“It teaches you not to be such a softy.”
-Heinrich Haussler, on riding bikes in the winter.
Indeed, there’s something easily romanticized about long road rides in the height of winter-time shittiness. The smell of embrocation, the mid-ride stop for espresso and danishes, the camaraderie of a few riding buddies braving it out with you, the quiet roads uninhabited by everyday traffic, and feeling of warm water rushing down your back after you’re back at home and safely in the shower. These are a couple things that can keep riding in the wintertime sane and tolerable.
Of course, my ride today was none of these things. Convincing myself to leave the opiate-like comfort of my bed wasn’t altogether challenging because it was still dry and gray out (like so many typical days in Oregon), and some long, easy miles on the road were calling my name after a hard race Saturday in Sublimity, OR. The forecast called for rain, and I was well aware of this as I clipped a fender on over my rear wheel in anticipation for the ride, but leaving city limits and still being dry made me ponder the idea that maybe today’s weather report was wrong, as so many are.
Yet, without fail, it came. The rain, wind and cold greeted me like so many other days on the road – at this point in the year, I don’t know whether I should be hardened by three solid months of enduring the elements, or entitled to dry conditions after braving it for so long. Either way, it wasn’t so bad at first. I like the rain – at least when it leads to meditative moments resulting from long, tree-sheltered, solo climbs – but today’s ride was nearly pancake-flat and unsheltered in the abyss of the Williamate Valley. The only things keeping me company through the farmlands I’ve ridden ad infinitum on Coburg Rd. were an assorted mix of farm animals wondering what the hell some clown out in argycle spandex was doing on the road.
Oh, and some guy painting a picture of farm landscape outside of his car on a certain road rarely traveled by anyone not living on it. That was kind of cool. He had an easel, brushes, and everything.
I digress. The cold, wind and rain slowly waged a war of attrition on my psyche today. Slowly but surely, I started questioning everything: my legs, my preference for Campagnolo, damn near my own existence. Of course, this is exactly why I leave the house to ride in shitty weather alone – a little ego-bruising is good from time to time, and toughens you up for the racing season ahead. (I’m pretty sure if the self-flagellating Christian ascetic monks of the Middle Ages were around today, they’d be riding road bikes around in winter-time northern Maine wearing nothing but a helmet and bibs, and subsisting purely on scraps of white bread and unseasoned tofu.)
Everyone has their personal threshold for how much pain they can withstand, and analogous to this is the amount of time one can spend riding in the rain before being driven into the dark cave of hopelessness. For me, three hours serves as the dividing line between arriving home still somewhat happy and functional versus not having the circulation in my hands to grab the keys out of my pocket and open the door. Today’s ride was just under four hours – you can be sure I was ready to ride myself into open traffic on the interstate at that point.
So, was getting the miles in worth it? We’ll see come summer track and criterium season. I can definitely say that, when the hardest part of your day drives you into a pit of discomfort that most people don’t encounter excepting rare circumstances, the rest of the day goes by with relative ease. For now, I’m hoping for some notable results at Banana Belt and a return to the insanely satisfying feeling that a well-snapped road sprint gives.
