points” is asking a lot of a writer, even a writer like myself who definitely has a tenuous grasp on reality.

And speaking of reality, since I last typed at you I contracted Covid for the first time. I’ve always been late to hop on new trends, and this case is no different. (I’ve been pondering a nice tribal tattoo for my shoulder.) I’m not sure where or how I contracted the disease of the decade, but I did. I was feeling like I had the flu on the day before Thanksgiving, so I took a Covid test and I was positive. I’m vaccinated and boosted, so I wasn’t too concerned. (If you have strong feelings about whether people should be vaccinated, feel free to leave a comment below, I will then receive a notice to approve that comment and I will promptly send that comment to e-hell. Thanks for reading.) In the name of caution, I didn’t participate in any Thanksgiving activities—I felt sick and tired for about two days, and after an incredibly boring period of isolation; I could return to normal activities like remembering that tattoos are stupid. (They are, you know I’m right.)

The after-effects of my infirmary seem relatively mild, I felt a little weaker when I returned to riding and I was a little more phlegmy. (I am over 50 and prone to allergies, so phlegm and I have a long-standing relationship.) But all things considered, I seemed to avoid any catastrophic effects. But enough “old person discussing ailments”, you are certainly here to hear about my quest for bike mightiness, and I’m here to say there’s very little going on in that capacity also. I’ve got an FTP test coming up and I’ve found that, in the past few years, I’ve grown to become anxious at the prospect of FTP tests. And it’s not that I want to avoid the pain that will surely accompany such a test—after all, I am a pretend bike racer and we welcome any opportunity to flail ourselves in the pursuit of even the tiniest of perceived advantages. I’m more concerned about what the test will say about me. That I’ve lost some power. That I’m slower. That I’m getting older. I suppose I should muster a positive mental attitude about this test and get on with it. (I am growing to suspect that “positive mental attitude” is really just “delusion” with a better PR team.)

So I will take my test and then see where the numbers take me, and after that, I will make my final decision on that tribal tattoo.