This is not about my bicycle

Over two years have gone past since my diagnosis of long covid. Nearly four years have gone past since the infection I have never recovered from. Sometimes, I think an eternity has stretched. I struggle, now, to understand the life I had, the hikes I took, the bicycle trips I pootled on, the fields I slept in. I do not recognise this version of myself who could simply get up and go. Imagine being someone who could make a cup of tea on a whim? I miss me, sometimes. Who am I kidding? I miss my bicycle and the version of me who thrived on it so much all the time. The pain is not as raw but I am not sure if it has lessened. A month or so ago, I talked with a friend with bicycle tools I do not own about the idea of dismantling my bike, of hanging it on a wall in the house. My partner is not keen. I am not keen. I am less keen on the bike lingering in the shed, alone, unpedalled and uncared for. This is not about my bicycle, not really. It is about the grief that never ends. I grieve and I…