The cyclist is working hard against a moderate headwind. The cyclist hurts inside. Asphalt recently laid tugs at the wheels. Sweat . . . trickles. A cold sweat.

The cyclist has been riding for nearly ninety minutes in an undisciplined parapraxis of slobbering self absorption. Included in that time are stints on the Cabrillo down to Verde and up through the Purissima Valley. But the cyclist is barely aware of that.

The cyclist struggles to spin the pedals. Not necessarily for lack of motivation, but also from disappointingly unresponsive legs. The cyclist is chagrined. The newly mown hay fields smell like youth.

The cyclist squares forward in heavy ponderous strokes. Head bowed, shoulders slumped. The cyclist looks skyward for relief. A hawk on a wire. Another on the haystack. Another across the road on a pole. Another two poles down from that. Under their merciless stare the cyclist toils. The cyclist admires their dispassion.

The cyclist resolves. To remember, to value, to respect, to appreciate. To focus on form and efficiency -- to cleanse the system. Energy is expended, toxins released. The cyclist validates the effort with concentration.

The counter has been reset for at least one more day. The cyclist acknowledges fortune's favor.