It was hot. Not just warm, but hot. Hotter than the hinges of Hades, hot. Hot enough to cause one to break a sweat just by standing still in the shade. That part of Virginia does experience Summer, but we used to think it was quite warm at 85, and hot at 91. The temps rarely reached the mid 90s, even in late July and early August. But here it was, early June, and the mercury was moving through 100 degrees for the third straight day.
I was on my bike, climbing. It wasn’t a race, not quite exactly. Not formally. But honor was at stake. And there I was, on the exposed western slope of the Massanutten Mountain, climbing up out of New Market, with the intention of riding to Luray, and then turning south for a long hilly run back toward home. It was so hot that I was having trouble seeing. Sweat was pouring down, out of my cap, and blinding me. That didn’t matter much, I wasn’t going very fast.
Not for the first time did I have the thought, “We should be able to store some of this heat and use it in the Winter, and save up some of the Winter cold and use it in the Summer. Equalize things. Or we all could move to San Diego!”
That line of thought led me to thinking of Winter. I am not now, and was not then, a “Winter Person.” I don’t like cold much, but Winter does have its charms. Little did I know, that particular climb was the last time I would ride a bicycle on that route for more than thirty years.
Jump forward in time. I was 55 years old. It was early February. I was on a road trip, from beloved Georgia to Washington D.C. The ultimate purpose of the trip was to be a part of the Annual League of American Bicyclists Bike Summit. But the secondary intent of our itinerary was to take time on the trip up, drive to places of interest, and ride our bikes there.
We’d had several good adventures along the way. (A good adventure is one that you survive!) We had stopped in New Market for the day. We would ride locally, and then go on to Washington the next day. My traveling partner was taken somewhat ill during the day’s ride, and had turned in early. I was restless.
I donned every bit of cold weather gear I had with me, and went out.
It was one of those late Winter nights. There was a strong cold high-pressure mass sitting on us. The sky was clear as polished crystal, stars glinting distantly. It was cold. Amazingly, shockingly cold. The bike creaked as I mounted it, no problems just cold metal adjusting to the loads. I rode briskly to gain body warmth. I gave little thought to direction. I am as familiar with the roads in that area as the tongue is with the teeth. I rode, and looked at the calm Winter night. The valley was covered in a blanket of recent snow, and a half moon was well up the sky. I hardly needed my lights.
I found myself making that climb, the one up the flank of Massanutten Mountain. As I climbed, I remembered that day, that hot hot day. Somehow these moments seem to connect, across time and space. This night I was cold, and it was dark, clear and crisp. I could wish for some of that earlier day, and some of that heat. And somehow, it seems as if I did borrow some of that young man’s hot day, on this cold night climb. The Winter night is spread out around me, silent and still, lights blinking and winking in the sky and on the floor of the valley below.
What is it about these times? These Winter night rides, that somehow cross-connects us to other times and places, to other selves?
Looking forward to seeing you all on Monday night, for a more temperate and companionable Winter night ride to see the Lights!
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