Where It's At.

I've commented on this extensively through other internet media, so might as well also do so here: I'm sick. I woke up on Sunday morning to find my lymph glands attempting to escape out of my neck (this would have normally put a dampener on any romantic St. Valentine's day plans, but Casey had already woken up, figured there weren't any extravagant gestures on the cards, and gone out to Camberwell Market). I've been pretty much just sleeping ever since - a visit to the doctor gave me til Thursday off, and I intend not to be at work til then.

I also haven't been on the bike since Saturday morning, so I probably shouldn't have gone to the track tonight. But it was the first round of club champs, and there was a kilo to do. Four laps. I could manage four laps. It wouldn't be great, but at least I'd get some points on the board. And surely four laps wouldn't do too much damage.

But it did. After three days in bed, four laps was a very, very long way. At one and a half to go I wanted to get off my bike, walk home and crawl up into the doona, emerging only to watch the ice hockey at the Winter Olympics and occasionally urinate. After I was done I could barely stand. These four laps hurt more than any other four laps I've ever done before in my entire life.

I mean, I still knocked two seconds off my PB.