Like many of you, I first encountered his writing when I was in high school. Since then, I’ve read, I believe, everything he wrote—what was published, anyway. I have gone through “phases” of him: He’s been my favorite writer, I’ve utterly detested him and everything in between. These days, I appreciate some of his work—including “Kilimanjaro” and “The Sun Also Rises”—and feel “meh” about other stuff, such as “Old Man and the Sea” and most of his posthumously-published writings. Somehow I think that’s a healthy attitude to have about almost any “major” or “important” writer.
(I am convinced that more people lie about having read “Moby Dick” than any other novel and bluff their way through dinner-party discussions by paraphrasing “Old Man.”)
Anyway, I mention that possibly-apocryphal comment from Hemingway because of the “four days.” That’s how long it’s been since I’ve been on one of my bicycles. I haven’t even commuted or run errands, let alone ridden for fun or fitness.
No, I haven’t crashed. (Keeps fingers crossed.) Wednesday evening, I felt unusually tired after pedaling home from work. “Maybe I’m getting old after all,” I thought.
That was one time denial about aging might have done me some good. After entering my apartment, the next thing I remember is waking up Thursday, my head pulsing with pain as I coughed. Since then, I’ve been ejecting gunk that makes me wonder whether the Environmental Protection Agency will declare my respiratory system a toxic site.
A couple of my neighbors claim that riding my bike is “all” I do. I can understand their perception: They probably haven’t seen me enter or leave the building without my bike. So, after four days without riding, will my reputation as a perpetual cyclist “slip?@
