Back on the bike

 

    Riding a bicycle is probably my favorite activity. My primary type of riding is on the back roads of central Vermont, where there is less traffic and more amazing vistas and peaceful stretches of classic scenery. Over the years, I’ve learned to enjoy time off the bike during winter. It’s always a little hard when the days grow short in the fall and the temperatures make it less and less pleasant to ride. Finally, usually near the end of October, after that one ride where my fingers and face grow equally numb, I lube up my chain one last time and hang my bike from its hook in the garage. I won’t say it’s a tearful goodbye (I’d never admit that), but it’s a hard one.

    Over the winter I get out and enjoy all that Vermont has to offer by taking winter walks and hikes and going cross-country skiing and snowshoeing. I revel in the cold air, taking in the browns, blacks and different shades of white that the frozen landscape offers. I tried a fat bike one winter and I will admit that it was fun. I was surprised at what the big, balloon-like tires could roll over. Despite the urging of one of my regular bike riding partners, I just couldn’t pull the trigger on buying a fat bike. Using it would mean either putting it in or on the car and driving it somewhere with the right trail conditions. I’m lucky enough to have access to walks and bike riding right from my house, so driving somewhere to ride a bike is always difficult to do. 

    I can’t say that I don’t think about biking over the winter. I’ll see an article or YouTube video of some great bike ride and start to get that itch. As the calendar flips over to March, the itch grows a little bit stronger. Then a day like today comes along. The temperature climbs up into the 50s or close to 60 and I find myself outside in a T-shirt as if it were the middle of summer. The sun has picked up some strength and I can actually feel warmth on my pale white skin. The birds are making a ruckus, and I can smell the muddy earth starting to soften up. Just over the last week or so, the glacier-like piles of snow along our driveway have receded and started to show the flattened grass underneath.

It’s way too soon to get out on the dirt roads. Venturing there would just be an exercise in frustration as the soft mud would suck at the bicycle wheels and mire me in a wet mess. Who knows, I might never make it back from one of those ventures. So I grab my old road bike. The one that I bought with the ambitious idea of riding across the U.S. I didn’t make that ride (not yet anyway) and this bike is a bit worse for wear. The steel frame has a few rust spots, and the back gears don’t quite work the way I’d like them to. But it’s a comfortable bike and very suitable for hitting the paved roads heading out of Randolph village. 

    I can’t find my bike shoes at first but eventually track them down in our guest room closet after a few minutes of frantic looking. I dig out my bike headlight and taillight, aware that drivers won’t be expecting to see someone out on a bike in the middle of March. I wear long pants that I sometimes use for cross-country skiing and pull on my brightest neon yellow bike jersey to make sure I’ll be visible.

    It’s exciting to be back on the bike, even in the first few minutes and after all these decades of riding regularly. I get that exhilaration like when I was a 10- or 11-year-old and taking the old Schwinn Stingray down a local hill. I roll through town, thrilled to be out again on two wheels and under my own power. I soon leave the village behind and hit the first little incline. I’m asking a lot from my legs and lungs, even though I haven’t been a couch potato all winter. I’ve experienced this every spring. No matter how active I have been during the winter, there’s always a little adjustment to getting back on the bike. Now I’m getting into a rhythm, my legs turning the cranks at a good clip. The snow is receding from the side of the road, revealing grass and also, unfortunately, revealing the refuse tossed from windows over the past few months. I make a mental note to see when Green Up day falls this year. It’s the usual collection of beer bottles, Twisted Tea and fast-food containers. I’m always hopeful that one year this annoying habit will cease, but it doesn’t. 

    The miles of pavement roll out under my wheels and I have a vague thought that connects the fact that today was “pi day” (March 14) with the two round wheels I’m balanced on. I pass by muddy driveways glistening in the sun as their vehicles imperceptibly sink down into the muck. I’m aware of the traffic coming up behind me (my rear-view mirror is one of the best investments I’ve ever made) and keep an eye on them as they approach. Everyone gives me plenty of space and I wave as they pass by. About half way through the ride I can tell that I’ll be feeling this in my legs later. Another random thought comes along wondering why no one has invented a more comfortable bicycle seat over the past few months. Each year I have to go through a “break in period” of getting used to being in the saddle again. 

    A few miles out, in the very Vermont-named little village of “Snowsville”, a tractor is chugging along in the opposite direction. We greet each other and keep rolling. Then it’s on to the Brookfield Gulf. The gulf is a winding road that ascends through a narrow passage between hillsides that flank each side. Adjacent to the road is a brook that is tumbling and rumbling its way down to join larger streams and rivers. As I gaze left or right, the hillside looks like the back of a giant cow. Patches of snow intermix with patches of bare ground. Runoff from the snow melt on higher ground forms pop-up streams that careen downhill, often with little waterfalls. It’s like the water can’t wait to join up with the larger roadside brook and its journey. All of this makes for a magical landscape that distracts me from my muscles working to power me uphill. I make it to the high point on the road and turn around to enjoy the downhill on my way back home.
 

    During the return trip, I’m blessed with the streams and tributaries that run near and under the road. The afternoon sun casts silver reflections off the rolling surface, and I find a smile on my face. A crow croaks out a greeting from a nearby tree, then takes off to join one of its fellows in flight.  I look out across the fields of white and see the remnants of last year’s corn crop poking up through the snow. It’s a reminder of the cycle of the seasons in this little corner of the universe.
 

    I’m on the home stretch now. I look down at the mud spatters on my shirt and legs and decide to stop at the bike shop on the way home and find out about fenders. I roll up to the shop and as I go to park my bike, I step into what I thought was gravel but turns out to be a big mud hole, which completely engulfs my foot. I smile as I give thanks for the joys of riding a bike and spring in Vermont.