Last I counted, he’s been doing this thing for at least a couple of weeks in a row. Brother would drop by Saturday afternoon when we’re at our lethargic-est, and announce that he’s going cycling – subtly hinting that we could come with if we so choose to.
Without fail, my first response would be to succumb to laziness, and conjure up some excuse to not ride. Yet every single time after the ride, we’d sit around the dining table, sip 100-plus and talk about how good it feels to conquer the hills and make it back – best thing we could’ve possible done for that afternoon.
You’d think that after a few such incidents, one would learn to convince oneself “you’ll feel better after the ride”. In reality, certain things require an external force to nudge one over the line, to slap on the cycling tights, to mount the bike, to finally ride out of the garage and onto the tarmac. Either that, or certain people such as yours truly suffer from a severe lack of discipline to exercise simply for the sake of it.
Before you know it, you’ve made it up one hill, down a valley, and you have no choice but to climb your way back home.