No Better Way To Spend a Cold Saturday Morning
Posted: Saturday, November 20, 2010
by George Stay
All my willpower is summoned to pry my body from the warm, seductive embrace of the blankets. The sheets entangle one foot in a last desperate attempt to keep me in its company. But I resist and stand, looking over at the bedside alarm clock. It is 8:30 a.m. on a Saturday -- normally the one day of the week when I can truly catch up on lost sleep -- but I can tell through the shades that the sun is shining and there is something I must do.
Though the door of the garage has been open all night, it feels much warmer inside than just 35 degrees. I walk across the garage floor to the opposite wall. Picking up the pump, I connect it first to the back tire and then the front, adding enough air to each. This is a pre-ride ritual I never break. Proper tire pressure I keep mine at about 110 psi can mean the difference between finishing a ride or calling for a ride. Nonetheless, I have my cellphone with me, in case something does go wrong. After lifting my bike off the wall hangar, I plug the phone's earbuds into my ears, reset the bike's computer to zero and pull on my helmet. Before setting out, I make sure the computer is feeding me only elapsed time. I don't care what my average speed or actual distance is today. I just want to ride for a couple of hours.
The cleats of my shoes click loudly as I step onto the pedals and coast to the end of the driveway. I turn right and begin my journey.
The cold hits me immediately. Little sharp needles pricking the fronts of my legs, my arms and my face as I head west. That pain will pass as my body warms and becomes immune to the cold. Is the wind coming out of the west? My speed indicates a tailwind since I am going much faster than normal for so early in a ride. I can't be sure, but I will know very shortly.
Where I will ride today, as in most days, is determined by the wind. But I nearly always begin each ride heading west for two good reasons: the wind usually comes out of the west here and the truest way to learn which way the wind is blowing is to ride past the golf course to the west of my house. Today, though, the first quarter mile offers no hints. I gather speed easily until I clear the houses and reach the edge of the golf course. The wind blast me sideways, hitting so hard I can't keep the bike from sliding left. The wind is out of the north. A little bit west too, but mostly just north.
At the first road, I turn north, into the wind. Experience has taught me it is best to face the wind during the first half of a ride, when your body is still warming up and your energy levels are highest, and have the wind at your back when you are more tired. After a mile north, however, I turn east, getting a small lift from the breeze. If I am going to head north first, I want to ride a particular route so the eastern turn is necessary. After two miles, though, it is back north again, into the wind. Then up a small rise this route does not have many hills. My quads hurt by the time I reach the top. I really must sign up for some spinning classes. The indoor trainer simply cannot simulate hills, but it's all I have now that it is dark when I rise and dark when I get home. Riding outside each weekend can't keep me in climbing shape. Spinning classes can be torture, but they get you ready to ride the hills.
A song comes, unbidden, to my mind. This happens on nearly every ride. Sometimes the tunes are annoying, aggravating. But nothing I do or think will boot it out of my consciousness. Not today. Today's song is "All I Have" by Mat Kearney. It is perfect: "All I have, al I have well you know its yours. Every breath, very step, every moment I'm looking for . "
I crest the rise, slide down the other side and make another right turn, to the east, for two more miles. Then it is north again, into the wind. I shake my hands violently -- one, then the other to get the blood circulating. My hands get tingly from time to time while riding because they sit for long periods on the hoods of my brakes, ready to act if needed. In the cold, I can't tell if they are numb or not, so I shake them periodically because I know I may need them to brake suddenly or to change gears, though I doubt I'll need to do the latter. Today's rides offer no rises challenging enough to change gears.
The roads are quiet this morning, even more quiet than usual. I pass more walkers than cars a woman purposely striding down the mile in front of my house, a man walking his small dog my direction, a solitary woman walking past open fields. In the coming miles I startle a couple walking away from me and encounter a young woman dressed in a camouflage jacket while carrying a pink purse. A cellphone was hidden by her long blonde hair. She was so engrossed in her conversation she didn't pay heed to the crazy old man on the bicycle riding right at her.
I turn north for the final two miles against the wind, onto a road that usually has considerably more traffic. Traffic would be welcome now because a car passing close to me will offer me clean air to ride in, let me pedal a little more freely. Unfortunately, the opposite also is true. A big truck speeding by in the opposite direction will blast me with a wave of wind that could stop me cold. Neither happens. Only a few cars pass me in either direction on this cold morning, none going fast enough to help or hurt this lone rider.
Kearney returns: "Is it cold yet in New York City? Round here the trees have been blowing off bare. Everyone's talking about change on the airwaves. But I still got you on my breath"
I head westward more then finally and gratefully turn south.
When you ride a bike, the wind is with you always. Only on a day with dense fog can I be certain there will not be some wind to face. But the wind has many personalities. It is a boxer, punching you in the gut and chest, knocking you back, pushing you away, making you stumble. It is a relentless foe that you can never hope to defeat, only survive. Turn, however, and it becomes a bratty friend, trying to push you into the ditch. On yet another turn it is temptation, trying to nudge you from the safety of the fogline. "C'mon over here. The pavement's much smoother here in the middle of the lane. I promise no one is going to hit you. Honest. Just let the bike come over here. C'mon.."
But then the wind is your father, his hand on your back, pushing you along the driveway as you learn to balance on two wheels. Or a friend who gives you a nice shove so you can have even more speed heading down a hill, your feet and legs pedaling as fast as they can.
You don't feel the wind when it is with you, but you can hear the difference. Where that northern wind actually made riding more dangerous I can't hear approaching traffic until it is right on top of me because of the wind blasting past my ears it allows me to hear everything clearly when it is at my back. And if I can get the bike going the same speed and exactly the same direction as the wind, I will enter a moment of nearly pure silence, like being in the center of a storm.
Even in the silence, there's still that song in my head: "Don't you come around here, come around here anymore. Dragging my fears, dragging my fears out the door."
The trip south is down a well-traveled road, with the traffic. My ears pick up the sound of a vehicle coming up behind me while my eyes see one coming in the opposite lane. My brain calculates what I dread: they will both reach me at the same moment. The driver behind me should slow and let the other car pass before passing me, but I know he won't (I assume it's a "he" because only a man would be so reckless). I brace for the potential accident as a minivan passes within inches of me and forces the northbound driver to the shoulder. All to save a few seconds. I flip the driver off because there is nothing else I can do.
So why do I do this? Why bother to ride in the cold on roads where the drivers offer only danger? Because riding is as important as breathing to me. Because when you love something, you squeeze every possible moment, every potential out of it. You don't leave any regrets behind. You give it and yourself every chance. So I will ride every weekend until the roads are too icy and snowy and the temperatures too cold. And then I will long for spring and the chance to be outside once again.
I glance at the computer. There's still a lot of time left. So I skip my turn toward home and tack on a couple more southern miles before turning east once more. That means I'll have to face two more northern miles before I reach home.
They will be cold miles. Heading east I can feel that the wind is picking up. Flags are really crackling on their poles and the gusts are pushing me toward the ditch. The wind also is taking my sweat and chilling it, and me. It will leave salt crystals on cheekbones. As I ride up the final rise before I turn north, a big farm truck rolls past, rather close. It gives me clean air for the ride to the top. Then it's down for a mile and then north.
The wind hurts as it hits my skin and slows my pace. Near the end, though, I finally change gears, dropping to the smallest cog on the rear wheel just as I turn west for the half-mile sprint home. It is not a violent acceleration but a gradual gathering of speed until, lungs and legs burning and heart pounding, I pass my driveway. I coast another quarter mile to a stop, turn and pedal back to my mailbox. I grab it and the newspaper. Hmm, in the mail is a catalog for World Cycling Productions. That will give me something to wish for this Christmas.
I fold the mail and newspaper up and shove the assemblage into my rear pocket. As I click back into my pedals and push up my driveway, I wonder how I will describe this ride to the woman I love. Cold and breezy? Yes, that would be true but inconclusive. Testing and tiring? Also true but not descriptive enough. Invigorating and life-affirming? Yes and yes. But it also was something more. It was fun. Yes, fun. Fun, someone once said, isn't always fun.
I pull into the garage, click out of my pedals and hang the bike back up on the wall.
As I take off my helmet and gloves and pull the skullcap off my head, I glance back down the driveway to the road. God willing, I'll be back next week.
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Top-level comments on this article: (9 total)This has brought back so many memories of my cycling days - I was always terrified of truck drivers, who seemed to take pleasure in driving very close to us at speed and honking those horns just as they overtook us. I understand why you love riding, though.I do not fear traffic, though I am fortunate enough that I don't have to see a lot of it. I live in an area of pretty quiet, paved roads. But I, too, have suffered at the hands of those who like to have fun, with their horns, at my expense. I usually let them know, with a single finger, what I think of them.
I had moments while reading, where I felt of being on the bike together with you. Beautifully described and thank you for sharing.Thanks, Walter. I was hoping to convey that to anyone who would read this. Riding in late fall like this is a little different than, say, a typical weekend ride in the summer where the wind is less violent and I can get in more mileage.
Great Article Sir! It was very lively...great description...Thanks, Chiradeep. Coming from a great writer like you, I consider that to be high praise. High praise, indeed.
I enjoyed this article. It sounds like a beautiful way to wake up! It's wonderful you've found your passion! Does your wife understand it? Does she bike as well?Not everyone understands my feelings about cycling, any more than people understood my need to run. I guess it is something I have inside of me. And I prefer to ride alone most of the time, though I have done some group rides and I ride from time to time with my son and his wife, when they visit. The solitude of a solo ride, however, appeals to me for some reason. Thanks for comment, Brianna.
Hi George.
I LOVED all of this. What a great description of the ride and what riding is all about for you. Brilliant.
I went out in 30 degrees yesterday to ride "my" horse. It was so cold it was hard to hang onto the curry brush! But I had to do a good job because it had rained and he had laid down in the mud. Stripping the sweat pants from over my riding breeches was a real shock. At least I had a warm horse beneath me. :) But hey, you can't let the weather keep you from what you love!
Thanks for the treat.
Hugs,
DianneDianne, thanks so very much. You understand, from personal experience, what it means to ride in the cold. It is a unique experience that requires a different mindset and preparation from a normal ride. But I would not miss any chance to ride.
you write well and compellingly.That song that intrudes in your head is a spirit's message, by the very words; you are more psychic than you realize.....Paul, I think you are spot on about the song. It is a spirit's message, and it is telling me something I need to remember and say. Thanks for your comment.
George, you definitely know how to tell a story. Thanks for sharing this part of your life with us.
Invigorating- to say the least- Wheww- I don't know about you, but I was so glad to get back to the house!-LOL Good story- shows personal courage and integrity- Thanks- Always- Ella
I've got a feeling you'll be back for many weeks to come. Very interesting article George, and I hope you continue with both for a very long time.David, in fact I got in 41 miles today. It was a little cool and breezy, but the road beckoned and I could not deny its call.
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