Bike Ride

Since no one really reads this blog, I will be brave and post something I wrote for one of my writing classes. I'm trying to practice observing and writing about thigns with all of my senses engaged. I went for my first 20-mile bike ride one snowy day in January and did that. Here is the result. (sorry it's so long for a blog post!):

February 2, 2009

Mile 12
The trail spools out in front of me in alternating patterns. This section is rain-soaked. Snow pockmarks some parts of the trail in large patches. Some are entirely white with a very thin layer of snow. A roll of tulle, a wedding aisle runner. Trees line the trail. Most stand naked. A few have leaves somehow still green, as if they stepped aside when autumn barreled through. Evergreens sit one row back from the trail's edge. Piles of mulch emit a piney scent as I ride past. Here the trail is close to houses which line up like dominoes along the lake shore. I can't see inside – the rooms are dark, or the windows are lined up in such a way as to avoid the glances of strangers, the curiosity of passers-by. Each house has a ramp down to a dock near the water's edge. The lake is an unwelcoming slate color; whitecaps churn at disagreeing angles.

The wind argues with me as well. I've tried to take measures to protect myself against it, but it has ferreted out the weaknesses in my system, sensed my novice status. It blows in my face, chafing my cheeks, making my nose run. It creeps under the collar of my jacket, through the fabric of my gloves, between the teeth of the zippers on my shoe covers. I pedal against it hard, harder than I want to pedal. The wind pushes back, slowing me down, putting me in my place. I am almost riding in place. I pedal harder. The wind relents a bit and I downshift, give my legs a break.

Once-dormant muscles voice their protest. My glutes call out to me, you need to do more strength training! Muscles in my legs I don't know the names of now assert their identity. My neck and back protest this position – arms stiff, head up, shoulders hunched. The bike seat tries to drive itself into my spine by way of my butt. It numbs my butt cheeks and requires near-constant adjusting of my rear end.

I wear a Camelback backpack with a bag of water held inside. A tube pokes out the top of the pack and threads through a loop in the left strap. It dangles down, tapping my arm with a light thwap as I ride. I'm supposed to drink plenty of water as practice for the race, imagine how much I will need in a dry, sunny, eighty-degree climate. The heaviness of the pack reveals I haven't had enough to drink. It's too much of a leap to make today, riding in snow, then sleet, then rain.

My breathing is steady, even. The cold air fortifies my lungs, but I do not appreciate this. I resent it for the way it numbs my fingertips, my toes, for its all-body chilling effect. Cold air on a bike ride is painful, punishing. You should be inside, sitting by the fire with your cat on your lap, it taunts, and I agree. I have one hand warmer, a tea bag full of mysterious herbs which heat up with my touch. I trade it back and forth from one hand to the other, pulling my fingers out of my gloves to wrap around the warmer. I balance my fist on my handlebar, gripping the warmer as though it could warm my whole body if I squeeze hard enough.

The rain is tiny needles in my face. I have to stop every ten minutes to wipe it off of the bike glasses, Matt's glasses which he lent me for the training season. The waterproofing material on the arms of my jacket creates unnatural patterns, beads and streaks of wet. My tires send out fireworks of water, hissing steadily as I move forward. The rain on the trail erases the snow, the tulle rolled back up, the wedding over.

I take a bite of energy bar I unwrapped during my stop at Mile 10. The hour in cold weather has hardened the bar, and I have to tug it with my teeth, wrenching it until it breaks off in my mouth. Tangy blueberry and salty cashew nuts mix in my mouth, a familiar taste. It's not a pleasurable experience, eating this stick of fuel, but it's necessary to keep going. I reach across my chest for the tube of my Camelback, bite the valve and suck the water in bursts. The chlorine taste so prevalent at the beginning of the ride does not bother me now. The water is cold, colder than when I started, colder than I am. I feel each sip travel down my esophagus, chilling as it goes. I have no thirst to quench, but drink out of a sense of obligation.

The trees create a tunnel over the trail, the sky barely visible in a strip above me. The open lake provides a better view of the clouds, their comings and goings. Today they hover, unmoving, the color of rinse water after a morning of mopping. They block the sun, the mountain view, the hope of warmth. They muffle the sounds of the city. Cars on nearby streets sound more distant than they are, construction noise is less intrusive today. A repair truck blocks the path in one spot, forcing me to get off and walk my bike past on rubbery legs. Dogs and owners speckle the trail in places, and a few other cyclists. Joggers and walkers smile as I pass. Usually shy, I begin calling out hellos to people as I ride by. I make eye contact with the cyclists. Aren't we crazy to be out here in this weather? I think to shout, but don't.

Signs announce the neighborhoods I ride through, the parks I pass. At a random point in the middle of the trail, a City of Seattle parks sign stands proudly, striped festively in orange, red, green, and blue. Burke Gilman Trail it announces. Cycling. Hiking. I could add some other activities: Freezing. Suffering. Self-inflicted punishment. But also Daydreaming. Goal-setting. Meeting challenges. Going the distance. Going home. I am beyond the halfway point of my twenty-mile ride. I've never ridden this far. I've rarely been outside this long in such foul weather. But here I am, doing it.

I ride on.