There used to be a time when, occasionally, I had a strange feeling of being doomed. I could never quite put my finger on it, but it was there, nagging away at me, but never quite revealing itself. I would wrack my brains trying to find out what it was that was making me feel depressed and feeling like people tend to feel when they've had a great weekend and realise they've got to go back to work where there's loads to do, but I couldn't. It was hard, feeling downbeat and not really being able to say it was for this reason or that, sometimes it was just the notion that we're all mortal beings, the human condition basically, we're all going to die one way or another, and as a result everything seemed so pointless, we never really own anything, even our houses, everything is transient, here today, gone tomorrow and yes, it was (and always will be) depressing. But everybody feels this way at some time in their lives, possibly on a regular basis, I know I do. Not all the time. Most days I'm pretty upbeat about things, but not right now.
This time, of course, I know what's nagging at me. It's the same thing nagging at everybody. The coronavirus, lock down, uncertainty, curtailed freedoms, lovely weather but something wrong with the world: ignore that sunshine, ignore the blossoms on the trees (once a sign of hope as we pull out of winter and head for summer). Not any more. Everything is tinged with a sense of foreboding. It's all a little unreal, but at the same time real. It's as if the old days of fun and laughter have passed and now we have little to look forward to. I used to feel this way about Brexit and the Tories and Boris Johnson, but that was slightly different, all that leaving the EU, Donald Trump and what have you, almost a comedy, but the Coronavirus is a horror movie because it's Russian roulette. Yes, 80% only suffer mild symptoms, but who's to say I'm in the 80%? I might be one of the unlucky few who succumb to the disease and end up in the ExCeL Centre, better make that the Nightingale Hospital, but it'll always be an exhibition centre to me. In fact, with all the exhibitions I've been to, there would be a tragic irony to find myself there dying and wondering what exhibition stands had previously occupied my death space.
But I live in hope, of sorts. I've always believed in my own immortality, foolishly, perhaps. I like to think that by stocking up on zinc and selenium and cod liver oil, not to mention grapes and blueberries, porridge and everything else I stuff down my throat, I'll somehow survive whatever life throws at me.
Everything has been turned upside down and that includes the cycling. Andy and I are riding alone these days. No more tea at the bus stop, no more laughing about this and that, no more moaning about the European Union or the media or anything. We ride alone and that's a whole new dynamic. Nobody to share tea with, nobody to ride with, nobody to share the pain of the hills.
Today, much later than normal, I headed out for Botley Hill. It was a beautiful day and, probably because there have been no planes in the sky and virtually no cars on the road, the air was fresh, the hedgerows fragrant and the skies blue. In short, it was truly the most wonderful day and as I rode out of Warlingham and into the sticks I felt good. It was almost as if there was nothing to worry about, no virus, nothing, and it made me realise the freedom offered by the bicycle. I was cycling alone so I wasn't breaking any rules, despite what Chris Boardman was telling everybody on Twitter, something about staying local. Well, I suppose Botley Hill is local, it's a 14-mile round trip and it only takes around 27 minutes to get from The Ridge to my front door, which ain't bad. There were other riders on the road, mainly Lycra monkeys, but only groups of two and they were, of course, social distancing themselves from one another. But it could have been a normal day, a normal time without the virus and that's what I loved most about it. The bike offered me the freedom to be out and about and outside of the confines of the house. Not that being at home has been bad. As I've said before, the key is having a routine and now that I'm cycling daily, after work is done, I have a routine. That and watching the X Files, listening to music.
But I digress, let's get back to the ride. The daffodils were out, the sun was shining, the roads were relatively empty and as I headed back down the 269 a weight had been lifted off my shoulders: the weight of the coronavirus. The bike, I realised, was my ticket to ride, to break away and take in the fresh air. I was on cloud nine, so much so that I Facetimed Andy when I reached The Ridge. We chatted for a while and then said goodbye. Both of us are looking forward to normality, but when it's coming back is anybody's guess.
This time, of course, I know what's nagging at me. It's the same thing nagging at everybody. The coronavirus, lock down, uncertainty, curtailed freedoms, lovely weather but something wrong with the world: ignore that sunshine, ignore the blossoms on the trees (once a sign of hope as we pull out of winter and head for summer). Not any more. Everything is tinged with a sense of foreboding. It's all a little unreal, but at the same time real. It's as if the old days of fun and laughter have passed and now we have little to look forward to. I used to feel this way about Brexit and the Tories and Boris Johnson, but that was slightly different, all that leaving the EU, Donald Trump and what have you, almost a comedy, but the Coronavirus is a horror movie because it's Russian roulette. Yes, 80% only suffer mild symptoms, but who's to say I'm in the 80%? I might be one of the unlucky few who succumb to the disease and end up in the ExCeL Centre, better make that the Nightingale Hospital, but it'll always be an exhibition centre to me. In fact, with all the exhibitions I've been to, there would be a tragic irony to find myself there dying and wondering what exhibition stands had previously occupied my death space.
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| Today, Saturday 4th April 2020 and I escape the misery of coronavirus... |
Everything has been turned upside down and that includes the cycling. Andy and I are riding alone these days. No more tea at the bus stop, no more laughing about this and that, no more moaning about the European Union or the media or anything. We ride alone and that's a whole new dynamic. Nobody to share tea with, nobody to ride with, nobody to share the pain of the hills.
Today, much later than normal, I headed out for Botley Hill. It was a beautiful day and, probably because there have been no planes in the sky and virtually no cars on the road, the air was fresh, the hedgerows fragrant and the skies blue. In short, it was truly the most wonderful day and as I rode out of Warlingham and into the sticks I felt good. It was almost as if there was nothing to worry about, no virus, nothing, and it made me realise the freedom offered by the bicycle. I was cycling alone so I wasn't breaking any rules, despite what Chris Boardman was telling everybody on Twitter, something about staying local. Well, I suppose Botley Hill is local, it's a 14-mile round trip and it only takes around 27 minutes to get from The Ridge to my front door, which ain't bad. There were other riders on the road, mainly Lycra monkeys, but only groups of two and they were, of course, social distancing themselves from one another. But it could have been a normal day, a normal time without the virus and that's what I loved most about it. The bike offered me the freedom to be out and about and outside of the confines of the house. Not that being at home has been bad. As I've said before, the key is having a routine and now that I'm cycling daily, after work is done, I have a routine. That and watching the X Files, listening to music.
But I digress, let's get back to the ride. The daffodils were out, the sun was shining, the roads were relatively empty and as I headed back down the 269 a weight had been lifted off my shoulders: the weight of the coronavirus. The bike, I realised, was my ticket to ride, to break away and take in the fresh air. I was on cloud nine, so much so that I Facetimed Andy when I reached The Ridge. We chatted for a while and then said goodbye. Both of us are looking forward to normality, but when it's coming back is anybody's guess.
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