There's a bike that's been hanging from a hook in the shed since roughly 2014, and with the gym shut and the days long and the world generally rearranged, I finally took it down. The tyres were flat, the chain had a fine coat of orange, and the saddle had clearly been adjusted by someone with more confidence in his hamstrings than I currently possess.
An evening with a track pump, some chain oil and a rag got it roadworthy. The bike forgave six years of neglect almost instantly. I have not been so lucky. The first proper ride was a flat loop I'd have called gentle in my twenties, and I came back genuinely out of breath, slightly smug, and aware of muscles I'd filed under "decorative".
What I'd forgotten is how good cycling is for the bit of your brain that won't switch off. You can't doom-scroll on a bike. You can't half-watch it. You're just present: the road, the wind, the slightly alarming roundabout near the garden centre. An hour out and the knot in my shoulders that I've apparently been carrying since March had loosened without my noticing. The bike's going back on the hook tonight, but it won't be there six years this time. Possibly not even six days.