Flu.
At least that’s what I thought it was. Everyone I speak to has had it or knows someone who has. Most people are coughing and it appears that every single person in our village has been affected by this so-called ‘winter viru’ or ‘flu’ or Covid-20 as some are saying.
3 weeks. That’s how long I’ve been knocked out. Christmas was a blur, and I was merely there to smile for the family pictures then slumped off again on top of pillows bellowing my lungs out. The tickle cough seems to never end. It’s the type of cough that comes and goes, dry and keeps you awake at night half expecting to tumble over and run to the toilet for a fine midnight vomiting session.
Painful. This is probably an understatement.

First time being seriously ill in over a year, and I’m still swaying away in the aftermath. The first day back I was so out of shape that my usual 3 mile spinna took 25 minutes instead of a casual 12. The hills looked massive. Ice didn’t help, and I’ve been walking on most of the lanes that I normally whizz past at 23mph.
Snow.
Snow slowed me down to a stroll after what was probably the worst snowfall season I’ve experienced in Derrbyshire. Roads were closed, slippery and down right dangerous. Our village became a zombie zone with everyone tucked in looking through windows. The few days I tried to ride out resulted in me either walking most of the way, or fallin’ sideways and fraying my well loved faux leather handlebar tape. The weeks gone by have been truly unforgiving, but the sun has slowly started shining and crow calls in the morning are slowly morphing into a tune that I like.
Slowly, and surely sparrows are singing at dawn as spring awaits.

This has been a long time coming, but winter is quietly melting away.
I pray for warm, better days to come.
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