But, it never gets quite bad enough to preclude a short bike ride...which has a pleasantly revivifying effect. My wife and I—both of us have the affliction now— have indulged a few times.
We rode the couple of miles to Paper or Plastik, our favorite coffeehouse, albeit one sited on a stretch of Pico Boulevard afflicted by dreary cinderblock storefronts and worn-down car-repair shops. The coffeehouse itself is whimsical and full of light, serves wonderful coffee and inventive food, and is graced by friendly owners and staff.
On the way back we stopped to admire cherry trees blooming white and liquidambars drying to sunset red on a side street we favor.
Then today we pedaled over to Larchmont for lunch with my ex, meandering along LA's eventually-to-be Fourth Street Neighborhood Greenway, which however is at present still as buckled, cracked, and potholed as some back alley in a war zone. Nevertheless, the grand houses, grander trees, and rolling lawns make it a respite from the shrieking traffic chaos that turn the bordering arterials into exercises in tedium for cyclists and motorists both.
And a couple of days ago I got on the bike in the early morning and rode nowhere at all...just wandered north along random side streets, turned west for a while, and then completed the square with pretty much no plan at all, and at a conscientiously lazy pace.
Each ride left me feeling a little better than I had before I started.
If I'm going to have a virus, I may as well serve myself a bit of pleasure to offset the misery if I can. We've been strong enough to ride a little, so we bundle up and ride. It won't cure a thing but the blues, and that's good enough for us.