Night Rider

When temperatures begin to drop and certain hours of daylight have been tucked away until spring, when the wind pierces through layers and stings skin, when the energy of impending snow permeates the air and lakes grow thick with ice--the notion of commuting to work becomes somewhat of a mental challenge to overcome.  No, not because I dread the dash from warm house to cold car, and not because I can't stand a frigid walk to the corner bus stop; but, rather because the thought of facing that piercing chill with but a few thin layers of spandex is less than inviting. It is not until the first few minutes of pedaling have passed, when the heat generated by a body in motion gives life to fingers and toes, that I come face-to-face with the mental game of cycling in sub-freezing temperatures.  At such a point, I seem to arrive at the same conclusion as always: I would not have it any other way.

One might suppose that as a cyclist commuting to work by bicycle, the arrival of winter would necessitate the use of a vehicle, one with heat and windshield wipers and headlights.  On the contrary, I will tell you that the onset of winter signifies one thing: warmer clothing.  Rolling out of the driveway, these days I find most mornings glazed over in a delicate frost, with fog slowly lifting from schoolyards and stretching across the silence of lawns. The air smells of winter and firewood, its frigid presence made known with each deep inhalation.  Peeking rays of sun, which only a month ago transformed trees into gold, illuminate the earth's mantle like finely crushed glass.  Each car that buzzes by creates a visible plume of exhaust, while my own combusted fuel exits my body in the form of heat and perspiration.  To travel distances , to do most anything via one's own manpower, yields an unmatched feeling of satisfaction.

When night falls and time arrives to make the six-mile spin back, helmet-mounted lights, winter riding boots, gloves, and a second skin of spandex and neoprene come to serve a purpose all their own.  It is as if I am inside a muted cocoon.  At times I feel as though, walking to my chained bike, I am either an astronaut or a scuba diver; the outside world muffles slightly through the filter of my earflaps and I can hear the Darth Vader rasp of my breath as it synchs with the cadence of pedaling legs. 

With the holidays at hand, the glow of electric decorations becomes a beacon for my night ride home.  The sensation while gliding through darkness, lights flickering before they streak into the peripheral of my vision, the recognition of coldness in the sight of one's breath; it all remains beyond description, bringing me back to the point of contentment in being able to ride my bike to work, and not wanting it any other way.