I oozed out of bed at 7:35 a.m. Cough, cough, coffee, coffee. I know it’s not early to some. It’s early to me.
Cranked up the hill at 8somethingish. Still early. Got a little overeager with the shifting. Snapped my chain clean off. Hopped off the bike, turned around. Power walked, jogged, ran toward the house. It was the first time I'd run at all in more than a month. The cold wind tasted like maple syrup. Toes ached a little. Time ticked onward.
Fixing a chain takes too long so I swapped out my bikes. Pugsley doesn't have a front fender because the front rack gets in the way. I changed into my plastic jacket i.e. "wearable tarp" and braced for the slush fest.
But new snow and sunlight ... nowhere in the warm spring world does a better combination exist.
On days like this, it's easy to become lost in the shadows and light. Sometimes I feel like I'm dissolving into a painting, where each movement becomes a brush stroke, dramatic and smooth, a rolling creation of flawless art. Creative cycling. That is what I do. And when time squeezes in, stretches back out, moves farther away from winter, it's what I'm left with. It's what I remember.