Funny half hour

Forty odd years ago my Dad would let out a holler from downstairs at us to quiet down, to go asleep, that it wasn't 'funny half-hour!!'. So we'd quit our sniggering and stop hitting each other with pillows or insults and nod off. As I cycled around town today I couldn't get the phrase 'funny half-hour' outta my head. It wasn't nostalgia. It was relief. I'd spent a week in a nether-world between sleeping on a sofa or walking like a zombie. Energy-depleted. Sore. Listless. Antibiotics and coffee the staple-diet. I'd gone from riding a time-trial on a Saturday to beaten old man by Sunday. Fun times. I knew I was going to get sick, what with viruses and doses having turned my house into a small hospital in the previous weeks. The virus I got had been in the post, so to speak.

And today I cycled for half an hour. Half an hour steady. To put that in perspective, I normally do full-on intervals on Monday, dragging my ass up a hill ad infinitum or sprinting like a deranged greyhound after a non-existent hare. But today was a litmus test. Ride a bike. For thirty minutes. Just cycle. And I did. I watched my heart-rate climb, felt my legs spinning in the cold air. And I laughed and smiled and laughed some more. Funny half hour was thirty minutes of beaming like the village-idiot, laughing at the air filling my lungs and feeling alive. I had thought my legs would go, my heart palpitate like a caffeinated octogenarian, dizziness would overcome me like a wobble to jelly or I'd just fall over like a fool.{I have form lately in that department!}.

Nothing happened. I survived. My lungs are good. I'm still smiling. There's been days in the past when time was too tight and I'd not cycle, thinking it wasn't worth the hassle. Never again. I'm sure half the people that saw me lapping the town like an idiot, grinning at my luck, probably think I should be sectioned. They could be right. But I'll keep on smiling, just to keep them guessing.