The road drifts out into the headwind forever horizon with no legitimate end to the suffering. I push a moderate gear at a moderate pace but it feels as though I’m barely moving forward. It’s February in Wisconsin and I’m commuting again. I’ve spent more years of my life than I can count commuting on the bike; voluntary or involuntary it’s always the same. It’s always 20 minutes of getting dressed with layers and shoe covers and 2 hats and wind suits. It’s the shock of cold when you hit the wind for the first time. It’s the stiff legs and back, the awkward pedal strokes as if you’re riding in a sleeping bag; it’s the first 15 minutes of questioning and regret after leaving the house. It’s the snow covered salty wet roads, the confused traffic, the rusty frozen chain, the ice packed rubbing brakes, the fogging glasses. It’s headlights and snowplows and tire tracks. It’s pressing legs, and cold full breaths. It’s time standing still as you move gradually forward across endless barren sleeping farm fields. Its solitary confinement mixed with a base connection to the earth. It’s instinct, decision and accomplishment; pride, strength and tenacity. It’s simple, beautiful, daydreaming moments one after the next. It’s another February in Wisconsin on the bike.