I've been sleeping on the couch for nearly a week, and I'm not even in trouble with my wife. Actually, it's probably more accurate to say I've been sleeping (sort of) in a chair. That's what a desperate person does when a head cold hits, and sinus drainage makes horizontal rest impossible.
A head cold really isn't anything to whine about, but when it knocks you flat during the first week of irresistibly sexy spring weather, it just seems like an injustice. Seriously, the past few days of warm days and clear, sunny skies have been the meteorological equivalent of Miss April and Miss May combined, and all I've been doing is occasionally limping to work on the commuter bike and then spending my evenings staring out the living-room window and answering text messages with, "No, I'm still too sick to ride."
Even on a perfect Saturday, I was tempted to bag it and just lay low, but my mind needed something I wasn't sure my body could deliver—and that's not something a guy usually likes to say. I hit the road hoping to knock off 20 miles nice and easy, and Huber mercifully let me set the pace as I coughed up crud. A couple of hours later we closed the loop with 33 miles behind us, and I spent the evening feeling better than I had in 10 days.
People always say laughter is the best medicine. That's for civilians. The rest of us know what the best medicine really is.
(OK, we all know that sometimes it's Vicodin, but work with me on this. I'm tryin' to make a point.)