Air-Conditioned Whiskey

Wrap up and stay inside, keep warm by the fire with a whiskey to dull the noise of the winter at the window. Shut the blinds and sleep in, like them bears, they have the idea, just sleep thought the rough stuff. It’s all numb feet and sharp wind out there. No glimmers, no real salvation. Just endless roads significantly coated with water barely holding off freezing itself. Layers of wool and technical shells help but you are still out there battling in a sweaty ball of wishing for summer days.

Most bikes take after the bears of the north and hide in dark holes while the rain and marginal mornings creep by. Some brave the notion of the cold wet and trudge out the door and instantly regret it. Soaked in seconds as the first few meters grind out.

Mountain bikes take the worst with the pasty soil sandblasting every component driving the whole to an early grave. The simple survive here. Years of trails have proved this. Gears and suspension work great on the summer all days but in the slushy bowls of May and June things are less friendly to the bits conceived on a dry air-conditioned desk in California.

Road bikes drown in the archaic spray. Grit marks from the environment encroaching on the road space. Rotting from the inside out they pound out the hours of the hard shit. Group therapy dose not even make things easy. Just more spay in the face really, maybe kick some shit about titanium bottle cage bolts. All avoiding the point that what is really just a bit of a bad time.

Till one day the madness comes down and it all becomes absurdly clear. A back road somewhere near that turn off where you take the left to get to that road with the barn. A square sky and bent trees. Gears click over for a while with lucid pedalling. No real motivation, a lapis in purpose one free moment. The rain still comes down but hell your wet anyway. Over the hill and onto the next valley. Further, more, plus, multiple, away from the comforts, the fires, the whiskey and rug and arm chair.