Dry Riding

My grandmother in New Hampshire is the only person in my family who understands what it's like to live in the grips of winter for six months, to wear snow boots for half a year without reprieve, to bask like a daffodil when the sun does occasionally emerge even though sunshine usually means bitter cold, and to gird yourself for spring because it's truly the worst season.

Truly. We've had above freezing temps during the day the last two weeks, for the first time since late October, and the mountains of dirty snow in town are melting at a glacial pace, exposing each day new fetid piles of poop from dogs, deer, and moose, degrading the already potholed roads, and leaving expanses of mud, grit, and barren brown ground. Ah, spring.

The switch always flips sometime in March or April, where I lose patience with winter. This year it happened early, because February was ridiculously deep, and because last weekend I skied the Middle Teton, and every time I spend twelve hours in ski boots without actually making a single good turn, ski season feels over.

We're all in the same boat, so Carolyn and Chrissy and I ditched work yesterday and hightailed it down to Idaho Falls for a road ride with Carolyn's friends. We started pedaling from a generic house in a generic suburb of IF and headed through farmlands for a few miles. I felt skittish on skinny tires, riding single file with five other ladies, cars buzzing past going fifty. I've only ridden a bike a handful of times this winter and only on snow. Road biking took some re-acclimation for all three of us even though we're all experienced, albeit lapsed, roadies.

Then we started climbing and it was all better. I went as hard as I could up the four-mile hill and felt like I was pressure-washing the cobwebs out of my legs and lungs. God I love road climbs. We regrouped at the top where the road turned to gravel. Deanna looked down into the canyon and noted with surprise that the road wasn't muddy. IF is dry but its foothills are still spotted with snow. We decided to drop in and circle through the canyon to make a loop back to her house.

Dry riding!

We were all so so so stoked to pedal down the empty rutted dirt road through vegetation on the cusp of blooming. I am so starved for speed and smooth cadence and rolled up sleeves and a sport that I'm still, even six years later, so much more comfortable in than skiing.

On the rolling, busy roads back to the subdivision, to my minor surprise the IF girls surged, sprinted, pulled hard through the wind. I love roadie fuckery and I appreciate it when I don't get in trouble from other women for that kind of behavior. We finished together and high fived then ate excellent Indian food because that's what one does when one is not in the valley. Now we're plotting a longer weekend ride and I'm dying for the snow to melt.