Yeah. I’ve been off the radar for a bit. Flying low. Avoiding so much sonar.
Portland riding has me up, up, and up in a happy place. But I’m dangerous like downtown traffic with ipod headphones cranked full-tilt. Sammy tells me not to ride with the music in my ears but I can’t help it. I feel emotional and wreckless. I feel daring.
I’ll keep my helmet on – I promise – but I’m not getting rid of the headphones.
My mommy and daddy will come tomorrow with my sister’s children. God knows what we’ll do besides yardwork (need a weed-whacker) and cooking (have kale, will steam).
I rode into the NE on Tuesday morning at 5:30am. I did not realize that it was freezing.
(It feels like this is becoming a pattern.)
I was wearing Spring gloves (fingerless)
[This is the Entry De Parentheses in case you didn’t notice]
and my hands summarily went numb. You think numb hands are bad when you are back-packing? Try cycling. Hands = brakes. I was already over the top of Mt. Tabor before it struck me to turn around and go back for winter gloves. By then I was able to convince myself that it was much more impressive to keep going, unfazed.
Except that I was fazed.
And my 20 mile loop abruptly turned into a 10 mile loop as I turned left on Tillamook, instead of right.
Home, home, home, home. Have to get home. Freezing.
I’ll admit. It’s nice to freeze and ride sometimes in the early hours of a Portland morning. The coffee maker was still hot when I rolled in and I wrapped my hands around a ceramic mug and cringed as my fingers dethawed. Slowly.
Getting up in the morning has become a kind of sport.
I have all manner of tricks employed for ensuring my prompt ejection from bed. The coffee maker brews at 430am at which point I switch on the bed lamp and groan. The cats begin to stir.
I try to convince myself it is too cold to get up, but I’ve strategically placed slippers and a sweater within arm’s reach, so the excuse loses validity in a glance. Black coffee (black and hott) draws me out of bed… I stand in the kitchen sipping, like it is the only thing that will keep my alive.
The only promise that I make to myself is that I will put on my cycling shorts. That’s the only promise. I can put them on and then go back to bed, I can put them on and sit on the couch, I can put them on and then stand in the kitchen drinking black coffee. I’m off the hook but for putting those things on.
And trust me, I have never put them on and done anything but ride.
It’s like there’s magic in the chamois. Magic motivation. Head-clarifying chamois-inspired motivation.
It feels strange to write here.
I don’t feel like myself and then every once in a while I do.
It’s a strange time.
So I keep riding.