I woke up and I knew. I didn't even have to step on my foot. That mythical string, the Achilles tendon, decided that yesterday's 5k was an act of war declaration. This morning, it signed a truce. Unilaterally.

I'm looking at the scene in the living room. It looks like a crime scene or an altar of some strange cult. The crutches – old acquaintances from 2022 – have been pulled out of mothballs. There is also the white flag. Literally. Surrender? No, just a strategic retreat.

And on the pillow... it's not a head lying there. On the pillow, like a royal jewel, lies a bike cassette. Gears. The metallic god I must now pray to because the asphalt no longer accepts my sneakers. It's a message to myself: If you can't run, you'll spin.

In my hand, I hold the evidence of yesterday's foolishness. "Run Run Rudolph." Yesterday I wrote it, today I repeat it: It sounds like a children's song. But the weight of the medal in my hand reminds me of the price of yesterday's 5k.

Looking at that piece of matter, I think about them. The Tribe of Newborn Feet. You know them. Those who hibernate all year long, and then, when December smells like mulled wine and hype, they suddenly discover they have lower extremities. They pull on the most expensive leggings, buy sneakers that glow in the dark, and charge at the 5K as if running from an avalanche.

I am not part of that circus. My kilometers have growth rings. But the irony is cruel – today they walk proudly with muscle soreness, while I, the veteran, watch my ankle swell. I remember the prophecy from 2022, that "well-meaning" voice: "Keep going. We'll be watching you at the Paralympics." Back then it was a joke. Today, holding this medal with dirty fingers, it sounds like a career plan.

The outside world is closed. Doors are locking. In the corner of the room, beneath my paintings, he waits. The indoor bike. A torture device that goes nowhere. The most expensive clothes rack in history today becomes my only exit.

Shadows dance on the wall while I pedal in place. No wind in my hair, no change of landscape. Just sweat dripping onto the parquet and the sound of the flywheel counting the seconds. This is the Noise in the head turned into Silence in the legs.

If the legs are silent, the hands must scream. For a long time, the colors slept. The focus was on cadence, on pace, on heartbeats. Now, when the body is forcibly parked once again, the spirit returns to the old tool. Acrylic.

The smell of paint. A brushstroke that doesn't ask the tendon for permission. I look at my old works. Those yellow streets, those shadows of people walking (they can walk!). The painting "Be the Change" from 2014. Today it mocks me, but it also calls me. Change isn't always a choice. Sometimes change is just a force that makes you sit down and pick up a brush because it's the only way to stay sane. I return to the canvas. I return to freezing the moment.

Someone has to go out, after all. Felix. My faithful companion. While I act like a wounded lion in a cage, he takes over the patrol. His tail is the only metronome I need today. He doesn't care about my injury; he cares about scents. In his eyes, there is no judgment for my slowness. Just pure, furry presence.

And while he sleeps after the walk, I dig through the archive. Medals on the wall. Old race numbers. It's not a museum of the past. It's fuel for the next silence.

The battle is lost, but the war... the war continues by other means. By cycling. By painting. By photographing. By core exercises... The wheels are still turning. They've just changed dimension.