Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Bicycle Times Article

Morning commute.

It’s dark when the alarm goes off, dark and cold. The air wraps my chest when I pull the covers; the hardwood floors sting my feet. I stumble into the front room to get dressed for my morning commute. It’s an hour on the bike, an hour on the bike at 4 in the morning, an hour on the bike at 4 in the morning in January, in the Midwest, in a below zero blizzard.

It takes 15 minutes to put everything on: base layer, thermal layer, wool sweater, wind suit, wool socks, toe covers, booties, balaclava, hat, gloves, mittens, glasses, scarf, backpack.

My pedals bang the door on the way out; the freezing air fills my lungs for the first time, my glasses fog instantly. I switch on my headlights, kick the snow off my cleats, clip in and roll down the driveway. I gradually gain momentum, my glasses clean, my eyes water, I see my breath in the headlights, I push the pedals, I move into the dark and I smile because I’m the only person alive.

The snow is 6 inches deep, I relax arms and let the front tire find it’s own way; I lean into the pedals, into the saddle, into instinct. I’ve beaten the plow again which makes the tree canopied country road mine. I make squeaking compressed first tracks directly down the middle of the road so the plow driver can see it when he comes through.

I hear deer running next to me in the darkness, I hear my breath, I hear the snow scrape my fenders, I hear my tires meander, I hear the darkness. I turn over the pedals and I move forward and I move forward and I creep slowly through my headlight tunnel and I dream about the reasons and I consider the options and I smile, and I smile, and everything slows to the pace of heavy lazy snowflakes sparkling in my cold air headlights, and the world is a beautiful place.